Hush, Little Baby:

An eerie silence had fallen over the plush-ridden prize counter. If the doll strained her senses, she could hear the rhythmic ticking of the clock, even from within her pretty lil prison. Curled up inside her box, with her elongated fingers prying at the edges of her porcelain mask. Her head throbbed in agony, a piercing pain in her temple that cut through any coherent thought like a knife.

A knife? The image of a ruby-red blade twinkling in the light darted across her mind, like a striking cobra. She gripped her mask tighter, attempting to dig her fingers into her hollow eye sockets. She wanted to scream, but had no lungs or tongue to do so. Not even so much as a voicebox for her to distort. She simply had no way to cry out when these bouts of terror struck her.

She lay still for a moment, trying to slow her raging spirit. She could only hope that the fool would continue to neglect that wretched music box. Once she was sufficiently soothed by the quiet, she began to reassemble her thoughts. Starting with the simplest:

My name is Robin Fischer.

She repeated the name, letting it soak into her mind, and roll around her skull. It was like a mantra. I am Robin. Like the bird; a bird in a cage, perhaps. She tried to sit up, but immediately hit the ceiling of her cracker-jack-box. The impact reverberated through her whole body and she slumped back to the floor of her steel coffin. She never thought it was particularly kid-friendly of them to have her home constructed from such crude materials. Then again, she was little more than plywood and plastic – not as if she needed anything fancy.

A terrifying giggle echoed down the hall, a sound so striking to her that it was unmistakable. She thought briefly, that she would be safer inside her box. Safer. How preposterous. What could be done to her that hadn't already been done?

My name is Robin Fischer. I was murdered when I was ten years old, in 1980.

In the dark confines of her box, she seethed in silent fury. If she had teeth, they would be grinding. Hard to believe it had been almost a decade since he'd done what he did. Her joints remained stiff from the long winter months wherein she'd been locked away. For seven years, she'd been nothing more than his private trophy, a precious token from his first kill.

My name is Robin Fischer. I was murdered when I was ten years old, in 1980. I was not his last.

With this knowledge, eating away at her, it was impossible for her to rest. And she knew, she wasn't the only one. There were many, from all walks of life that had crossed paths with her vicious killer. She could sense their pain, mirroring her own. They were here, with her. She had no clue why; what kind of monster would inflict this fate upon a gaggle of children?

She had tried to reach out to them more than once. She'd acted even more rash in the past, and she'd come to regret her actions to some degree; she was not God. It was not her place to intervene with an innocent spirit's afterlife. And yet she had. At the time, it seemed to make so much sense. She had woven her soul into the boy's beloved doll, watching over him. His suffering had been like a beacon to her, as she gravitated towards this poor child. She had watched his brief life unfold, unable to act, afraid of alienating the boy.

And when he'd died... No, when he'd been killed; by his own flesh and blood, no less! The mere memory of what they had done infuriated her, filling her with a wrath that she didn't think was possible. She had cherished this boy, as if he were her own. The way he'd clung to her golden fur, staining her purple bow tie with his salty tears had stirred up a strange feeling within her. Hope. A chance to help guide this sensitive child, and protect him. Maybe, even use her abilities for good. Then to see his world shattered, just as hers had been? Well. She refused to let that happen.

He'd lain on his hospital bed, his life fading. His mind surprisingly at ease, for someone who'd had his head crushed in a sick ploy from his vile brother. She had broken through the veil, so much easier now that the lines between life and death had blurred. She reached out to him for the last time, manifesting yet again as his best friend, his little Fredbear plush.

He appeared translucent, flickering in and out. His expression was gaunt, his eyes puffy, twinkling with unshed tears. He may have been comatose, but it was evident that even now, he could not find peace. She could sense the same frustration, the same mix of anger and fear that had plagued her for years. The boy fell to his knees, like a puppet with the strings cut. He'd been fighting his fate for so long, just as she had. She could see the streaks of tears emerge from beneath his shaggy brown hair.

In this strange state of purgatory, she discovered that she could alter things. She didn't know how, but for the first time since her death, she was able to speak;

"You're broken," she said, her voice no longer the goofy dialect of his Fredbear, but instead, her own, undistorted. It was like hearing the voice of a distant friend. Familiar, but almost forgotten.

The boy sniffed, and she could feel the walls that had been holding back his sea of tears begin to crack. The toxic tide of bitterness was heartbreaking. And sadly, so familiar. It was in this moment, she could sense that the others were tuning in. Muffled voices, undoubtedly from the mortal realm spoke to the boy.

"We are still your friends." It declared.

"Do you still believe that?" Said another voice.

"I'm still here." Came the last one, and even though his had been the faintest, both the boy and his plush recognized it. The boy's brother.

Even when he was so far from him, unable to be harmed by the bullies anymore, she could tell that the sound of his brother's voice had struck such fear into him. His eyes widened and his body stiffened, as he let out a soft whimper, his tears flowing anew. She offered her hand to the boy, as he lifted his head curiously, meeting the plush's gaze. He noticed an unnatural glimmer in its' eyes. Then it dawned on him – his friend, Fredbear could talk? And with such a soft, feminine voice, too. But of course, Fredbear had been there the whole time, watching over him, warning him about the antics of his brother. His brother; the one that had done this to him. The one that had broken him.

The plush smiled, a warm, comforting smile. Her eyes sparkled, fixed on him. It reminded him of his mother... And he realized, he felt safe right here, with her. More than he had in a long time. Her fuzz melted away, revealing the scrawny frame of a young girl wearing a flowery dress, with a frilly skirt. Her skin revealed itself to be pale, with a smattering of freckles across her button nose. She had tussled auburn hair that stuck out at odd angles. She had a heart-shaped face, big blue eyes and high-arced eyebrows. She would've been pretty, if not for the indent in her forehead, and the trail of dry blood down the right side of her face.

She hadn't revealed her true form to anyone, much less to anyone in the mortal realm. But, she had no choice. She focused all of her abilities, channelling all the pain and torment she had felt these past three years. She had been all alone, and trapped, unable to move on, unable to find rest. She could not let this poor boy suffer the way she had; he would not be alone in his afterlife. She couldn't let him wander the world, stuck like she was. Her mind focused, reaching out to his spirit, ready to catch him once he slipped the mortal coil. She parted her delicate lips, and whispered; "I will put you back together."

…

It was selfish. There was no other word for it. She had acted impulsively. She couldn't be certain that his soul wouldn't have eventually found rest. After all, he hadn't died instantly after his grisly head trauma. There was no guarantee that he yearned for justice the way she did. Despite the disgust over what she had done, binding his soul to her, he had not left her side. They did share a common trait; neither of them had been killed at Fazbears. She did wonder if it had become impossible for him to leave. It made her feel guilty, as she knew the pain all too well. Wanting nothing more, but to move on.

Over the years, their spirits had manifested into their respective forms: the boy taking the role as Golden Fredbear, and the girl taking the role as the Marionette. She never understood why he felt most at ease, haunting the shell of the one that had crushed his skull. Although, hers hadn't been any less strange. She often wondered why her soul had been drawn to the creepy little puppet, with its' uncanny features, and insubstantial limbs. She supposed, if there were any benefits to being a ghost, it would be her limited ability to float off the floor. The boy hadn't mastered this; he seemed to have little interest in utilizing his powers. She didn't want to push him. She had already done enough.

Her brooding over her past was interrupted, as the sounds of footsteps down the hall alerted her to the presence of unwanted company. Those same sickening laughs, accompanied with the strain of metal scraping along the linoleum floor. If she had breathe left in her, it would've stuck in her throat. Metal? Images of deadly weapons crafted from cold steel filled her mind with a new wave of terror. Had he come to tear her asunder? Was she about to experience a second death?

Her fists clenched. No. That couldn't be possible. Neither her nor the boy had made their presence known. She couldn't speak for the others – their spirits were fresh, untamed and unwilling to accept what had happened to them. It was possible that one or more of them had lashed out, and perhaps that had unsettled their killer.

Their killer. Her killer. It hardly mattered. She had been a coward, too afraid and too weak to defend those children. She couldn't even seek them out in the spirit realm, the way she had done with the boy. She couldn't leave his side. Couldn't leave her box. She was powerless in this state, with that wretched song constantly playing. Keeping her sedated, reliving the nightmare, all these years.

It was only when she was permitted these narrow windows of clarity that she was able to scheme. And soon, she might gain enough strength to act. If only, he refrained from winding that box for a little bit longer...

The footsteps were louder now. She could sense his shadow blocking out the dingy light, as he hovered over her box. Rage surged through her tiny body. She imagined him opening the lid. Come on, do it! She would leap out, her pointed fingers splayed, ready to dig into his flesh. Like a twisted jack-in-the-box. Even as she imagined what she would do, gouging out his eyes, tearing at his skin in a frenzy, she was assaulted with memories. The ones she would like to forget. The same images that frequently starred in her nightmares.

She didn't care, though. He needed to pay. He would pay; for what he'd done to her. To them. Her body tensed up, ready to spring at him. She could hear his sadistic chuckle. She heard a scuffling sound, and soon he was kneeling so that she could see the stubble on his chin and a pair of thin, chipped lips through a crack in the corner of her box. If her face were capable, she would've snarled maliciously at him. Instead, she remained still. No, she told herself. Do not give him any reason to suspect. Let him act foolishly. Maybe tonight, you'll have your revenge.

He lowered his head further so that his bright grey eyes peered through. She could hear the smile in his voice. "Good evening, darlin'." He drawled. He giggled, tapping at her box, like she was a fish in an aquarium.

"Did you miss me?" He asked, voice soft and child-like.

No.

"I sure missed you. I miss all the lovely memories we shared." He continued in a dream-like tone. Her expression remained blank, although she wanted nothing more than to vomit. She had endured these memories for years now. She was shaken, but her conviction remained strong. She would make him suffer.

Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, drumming his fingertips atop her box. Yes, she thought. Open it. Open it, now!

"I liked the tea parties best," he added, voice dropping in pitch.

Tea parties?

"Maybe," he continued in a chirpy voice "I'll find some new friends to play with!"

Her world seemed frozen in time. She knew exactly what playtime meant to him. She could feel her head gently twitching. He couldn't... Surely... So soon? She felt light-headed, wanting nothing more than to escape from this box and get as far away from her killer as possible. Why? Why was he even here? What could he want? Hadn't he done enough?

She wanted to scream for help, to cry, but like so many years ago, she couldn't. She had no more tears to shed, and no breathe left in her body. All she had was a paralysing fear, fuelled by her helplessness. Much like when he'd snuffed her out, she felt powerless. Panic filled her, as she waited for him to open the lid. No, she reminded herself. This is not you. Fischer. You're better than this. You're stronger than this. Make him suffer!

She waited, those few seconds of hesitation felt like an eternity. Then it ended. The familiar notes of the music box started up again, filling her mind with a tsunami of torment. How she'd been abducted in his car. Striped nude, and gagged, chaining her to the floor like a dog. He'd said he had some perfect dresses for her to wear. The humiliating process of having him dress and undress her, like she was a doll. A doll for him to break.

It most certainly could have been worse. She'd seen the knives, strewn about. He kept saying he had a surprise, and most nights he did. She tried to block them out as best she could, although she knew it was an uphill battle. Eventually, the memories would ravage her, taking over her mind once more, slowly breaking her all over again.

As the memories of her death swamped her, the security guard lifted the frail puppet from its' housing. He tossed it aside like the junk that it was – just another of his grandfather's silly heirlooms. He'd never been fond of puppets. The way they moved, it was so strange and jerky. Like they were broken. He hated broken toys. What fun was a toy that was wrecked? He stooped down and hoisted up the shiny metal endoskeleton. He really didn't like this toy. This one had been playing hide and seek with him. But it had kept cheating. He didn't like toys that didn't play nice. So he was putting the yellow bear in time out. Good riddance!

…

She was trapped again. Unable to wake from the recurring nightmare. Her shoulders ached, the cable ties biting into her wrists. There was barely a scrap of fat on her body anymore. Sharp hunger pains crippled her, as she trembled, her chilled skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She was hunched over, endless tears streaking down her cheeks. Her muffled cries being the only sound she was capable of uttering. I want to go home! She recited this wish over and over again, hoping to convince herself that it would eventually come true.

Surely, someone would notice she was missing? Someone must've seen the car, caught a peek at the licence plate? At least, her family had to be looking for her, right? They had to be. They must've found some clue by now. Right?

Despite the limited light, she was able to make out certain features of the room she was being held in – a cold concrete floor, thin slits from rusty shutters. There was a workbench just out of reach, littered with an array of tools. On the wall opposite to her was an assortment of hooks, with scraps of fabric hanging from them.

Whenever he'd enter, he'd often bring a new bundle of cloths. Hand-stitched, he'd say. Especially for her. It made her stomach turn, because she knew what awaited her each time. His clammy breathe on her, his filthy fingers grazing her body in discomforting ways. She'd squeal out her protests, but it only seemed to make things worse, as he tried to pin the fabric to her bony body. Sometimes he'd staple the dress in place, whenever she squirmed too much.

He liked to use needles for the job. Robin had never liked needles, and she hated it even less when he jammed them through thin layers of skin. And god-forbid if he wasn't satisfied with the design. Sometimes his frustration had gotten the better of him. He'd whimper, and begin crying like an errant child, mumbling incoherently to himself. The unpredictable mood swings unsettled her. Once, after watching him rocking back and forth for close to an hour, he eventually stood up, towering over her, with his bulking shoulders, and blank expression. He turned menacingly, stomping towards her and tore the garment from her. She screamed, tears pricking her eyes, as she bit down into the gag, pain spiking across her body, ripping off patches of her skin.

She couldn't take it, feeling bile rise in her throat. The punches followed. Swift blows to her chest and abdomen, knocking the air out of her. She couldn't imagine what anyone had done to deserve this treatment. Why? Why was he doing this? Any attempts to reason with him had only led to his sick mind-games. It was as if she was speaking some alien language, powerless to persuade him to stop. Her throat was parched, her blood racing as she tugged at her restraints, trying to reach out and push him off her. He then looked at her in horror. And, like a coward, he'd pack his things up and leave. Of course, not before kissing her goodnight, promising that they'd "play again."

This cycle had repeated itself for what felt like weeks. Sometimes he'd bring empty teacups and other questionable foods, like jelly beans. Hardly enough to sustain her, but sometimes he'd slip some past her lips. Once, she'd bitten him, not stopping 'till she'd hit bone. It had been satisfying to hear him run off, squealing in panic like a hog.

After that, he'd kept his distance for awhile. And as the days passed, it became more and more worrying; why hadn't she been found yet? She could taste residual blood in her mouth. Whether or not it was his or hers, she couldn't say. Regardless, she spat onto the floor, disgusted by the memory of his filthy fingers. She couldn't take this. She knew that if she did nothing, she would eventually die here. There was no one coming to save her. No one knew where she was, or what was going on. For all her parents knew, she was pulling off some elaborate running-away stunt.

That all-consuming fear, the knowledge that she was doomed had dominated every waking moment of hers, 'till her death. Although, she had not given up. She had managed to manoeuvre one of the spare needles that circled her, behind her back and gradually began hacking away at the plastic until eventually, it gave way.

She barely had time to glance at her bloody hands as she scrambled to her feet. Or at least, she tried to, her limbs unsteady. Fortunately, she managed a crawl, slithering across the floor, her ears hyper-aware of the tiniest sounds around her. Overhead she could hear the creak of floorboards, and she tensed. No, don't stop! Her vision blurred as a new wave of dizziness washed over her. She was so weak from the weeks of starvation. She tried to shake it off, pressing forward, her swollen belly pressing into the wooden steps as she crept up.

There was a heavy iron door at the top of the steps, flaking with rust. She'd come to dread the awful creak it made everytime he entered. She couldn't tell what room he'd entered by now. She didn't even know how many levels this building had, much less what its' layout was like. Her scalp prickled as she took a deep breathe and reached up, tugging down on the handle with all her strength.

The door suddenly swung inward, and she was knocked off balance, sent tumbling back the stairs. The smile on his face dissipated, as he stood in the doorway. He rushed down the stairs, scooping her up in his arms. At least, he tried to. She thrashed about like a wild beast. With an amazing stroke of luck, she managed to knee him in the face. Fuelled with a burst of adrenalin, she shot up the stairs, heart pumping madly as she glanced around the living room. Across the dining table was an open window, the sunlight streaming in, temporarily blinding her. She'd become so accustomed to the darkness, it was overwhelming.

She regained her balance, steadying herself on the nearby furniture when a hand reached out and clamped around her ankle. She toppled over, smacking her head against the skirting board. She yelped, rearing back her leg, and prepared to kick him away again.

Those few seconds of hesitation had cost her dearly. She'd underestimated her attacker, both in strength and speed. He managed to have her pinned down, the force itself being enough to restrain her. Yet she kept fighting. She would never stop fighting. She writhed, and attempted to buck her hips, as she let out a garbled shriek.

He was torn. He had loved this toy! But it could be so troublesome. Why couldn't it just sit still, like he'd wanted? He remembered a piece of advice his father had given to him once. He liked fixing things. He was very good at it, too. His father had said that the best way to fix a machine, was to give it a good, hard, hit, to reset the thing. He glanced around in panic for something big and sturdy enough for his needs.

His guard was down! She threw all of her strength into a quick punch. Her fingers rung with pain, but she ignored it, as she rolled onto her feet, ready to bolt for the door. But once again, her opponent was quicker, grasping her hair and yanking her backwards. She howled in pain as he raised a large, square object over her head. He cradled her head in his arms, before smashing the object against her skull.

The last thing she heard was the soft lullaby from the music box.

…

The following night, the music box remained unwound. At least, the Marionette was permitted some peace. Unfurling from her foetal position, she noticed the new addition to her sanctuary. For the whole night, she'd been laying on one of the endoskeletons. How did this get here? She tried to recall the events of the previous night, an involuntary shiver running up her spine. He had returned. And already, it seemed he was plotting to strike again. But why?

She shook her head – she would never understand. She caught a glimpse of the endoskeleton's face beneath her. She recoiled in shock. This endoskeleton belonged to the boy, Golden Freddy!

With a thunderous bang, the roof of her box flew off, clashing against the wall, knocking some of the plushes off the nearby shelves. A cloud of dust had been kicked up, and from it, the Marionette rose, with the aid of her strings. She hadn't realized she'd had this much telekinetic strength at her disposal. Perhaps it had been due to her long months of hibernating in that stinking box. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. That swine had mutilated her friend, removed his only method of movement.

Unforgivable.

She rapidly began shifting from room to room, scanning every crevice of the pizzeria that had become their home. The entire place was pitch black, given that it was the dead of night. Feeling her way along the halls, she eventually heard the sounds of crying coming from the fourth party room. The door swung open as she floated towards the source of the sobs.

The Marionette hesitated for a moment. She tilted her head up towards the corner of the room, just above the door. There was a camera, the red light flashing. Someone watching them, perhaps? She focused on the lens, the metal frames of the camera began to shake violently before the lens fractured. In a puff of smoke, the light ceased.

She glided over to Golden Freddy, offering him her hand. His head hung low, unwilling to look at her. It reminded her of when his brothers had bullied him, curled up and defeated. It broke her heart to see that even in death, there was no escape.

She slumped down beside him, her head resting on the back of the wall. Gently, she placed a hand on his arm, willing him to look at her. The problem was, he couldn't. No matter how he tried. He was trapped in this boneless shell, unable to move.

She didn't know what to say. Didn't know what she could say. What could be said that would fix this? She had promised to do that, after all – to put him back together. Because of that brute, she felt as if she had broken that promise. It was hard to feel the wrath that she normally did over crimes like this. She was overwhelmed with guilt and grief. She couldn't help but picture the boy's face, the night he died The hopelessness and dread at having to spend another day in limbo. Both of them had been given new life, it seemed. But not to be the plaything for a psycho, she decided.

She reached over and cupped the boy's face so that his hollow eyes met hers. She could see tiny white pin-pricks, much like her own. He was there. He would hear her.

I'm sorry, she implored. I should never have told you about him, she added.

His eyes seemed to flicker, and she hoped he wasn't about to leave her. Perhaps this was the final straw for him. She couldn't bare the thought of being alone, forever stalked by a killer, determined to destroy anything – or anyone – that she cherished.

Golden Freddy's mouth hung open. If there was anything he missed about his mortal life, it was the ease of communication. As a spirit, simple actions like speech, and walking were difficult. He marvelled at how the Marionette had mastered the ability to hover and teleport. Then again, it seemed she had been dead for a little longer than him.

He understood why the Marionette loathed that man. Why she was often confined to a box most nights. It didn't diminish the frustration that he felt, though. It burned in him, the depth of his anger and resentment startling him. The only thing that came close was the fear he'd felt when around his brother. And when he'd had his head shoved into Fredbear's jaws.

This was different, though. He could feel the anger coursing through his veins, thick and deadly like a potent venom. Unknowingly, the power in that rage had caused one of the paper plate dolls to slip from the wall. The Marionette glanced over at the fallen décor. She recognized it instantly. It was Fredbear. A crude representation, but unmistakable nonetheless. She reached out, taking the delicate paper plate between her long spider-like fingers.

The Marionette pulled her friend into an embrace, filled with an iron resolve. She knew she couldn't fix him proper. She wished she could, but she was just a kid. How could she save him, when she couldn't save herself? She knew what needed to be done. She was certain. Her murderer would be brought to justice. And both her and Golden Freddy would have their peace. I don't know how, she thought. But I will make that day the happiest day ever.

For you.