"... And that's why I love Freddy Fazbear's!"

Click.

"... Best place for miles around, no contest."

Click.

"... It's great for the kids. Y'know? Lets 'em have some fun for a couple hours, without pestering me…"

Click.

They all flashed by in an instant, reels upon reels of distorted, decade-old footage wobbling haphazardly upon the musty television set. Echoes of the past, illusions of better times, all playing out before his eyes as he sat back in that same chair he spent his evenings - every evening - sinking into, cigarette smoke drifting up towards the mouldy ceiling. His hair thinned, his waistline protruded and all around him, the world grew darker, smaller. Flowers wilted, trees died, people drew their final breaths, and he was oblivious to all of it. He knew only himself, loved and hated only himself; With each passing day, even that was getting harder to follow through on.

Click.

It was time for a walk.

The late November magic had wrecked its devastation unto the landscape for all to see. Trees were bare and naked and shivering under the bitter breeze, paths were lined with light dustings of frost and the leaves on the ground were crisp and brown. He kept his hands in his pockets as he felt the winds dance across the back of his neck, where his coat's collar sagged to reveal the pale, flabby skin beneath. Underneath the dark skies, there was something sincere about the world. Something raw and broken and yet peaceful in a sense.

And yet, while there was nobody to be seen for miles around, he could spy shadows around every corner. In the reflections of grimy puddles, sparse figures coiled and twisted; The vandalised shutters of long-since abandoned stores rattled with life and a bitter, angry energy. With the shadow that had fallen over Freddy Fazbear's on that final glorious summer of 1985, the town too had been swallowed whole. As he walked through its corpse, he was back in De Nang, back amongst enemy territory. Back then, he had his rifle and his wits; Now, he had neither, leaving only the vigilance and paranoia.

His midnight stroll took him right up to the frosted lake on the outskirts of all civilisation, that glistened and sparkled under the deathly moonlight. There was something hypnotising about it, the murky depths hidden beneath the clean façade of ice. Taking in the sights, he sat on the bench that looked out over the bank rolling into the lake.

It was the bench. The plaque on it was faded, worn by the abusive weather, but it was still more or less legible.

In Loving Memory Of: Thomas W. Afton. 1975-1983.

How many times had he sat on that bench and how many times had he read the inscription, drawing his finger across the plaque as he traced the words? Far too many to count.

He sensed a presence behind him, the crackling of footsteps on dead leaves, but did not look up as it drew closer. He kept his eyes locked on the lake, even as the presence hovered behind him and did not react until it drew the first word.

"It's a lovely night." The words were wrapped in a barely-concealed contempt, a faintly hubbling rage, and all presented through a voice that he knew all too well.

"Isn't it?" He finally answered after a few moments of only the soft patters of the world around them. "This always was my favourite spot for… Reflection." Leaning back, he made himself more comfortable on the bench. "You hear about the wall coming down?"

"Yeah." The man behind him spat. "Yeah, I heard."

"Looks like the Communists are finally going to have to face up." He remarked. "It's funny to think how long this war has been going on…"

He stopped that train of thought as, with a mechanical click, he felt as something cold and metallic was pressed into the back of his head. His eyes widened a little, although his voice maintained an even tone. "Well… I didn't think you would have it in you, Hank."

"Neither did I." Hank spoke clearly as he held the gun. "But here we are."

"Yeah." He sighed. "Yeah, here we are. You know, I've been in this position before."

When no answer came from Hank, he pressed on. "Late Sixty-Nine. We were staying in a little town, not far off De Nang. This would've been… A couple months before we met. Anyway, there was this little whore." He cast his mind back to those days. "Cute as a cherry, and with a skirt so short, it hardly meant a thing. Ten dollars for the whole deal, was her offer."

He felt the gun tremble very gently as it was pressed further into the back of his head. He tried to ignore the discomfort. "I was barely pulling my trousers back up before this girl, this petite little thing, only could've been eighteen or nineteen, put a Goddamn gun to my forehead. Starting shouting her tongue. She was one of them, so to speak. I had fallen right into their trap."

"And yet, you survived." Hank remarked with absolute disgust coating his every word. "You're a lucky man, Afton."

"I always was. In this case, I had some… Guys to bail me out." Leaning a little forwards, he managed to set his head in a more comfortable position. "You know where we fucked up in Vietnam, Hank? It was when we went in expecting the Gooks to be a bunch of mindless savages. They were smart, smarter than we ever gave them credit for, and 'cause of that, they wrecked absolute havoc. Pretty much a full decade of chaos. Because we just didn't see it coming. Because we fought they were a bunch of harmless losers."

"Is there something you're trying to tell me with all this?" Hank interrupted, as he kept the gun level.

He thought about it for a moment. "No. No, I suppose I don't. In turn, are you going to do something with that thing?"

"I gladly would." Hank responded with a cold fury. "For Charlotte and for all the others. For Dave, who rotted in a cell for you. Did you even know he hanged himself? Did you, at all?"

His eyes swivelling slowly towards the back of his head, he spent a second in mock contemplation. "No, I can't say I did."

"Well, I'm telling you right now, you son of a bitch. And everything else, as well. For how long did Mike live in fear of you, for how long did you blame him for Tommy, knowing full well that you had done so much more?"

"I couldn't possibly recall." As he said this, he felt Hank's posture stiffen as his finger tightened on the trigger and he knew that this was it. In a few seconds, his brains- and his sins - would decorate the grass before him. But that didn't come. The gun didn't fire.

"Well, that's disappointing." He sighed. "For a moment there, I thought you might have had the balls."

"You have no right to sit on that bench." Hank growled. "You were never a father."

"Maybe I wasn't, Hank. Maybe I wasn't."

Finally, the gun was taken away from his head as Hank stepped back. Without that weight on him any longer, he stretched casually, returning his gaze to the lake. He was expecting Hank to be long gone, so it was somewhat of a surprise when he spoke again.

"I've got something else to tell you, Afton."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Hank's words were slow and methodical, with a hint more restraint behind them. "They're reopening the investigation."

For just a brief flicker of a few seconds, he felt his heart stop, grow as cold as the lake itself. "What?"

"In light of Dave's death, they've decided to start looking into it again."

"No, now you wait a minute." Turning around on the bench, he faced Hank for the first time; The man looked a mess, a broken, wiry soul in an ill-fitting suit. "That was closed. They got their guy." He tried to stave the panic out of his words, to keep up that quickly crumbling composure of his.

"Their "guy" is dead now, Afton." Hank reminded him, with a sort of maniacal exasperation overtaking his words. "And he maintained his innocence up until the last second."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You and I both know that isn't how it-"

"Maybe not, but there were more than a few in the Bureau who weren't happy with how things panned out. They've taken advantage of the opportunity to open it back up. Look at it this way, Afton. Your future is getting smaller and smaller and you won't be able to hide from it forever. Your reckoning is coming."

By now, he was up on his feet, every part of him screaming to tear the man apart. But he didn't. He fought to keep some of his composure, even as his eyes twitched and his whole body shook. "Hank…"

But Hank was already walking away, disappearing into the gathering fog until his body faded completely from sight. He was, once again, all alone.

And the world had gotten darker and smaller still.

So, what came next, as the fog enveloped his form and stole his vision from him?

Was there even any question of the matter?