"It's just hard to travel in the shadow of regret. In fact, it's so hard that I actually haven't left yet."

Ani DeFranco


Act 1 – Hidden Woes


Wednesday 20th July 1983, 16:56 PM


The naïve idea that he was alone had been almost freeing. That perhaps, were he able to remain quiet enough, he would finally be alone with only his thoughts for company. But that laughter had ruined his hopes, reminding him that he was once more on the edge of suffering with nothing but time in between that date with destiny.

Somewhere else within the house, he could hear a TV. Playing some kind of show, though what kind he was unfamiliar with. Perhaps the laughter was simply the TV?

There he was, standing in the middle of his room. Eyes glued to the door, waiting for even the slightest sign of movement. This time, he had it wide open, to prevent being caught unaware in case it was locked again. Of course, as his pained mind pointed out, rarely was it the same torment twice in a row.

That was what made in so harrowing, so painful in the build-up. Otherwise, he could take comfort in the fact that he knew what was coming. But when it was different every time, how could he even consider the torment he was going to experience that day?

Dark eyes stared at him from the bed, looking into his very being with a single question. Pushing him. To be brave, and face whatever lay outside that room. After all, wouldn't it be better to get the torment over and done with? To confront what was to come, rather than delaying the inevitable? Or perhaps hiding away would work that time?

You know he is hiding again, his plushie bear friend told him. That was always the worst part. Knowing that his torment relied on him walking into the wrong room at the wrong time, making a single mistake. Breathing in, he knew he had to be brave. To face what was about to come, in hopes it would be the end of it.

He left the bedroom with a heavy heart and all the fears in the world.

Entering the hallway, the boy looked around the room. Picture frames lined the grey walls, showing battered memories of what could be considered happier times. Just to the left, near the doorway, was an old grandfather clock, twice as big as he was. At first, he wondered if maybe his torment had chosen the clock as the hiding place, but he could see that it hadn't been pushed forward at all.

At the top of the grandfather clock, overlooking the room, was another plushie. The same one that was sitting on his bed at that moment. Those pinpricks were watching him, wordless. Looking at the glass door of the grandfather clock, the boy could see his own reflection. His eyes were red from crying, and his brown hair was a mess.

He won't stop until you find him, the plushie warned. Of course that was true. Such a thing had never changed, not in the many times his torment had hunted him in such a way.

Looking over at the two doorways on either side of him, the boy chose to go towards the room to his right. Inside was a smaller bedroom, with a pink bed pushed back against the wall. To his left was another dresser, which had a lamp with a pink shade on. There was a large photo frame with a flower on it.

Just laying on the floor near his feet was a mangled toy of a pink fox, laying in pieces. It had been dismembered, the head and limbs separated from the body, with even the robotic skull that the head was usually attached to taken off. Looking at the figure only distressed the boy, and he chose to look away from it as he left the room.

Taking deep breaths, he tried to clear his thoughts as he considered what to do next. Perhaps his best choice was to leave, to walk out of the house and find something else to do outside? It was a nice summer day and even if he didn't have anyone to spend it with, it would still be a far better time than this.

Knowing what he needed to do, he took brave steps across the hallway and towards the living room. But as he reached the doorway, that bravery suddenly left him as he understood just what he was looking at.

An old, large tv was pushed back into the corner, turned off. Against the wall was a sofa, with yet another plushie resembling his yellow friend sitting on it, watching him. Almost warning him. As he took steps forward, trying to figure out what the warning was, he realised too late.

His friend was looking at the plug sockets just against the wall, near a doorway. The TV had been unplugged, and the child remembered that he had heard the TV playing before he had left his room.

Before he could react, perhaps running to the doorway before it happened, he knew he had waited too long. Without even a moment of warning, his torment jumped from behind the TV, screaming. That horrible red mask which resembled a fox making the sound nightmarish.

Feeling terror hit him hard in the stomach, the boy screamed, falling to the ground in tears. Even as he cried, sobbing into his hands, he heard the shuffle of his torment climb out from his hiding place behind the TV, laughing at his pain, before walking away.

For what felt like an eternity, the boy continued to cry on the floor, his sobs silent but full of pain. All the while, the yellow bear plushie watched on with little emotion at how hopeless he was, before reminding him of the one, true fact of life.

Tomorrow is another day, the bear said.


Wednesday 25th March 2015, 13:36 PM


Many of the facilities of the Crucible were in some of the densest regions, placed strategically to avoid detection. Most of these little places were unknown to even the most experienced agent, with over half only known to those in higher positions within the organisation, or those who were stationed there.

This was done, of course, for use as a safety net. Officially, all of the Overseers knew of every unmarked facility used today. Especially that of the High Overseer, who was the most privileged in the entire Crucible. The reality of this, however, was much different. Even back during the days of Sanders.

For example, as Donovan reflected as he stepped foot in the facility high up in the mountains of West Virginia, about a hundred miles away from the nearest town, the place he was going to was only known to him, Lancaster, and the Nightingales. That had remained true for the past thirty years, after Donovan's predecessor had passed away.

From the start, the political intricacies of the Crucible had been a storm waiting to happen. Any agent who bothered to understand the history of the organisation they were working for knew that they were once three separate factions, broiled in conflict due to their differing interests and values. All they had shared in common back then was their hidden nature, their refusal to be controlled by any other society, and their penchant for raising cain. Three irresistible forces and immovable objects combined.

Naturally, this led to conflict. Battles had been fought and blood had been shed. Many within the Crucible did not even know some of the finer details, though the ignorant would perhaps think if they had the answers, the conflict would make more sense. Such as, something that only the elite of the organisation such as Donovan would know, the curious connections that the three factions had even before those wars were fought.

Even now, the knowledge that the three factions had all come from the same source, their origins intertwined, was something that he had far long ago chosen to forget. Many a smart man had spent their entire lives pondering the question of why brothers would fight each other, all to come to the same conclusion: An empty answer.

After all, Donovan sneered, a man named Caine killed his brother, Abel.

But something unexpected happened. In spite of their differing ideals, their spats and battles, the three factions came together for the common cause of saving the world. When that first Council was formed to bridge the gap, to mend the wounds, the Crucible they created was for the best. When that alliance was on the edge of breaking, a decision was made.

Each faction was split into three groups. One would remain where they were, continuing the activities of their respective faction. The other two would be merged with one of the ither faction's group. Those lines on the Crucible's emblem meant more than just drawings. They represented the bonds that were formed, that were depended on.

A third of the Dragon merged with a third of the Phoenix and became Shadow. A third of the Dragon merged with a third of the Angel and became Shield. A third of the Phoenix merged with a third of the Angel and became Order. Then the remaining thirds of each faction became Sword, Law, and Light.

This didn't remain such for long, of course. The purpose was to teach these factions to work together, to augment their own strengths with the techniques of their allies. When Sword needed something more than strength, Shield would use their lessons of intelligence and diplomacy. If Law couldn't solve a situation through diplomacy, Order would quash it with strength and intelligence. Once Light found its intelligence to be ignored, Shadow would remind its enemies using strength and diplomacy.

For thirty years, it had been Nate Donovan who had led Law Department through its successes. Back then, the Crucible had seemed unstoppable. But when Donovan saw his chance to enact the will of his department further, he took it. Sanders had been once a strong leader, but he had faltered when he was needed the most. Even now, Donovan did not regret ousting him.

How could he have known that the Crucible would only become weaker? That the snakes who had posed as leaders would betray them? Donovan was filled with rage when he remembered how the traitor known as Thomas Caine had turned his back on them. Taken the resources and manpower of Shield and spat on the name of his predecessors.

Shaking his head, Donovan still couldn't understand how a protégé of John Lamarck himself could have turned out so bad. Even dead, the man still continued to pester him.

But not for much longer, Donovan almost smiled when he remembered why he had come here.

In spite of their official alliances and assumed cooperation, the truth of the matter was that the three factions that made the Crucible remained apart, in some ways. They retained certain assets that were never made official. All three had them, yet all three never attempted to out each other for it. Maybe because they knew that by doing so, they would be opening themselves up to investigation.

One such asset that Law an Order, the names that the Phoenix had taken, was known only by rumour as the Nightingales. Due to the effectiveness of Sword Department, as well as the subtlety of Shadow and Shield, the group had officially been made redundant. That was, of course, not the case.

Once upon a time, these Nightingales had been some of the deadliest assassins on the planet. A group of selected, special individuals who were trained from birth to kill. Even today, very few individuals were of equal measure to them. Fewer still that were better. When the Crucible was established, they were considered a relic.

But they remained, within these mountains in West Virginia.

As Donovan arrived in the facility by helicopter, something he hadn't done in person for a long time, he was satisfied to see how clean everything was indoors. Not a speck of dust nor an unmopped floor in sight. From the start of their life, a Nightingale was taught to be precise and perfect in every measure. If they could not keep their home clean, how could they make the perfect assassination?

As he made his way through the facility, he saw the silent assassins in their usual tasks. Exercising. Training. Preparing. A moment of relaxation was considered a moment too far. Continuing to make his way through the facility, he came into a large courtyard with a large fighting pit. Looking down into the pit, Donovan could see five men inside.

The four on the side furthest away from him, facing his direction, were all shirtless. Walls of muscle lined their frame, some larger and others leaner. In their hands were wooden weapons, resembling swords and polearms. Several of them had bruises, telling the tale of their battles before Donovan arrived.

Opposite of them, facing away from Donovan, was an ebony-skinned man, just over six feet tall. Muscle-bound, yet with a certain grace to his soft movements. His head and face lacked any hair, giving him an almost marble-like gleam. In his hands was a wooden pole.

Before Donovan's apathic gaze, the four men charged their prey, striking all at once. With barely a warning of his movement, the ebony man parried and blocked their strikes, sweeping one down to the ground almost immediately. Striking one of the sword wielders against the chin with the pole, he then struck him in the chest with his palm, sending the man crashing down.

But as he turned, one of his foes scored a hit on his head, stunning him. The second attacker lunged, but was quickly heaved up and tossed by the ebony man, before he swept the one who had hit him onto the ground. Pressing his polearm against the man's throat for a second, the ebony man nodded to him and raised his weapon away before holding out a hand to the man, which was taken.

"Very good." The ebony man stated to them all as they stood back up with fresh bruises, "All of you are improving, striking as a group rather than as individuals. But you must tighten your formation! You were defeated not by skill, but by your inability to work together. Strike as one blade."

"Yes, master." Rubbing his throat, the one who had scored the hit seemed neither cocky nor satisfied with their minor success.

"Now, continue training." With barely a glance up, Donovan knew that he had been noticed by the ebony man, "It seems that business has come."

Leaving the fighting pit, the ebony man returned up on the level with a towel in hand, wiping the sweat off his face. Blood trickled from the wound he had been given, turning the towel crimson.

"Mr. Midnight." Donovan spoke without looking at him.

"High Overseer."

"That was sloppy. Someone at your calibre shouldn't be taking such a hit."

"I made a mistake and it was punished. Better this way than for them to miss what was a golden opportunity."

"Make a point not to continue allowing yourself such mistakes. Not for what is coming next."

Finally turning to look at him, Donovan could see the lack of offense taken on the man's face. Mr. Midnight was, of course, not the name he had at birth. When an agent of the order was first inducted, usually at a young age, they were stripped of their former identity and offered the veil that suited their activities so well.

Mr. Midnight had been promising from the start, so when he eventually became leader of the order as well as the deadliest man in almost any room, it hadn't been a surprise to Donovan. This was heavily required, of course. For the job that Donovan needed doing, he needed the best.

"I assume that you know what has happened?"

Midnight nodded, "Thomas Caine has fallen and Takeo Hasashi has turned his back on the Crucible."

"It's more than that." Turning to look at him, Donovan knew he could speak the truth without fear of repercussions, "We know for a fact that Dutch Lawson himself was also killed. We hoped for such a conclusion and we thought we wouldn't be left disappointed, yet it would seem there were elements we were unaware of."

"Such as?"

"For one thing, those mercenaries Caine globetrotted with clearly know something. I suspect that Caine figured out what was going on before he was killed."

Midnight raised an eyebrow, "That you were conspiring with the Crucible's worst enemy?"

"For the good of the order."

"It wouldn't seem that Overseer Hasashi shares that stance."

Scoffing at that, Donovan straightened his tie, "Takeo Hasashi has seriously compromised the Crucible with his actions. Such a hostile action has never been perpetrated in the history of our order. While a third of the trinity has wandered off, what do you think our real enemies will do? Do you think they will stand idly by?"

Shaking his head in exasperation, Midnight almost sighed, "What do you want from us, High Overseer?"

"You know exactly what this is about. With the Crucible on the edge of total war, the Nightingales must be the peacekeepers. I have a list that needs checking off."

Gazing at him, Midnight seemed almost curious, "You want me to kill Overseer Hasashi?"

"No. No! Absolutely not! If something were to happen to Takeo, the entirety of Sword Department will blame the Council. Neither him nor any of the ringleaders of this coup can be harmed, other than by each other. A peaceful resolution is the best case scenario here."

"Then who?"

"It's quite simple." Glancing over to the side of the mountain, Donovan knew in his heart this was the only option, "We need to eliminate the ones who incited the coup in the first place. The ones who misled the agents of Sword Department."

The look in Midnight's eyes said it all. On one hand, Donovan supposed he couldn't blame him for the hesitance. "Then it's the operators of AESIR you want dead. That is going to require as many of my fellow Nightingales I can spare. High Overseer, you are talking about an all-out war."

"We have been pushed to these measures. We have given those mercenaries every chance to lay down their arms and give up. But their continued existence harms the Crucible."

"You're not doing this for the Crucible, High Overseer."

When Donovan's gaze changed, Midnight didn't even flinch. "Are you questioning your orders, Nightingale? Are you saying that you refuse to follow them?"

"Never. If you want this done, it will be done. So, who are the targets?"

Nodding in satisfaction, Donovan spoke of the list he had formed in his head ever since they were first formed. "The four main targets, of course, are Brimstone, Caine, Occam, and Black. Eliminating Murphy is also essential. It will limit their ability to travel. It may also be necessary to eliminate that group that our dear late Thomas Caine had formed, out on the West Coast."

Midnight sniffed at that. "That group of kids?"

"Yes. I would imagine that Spencer Caine won't take long to get himself involved, so at the very least he will need to be silenced. We also have news that Garcia had rejoined the group. It may become clear that the only way we can put down any sort of insurrection will be to eliminate him, and any of the others."

When he saw the hesitance on Midnight's face, Donovan frowned. "What is it? Do not tell me that the Nightingales have gotten so complacent that the idea of killing a few nineteen year olds is considered distasteful?"

"High Overseer, you are asking us to kill all three of the Harbingers. The other Nightingales are not going to like that. One is bad enough, but three?"

Shaking his head, Donovan smiled, "False Harbingers. Do you not find it suspicious that the Crucible spent centuries trying to find them, yet mere years after a former agent with a grudge left the order in disgrace, he was able to find all three of them? They're false idols, used for political reasons."

"The others aren't going to see it like that."

"Then let us hope you trained them well, because I am going to want you on a different mission."

"And that is? You want me to burn down an orphanage? Maybe a dog shelter?"

"Your glibness does you no credit, Midnight. No, this is a personal matter. No one has any clue just what it was that Caine and his associates discovered about our plans. They need to be silenced, before they can regroup with the rest of their fellow mercenaries. Of course, we have no idea where they are, but the local Law Enforcement is trying to track them down."

Sighing, Midnight nodded, "Name them and they shall be silenced, High Overseer."

"I want you to eliminate Carl Young, Michael Schmidt, Samantha Williams, and any of the rest of their group who gets in the way. Young, of course, will be the most dangerous. He is an operator of AESIR, after all. But do not underestimate Williams. That woman…she's intelligent, quick on her feet, and she's now in mourning. That will make her twice as deadly. Schmidt caused us a lot of hassle twenty years ago, but he shouldn't be a problem for you."

When Donovan saw the scowl on Midnight's face deepen, he started to grow impatient. "I grow sick of your reluctance, Mr. Midnight. You are in a very privileged position. The leader of the Nightingales. If I cannot trust you to do what needs to be done, how can I trust any of you?"

Turning to look at him, Midnight barely flashed an offended look. He was apathic, as how he had been trained to do. As all Nightingales were trained to do. "I will complete any order you give me. I will eliminate any targets you wish to be silenced. But if you expect me to jump for joy at the prospect of killing Thomas Caine's grieving widow and his eldest son…leave his children orphans…all the while his ashes are barely cold…"

"Get it done, Midnight." Donovan snarled, "Or it may be time for a new leader."


Friday 3rd April 2015, 19:11 PM


Blinking tiredly as he saw the sun had almost fully set over the horizon, Mike knew it was time for another long night. One with barely any sleep. He held his pistol in his hand, examining it and trying his best to keep it clean. Only two magazines left, one with only three rounds. He knew it wasn't like firing those rounds any time soon would be a good idea, but it troubled him to know he was lacking the ability to defend himself.

It stunned him to realise that they had been wandering on foot for nearly a month. Nearly a month since Fazbear Frights had burnt to the ground. To say that he and the rest of the group were weary was putting it lightly. He knew himself that he had little sleep during that time, perhaps a couple hours a night.

They had taken to setting off from their campsite just before dawn. Better to travel during the early hours. Their only hope was to avoid any direct contact with anyone. All it would take was someone spotting them at their campsite or travelling. The moment someone reported their suspicious movements to the Police, their prospects of remaining undetected would quickly vanish.

Shaking himself awake, Mike knew how close that had been just two days prior. As they were moving, they came dangerously close to a road which had a Patrol Car nearby. As far as they were aware, they had avoided being spotted, but if they had been, this little trek of theirs would be over.

All of their problems laid on the fact that they couldn't be spotted. Though it had been a while, Mike had outdoorsman experience. Staying on the beaten path off as far in the wilderness and away from society as possible, which is exactly what they needed, required them to have the right kit. Though they were fortunately far past winter, these spring nights and weather weighed heavily on them.

So at some point, as they had travelled, Mike had pondered what their move should be upon finding a small house, deep in the woods with nobody home. There had been a shed on the property and after no small amount of persuasion, Carl had reluctantly followed him to check it out. Inside, they had found quite the collection.

Camping gear. Tents, sleeping bags, tarps, and other essential tools for any outdoorsman. It didn't matter how distasteful the act was, they both knew they needed it. Upon ensuring that the coast was clear, Mike and Carl had scavenged what they knew they needed before making their quick escape, never having seen the house owner. The only thing that numbed Mike's guilt was the reminder that Carl had made a point to leave most of what he called the rainy day fund; just over half a grand of cash.

The difference had been startling after they had the proper equipment to set up a camp. No longer did they have to sleep under makeshift shelters that leaked. For once, Mike had actually gotten a full night's rest. He quietly thanked the owner of the camping gear for what they had taken, even if a meeting with them would've likely led to a shotgun pointed at his head.

With this equipment, they had dared to venture further off. Things weren't perfect, of course; they lacked the clothing Mike would've preferred and not having actual outdoor boots had made the rain even more difficult to navigate. There wasn't much they could do, but any advantage was a big one.

Now there was just one issue; what their plan was going forward.

Holding the phone in his hand, Mike knew that the risk was little. This was an unmarked phone, the same one Jack had given him soon after their first meeting. Untraceable. Not link to either him nor anyone else. Surely, with this in mind, there was no chance that the Police would be monitoring it?

Of course there is a risk, Mike sighed to himself, but I don't have a choice.

Out of all the things that Mike had forgotten to grab, the one thing he wished so much to have found and cursed himself for not having prepared, was a map and compass. Since they had gone into exile, they had been wandering blind. This whole time, Mike had been trying to find a specific place and after a month of wandering, he knew they were close.

But was he willing to put other people in danger, especially his own friends, just to get them out of a situation that was his fault in the first place?

With a reluctant sigh, Mike dialled in the number he knew off by heart and waited a few moments for the response. When it finally came, he closed his eyes and listened as the person on the other end spoke through with a tired voice.

"Hello? Who's there?"

"It's Mike. I need your help."

"Mike? What's going on?"

"We're in trouble. A lot of trouble. Have you…have you seen anything on the news? About what happened back home?"

"Nothing. Start from the beginning."

Breathing in, Mike tried to piece together his thoughts so that he could come out with a coherent description of how far up the creek they were. "Just over a month ago, this guy called Reginald Wood opened up a horror attraction, trying to bring back the whole Fazbear thing. Me and my…associates…went over there to try and figure it out."

"Something I asked you never to do."

"Right. Well, it went badly. I guess not to anyone's surprise. Wood ended up dead, the place burnt to the ground, and now we're being hunted by the Police because they think we killed him. We're in trouble. Big trouble. I don't know how far into the wilderness we are at the moment, but I think I know of a place. A place we can meet."

"Mike, when we left there, I told you that going back would just cause everyone problems. Now a man's dead. I'll help you, but if you're going to persist in this stupid crusade of yours, then I'm telling you now: This is the last time. Alright?"

"I understand."

"Now, where do you want to meet?"

"By the Wicker Tree. I'm almost certain we're nearby."

"I'll be there soon."

"Thanks, Benji."

The call was ended without a response and Mike sighed as he put the phone away. Though he knew the answer was not going to be pleasant, it still hurt him somewhat. Standing up, he walked back over to the rest of the group who were settling nearby the tarps, hidden away to prevent being seen by any wandering hiker.

Just near the edge of the treeline was Ella, keeping watch for anyone, and Jack sat nearby irritably trying to get his tech to work so that he could access the map on it. No luck; there was no internet out there. Carl was sitting nearby Samantha who was quietly sipping a cup of coffee. She had barely slept in spite of the camping equipment. Seeing him return, Carl looked over to him.

"Any luck?"

Mike nodded. "He's going to meet us."

"Where? Nearby?"

"There was an old tree we used to hang out when we were kids. He met me and…and Tom there twenty years ago."

"Do you know it's safe? Could the Police know about it?"

"I don't know. But at this point, I can't see how we have a choice."


With that, the first act has officially begun.

TU4QU0I53T4IAN6L3: I actually joined the community very soon after the first game came out. It was the wild west back then; theories and ideas constantly being thrown around, most of them to try and find a general idea of the story of the series. Vincent was just a name and identity that caught on to try and pin something on the Purple Guy. Perhaps that was the reason the book series was so divisive. It actually went on to officially name the Purple Guy. During the process of writing Days of Happiness, I knew I would have to approach the Crying Child at some point. That storyline was, at the time, the most mind-blowing event in the series. Without a doubt the most tragic thing about the loss of Caine is how he is no longer able to defend his own name and his allies from someone as manipulative as Donovan, but he's got enough people left behind to defend it for him. But while they deal with his loss, they now have to worry about making sure they themselves get out of this alive.