⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠CHAPTER V | ⧠INTERLUDE V | ⧠CHAPTER VI
Â
???'S POV:
Benji swung Sammy by one arm as he walked beside Leith Pierre. At first he wasnât worried. Adults took children for checkups all the time. Sometimes it was doctors. Sometimes it was tests. Sometimes they just asked questions. But the farther they walked from Home Sweet Home, the more nervous he became.
The familiar halls disappeared behind them, replaced by colder corridors filled with strange machinery and adults he didnât recognize. Scientists moved constantly through the area carrying clipboards and stacks of papers while speaking in words Benji didnât understand.
âWhere are we going?â
âA checkup.â
Benji looked down at Sammy. âWhy?â
Pierre didnât answer.
The silence felt wrong.
Benji tightened his grip on the rabbit and hurried to keep pace with the taller man. Usually adults talked to him. They smiled. They explained things. Pierre simply kept walking.
As they moved deeper into the facility, large observation windows began appearing along the walls. Most looked into laboratories full of machines and equipment, but one room immediately caught Benjiâs attention.
Something moved inside.
Benji slowed.
Then stopped completely.
The thing on the other side of the glass was enormous. At first his brain refused to understand what he was seeing.
It looked like a toy. A giant toy.
But toys werenât supposed to move. The creatureâs colorful body nearly filled the room. Thick restraints wrapped around its limbs while scientists worked around it from behind reinforced barriers.
Then its head turned as its eyes locked onto Benji. For one brief second neither moved.
Then the toy lunged.
A deafening roar slammed into the glass causing Benji to scream.
The creature crashed against its restraints, clawing and thrashing while alarms immediately began sounding throughout the room.
Benji stumbled backward so quickly he fell onto the floor.
Scientists rushed toward the observation window, one pointed directly at him, another started moving toward the hallway.
The giant toy roared again.
Benji scrambled to his feet.
Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to run.
So he did.
âHEY!â Someone shouted behind him.
Benji bolted down the corridor. Footsteps immediately followed. He rounded a corner and shoved through the first door he found. The room beyond was somehow even worse. Several scientists surrounded another child strapped to a metal table. Machines beeped around them while wires disappeared beneath equipment Benji didnât understand. The child was crying. One of the scientists looked up.
Then another.
Then all of them.
For a moment the entire room stared at him.
Then someone shouted.
Benji screamed.
The child screamed too.
Adults immediately began moving.
Benji backed into the hallway and ran again.
âSTOP HIM!â
Footsteps thundered behind him.
He ran blindly through corridor after corridor, tears beginning to blur his vision as panic completely took over. He barely noticed the turn ahead until he collided with something solid. Strong hands grabbed him. âNo!â Two security guards lifted him completely off the floor before he could pull away. âNo! Let me go! LET ME GO!â He kicked wildly.
The guards barely reacted as they carried him away, Sammy slipped from his grasp and hit the floor.
âSammy!â Benji reached desperately toward the fallen bird, the guards kept walking. âSammy!â The toy lay alone in the middle of the corridor.
Then another pair of shoes stopped beside it.
Leith Pierre.
Slowly, the man bent down and picked up the bird. For a moment he simply stared at it. Then he looked toward Benji.
The guards continued carrying him deeper into the laboratory.
âNo! Sammy!â Benji stretched his arm toward the toy as tears streamed down his face.
Pierre never moved.
Never spoke.
Never looked away.
The hallways blurred together after that. Doors. Scientists. Machines. Strange lights overhead. Benji couldnât keep track of any of it anymore.
Fear swallowed everything.
âDicky!â His voice cracked.
âDicky!â
Nobody came.
The guards kept walking.
âDICKY!â
The last thing Benji saw before another set of doors closed between them was Sammy growing smaller and smaller in Leith Pierreâs hand.
Hidden within the maze of ventilation shafts overlooking Safe Haven, a small figure watched the settlement in complete silence. Tiny claws gripped the rusted metal as bright eyes tracked every movement below, following frightened toys as they hurried between tents, gathered around campfires, or tried to comfort one another. They still believed these walls could protect them. They still believed they had somewhere safe to hide.
They didnât.
He already knew what was coming.
The explosives had been moved.
The path had already been decided.
Soon there would be nothing left.
His gaze shifted away from the camp and toward the lower tunnels just as the human emerged from the generator room. Even from this distance, it was obvious something had happened. His shoulders were tense, his pace slower than before, as though he were trying to think through something that refused to leave his mind. The little toy watched him begin walking the perimeter of Safe Haven, gradually drawing closer to one of the outer exits.
He couldnât stay there.
If he stayed inside the settlementâŚ
The little toy pressed himself farther into the shadows. He couldnât simply reveal himself. He couldnât approach the human directly without risking everything. But perhaps he didnât need to. Perhaps all he needed to do was convince the human to leave the settlement for a few minutes. Long enough to survive.
Closing his eyes, he reached inward, sorting through the endless collection of voices stored within his fractured memories. Workers shouting orders. Scientists giving instructions. Children laughing together. Countless borrowed words drifted through his mind, none of them truly belonging to him anymore. They existed only as echoes, recordings he could replay but never fully understand.
He settled on one.
A frightened voice.
âHelpâŚâ
The borrowed plea drifted softly through the tunnels, echoing between the damp stone walls exactly as he remembered hearing it.
The human stopped.
Good.
The little toy remained perfectly still while the human cautiously approached the tunnel entrance, every movement careful and alert.
âStay where you are. I can help you, just call out again.â
It wasnât enough.
The human hadnât crossed the boundary surrounding Safe Haven.
Confused, the little toy searched again, pushing aside dozens of unfamiliar voices before selecting another frightened memory.
âPlease⌠helpâŚâ
Again the words echoed through the darkness.
Again the human remained where he was, wary but unwilling to abandon the safety of the settlement.
That wasnât right.
He needed the human to leave.
His thoughts reached deeper than before, drifting toward memories that felt older than the rest. They were harder to grasp somehow, faded around the edges and buried beneath years of newer recordings. One finally surfaced on its own, carrying emotions so raw and frightened that they almost made him flinch. He didnât know where it had come from. He didnât know whose voice it belonged to.
He only knew it sounded terrified.
Softly, he replayed it.
âTatiâŚâ
The reaction was immediate.
The human froze so completely that even the steady rhythm of his breathing seemed to stop. He stood motionless at the edge of the tunnel, staring into the darkness as though heâd forgotten where he was.
For several long seconds neither of them moved.
Then the human whispered something so quietly that the little toy couldnât make out the words.
Unsure why this memory had succeeded where the others had failed, he searched through it again. There was another voice. Another frightened word spoken through tears.
âDajâŚâ
This time the human visibly staggered, as though something had struck him square in the chest. His breathing became uneven, and one gloved hand instinctively reached toward the wall beside him for support.
Another whisper escaped his lips, it sounded like a name, but it's was too low for the toy to hear it. He replayed the memory one final time.
âTatiâŚâ
The human broke.
âBenji!â he shouted, the name echoing violently through the caverns as he rushed beyond the safety markers surrounding Safe Haven. âKeep talking to me! Iâm tracking your voice! Just hold on! Iâm right here!â
The little toy watched him disappear into the tunnels at a desperate sprint, still calling that unfamiliar name over and over again.
Benji.
This time he heard it clearly.
The word settled somewhere deep inside him, stirring something he couldnât explain. He searched instinctively through the scattered fragments filling his mind, desperately trying to remember where heâd heard that name before. Faces blurred together. Voices dissolved into meaningless static. Feelings lingered long after the memories themselves had vanished, leaving behind only a strange ache that refused to go away.
BenjiâŚ
Why did that name feel important?
Why did it feel⌠familiar?
Before he could search any further, a deafening explosion ripped through the underground tunnels. The entire ventilation shaft shuddered violently beneath him as dust and broken stone rained from the ceiling. Startled from his thoughts, he hurried toward another opening overlooking the lower caverns, his eyes immediately searching for the human.
There.
Far below, the human stood safely outside the settlement beside the large dough toy, both of them turning toward the rising smoke pouring from Safe Haven.
Relief washed through the little toy before another realization settled over him.
The human had survived.
The plan hadnât.
He had changed what was supposed to happen.
His feathers puffed up anxiously as an unfamiliar feeling tightened inside his chest. He had interfered with something far greater than himself. If He ever discovered what had happened here, there would be questions. Questions the little toy couldnât answer without revealing exactly what he had done.
No.
He couldnât know.
He must never know.
With one final glance toward the smoke rising above the shattered remains of Safe Haven, the little bird slipped silently back into the ventilation network, weaving through the narrow shafts with practiced ease. Behind him, distant crashes and muffled roars echoed through the foundations as the battle between the human and the grieving guardian continued, but he never looked back. He had already done everything he could.
The tunnels eventually opened into one of the factoryâs forgotten maintenance corridors. There, waiting in the darkness as though He had expected someone to arrive, stood a towering silhouette stitched together from countless stolen pieces. The little bird immediately lowered his head, remaining perfectly still as the silence stretched between them.
At last, the shifting chorus of voices broke it. âSafe Haven has fallen. The Doctor is gone. The guardian has failed.â The little bird answered each statement with nothing more than a small nod, never once lifting his gaze. He had long since learned that words were rarely expected of him.
âIâve spoken with a few critters,â Prototyped continued, several different voices bleeding together beneath the dominant one until it became impossible to distinguish where one ended and another began. âPoppy will be returned soon. The human fell, and Kissy Missy fell with him.â He paused for a moment before taking one slow, deliberate step forward. âI need certainty. Go. Find them. If either survived⌠I want to know.â
The little bird nodded once more without hesitation. It was a simple order, one he could carry out easily enough, yet the Prototype remained where he was, studying him in complete silence for several long seconds. His massive claws flexed slowly at his sides before he finally spoke again.
âYouâve always been dependable. So many have disappointed me. The Doctor. CatNap. The others.â His gaze never left the tiny figure standing obediently before him. âBut not you.â He inclined his head ever so slightly, the movement carrying none of the warmth those words should have implied. âI am⌠pleased that I still have you.â
It wasnât praise. It wasnât affection. It was the cold satisfaction of someone admiring the last reliable tool left in a workshop full of broken ones. The little bird remained motionless, accepting the words exactly as he accepted every order the Prototype ever gave him.
Finally, the towering creature turned away, his attention already shifting toward whatever came next. âDo not disappoint me,â he said quietly, and the little bird lowered his head one final time before disappearing soundlessly back into the ventilation shafts.
Only after the tiny figure had vanished completely did the Prototype speak again, his layered voices barely rising above a whisper in the empty corridor.
âIâm counting on you⌠Cheery Chirp.â
And so we have the final interlude, and it has been revealed, Benjiâs name is now Cheery Chirp!!
Donât worry there are at least one or two more chapters before the story ends
Well I gotta go choose a date for my eye surgery new week, I try to finish all the chapters and post them before that, since I wonât be able to look at a screen for a while
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the last interlude!!
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠INTERLUDE IV | ⧠CHAPTER V | ⧠INTERLUDE V
 NIGHTWING'S POV:
The elevator continued its descent into the depths beneath Playcare, the metallic platform rattling softly as it traveled farther underground, carrying only Nightwing and Poppy. Neither spoke for several moments as the screams of Kissy and DogDay still echoed in their minds, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence. Eventually, Poppy turned toward him, her porcelain face looking tense, almost frightened. "You need to keep going," she said. "Donât wait for me. Iâm going back for Kissy and DogDay. Iâm not leaving them behind, and Iâm not sacrificing our plan."
Nightwing frowned, his eyes scanning the lowering platform. "Poppy, you donât even know whatâs up there."
"I donât care," the answer came immediately. Poppy looked away before continuing, her voice faltering. "Just⌠be careful. Down here, itâs⌠itâs hell. And Playtime wanted it to be. Itâs not like anything youâve seen above. But we have allies down here. Get to them."
Nightwing nodded, understanding her resolve. "Just bring them back safe. Thatâs all I care about right now."
A few moments later, the platform finally reached the bottom, revealing a massive storage area that stretched out before them, packed with rusted containers, broken machinery, and old industrial equipment. The room felt completely abandoned, forgotten by the rest of the factory. Nightwing stepped off the lift and turned back toward her one last time. "Be careful, Poppy." Without another word, she activated the controls, and the elevator immediately began rising back toward the upper levels. Nightwing stood there in the quiet until the platform vanished from sight, then he turned and started forward.
The storage room led into a network of tunnels and caverns carved through the underground foundations of the factory, and the deeper he went, the colder the air became. While searching through one of the corridors, he spotted a discarded notice lying on the ground. Curious, he picked it up and quickly scanned its contents, finding mostly safety instructions regarding Red Smoke, though one particular line caught his attention: Highly flammable.
"Good to know," Nightwing muttered, folding the notice and tucking it away. Continuing onward, he eventually found a sign posted near a junction in the tunnel that read CHECKPOINT 1A, with another sign beneath it pointing in the same direction: TO PRISON.
Nightwing stopped, the thought alone disturbing him. "A prison?"
Considering everything he had already discovered about this place, perhaps it shouldnât have surprised him. He followed the signs until he finally reached the checkpoint, where a massive metal gate blocked the passage forward, its handles secured by a heavy chain. Whatever had been locked behind these doors had clearly been intended to stay there. Nightwing examined the chain for a moment before pulling out his tools.
"Sorry. Whatever your security concerns were, Iâm going through." Within moments the lock fell open, and he stepped through, but the sight waiting on the other side made him immediately regret it.
The area beyond looked like a wasteland, with mountains of discarded toys stretching across the landscape in every direction. Thousands upon thousands of bodies filled the cavern, some broken, others torn apart, and countless more simply dumped here and forgotten. Not all of them were dead, however, as several heads suddenly turned toward himâMini Huggy Wuggies.
The moment they noticed movement, they attacked. Nightwing reacted instantly, firing bursts from the orange flare hand, the bright flashes scattering the smaller toys long enough for him to keep moving. He navigated through the sea of bodies as quickly as possible, trying not to look too closely at what lay beneath his boots until he reached the far side of the wasteland.
A large security gate blocked his path, and the instant he approached it, alarms erupted throughout the chamber while red warning lights flashed overhead and spotlights suddenly locked onto him. The toys responded immediately as dozens of them began crawling from the piles.
"Oh, come on," Nightwing muttered, firing another flare to force them back while searching desperately for another route. His eyes quickly landed on a small opening in the wall beside the entrance tunnel. It wasnât idealâin fact, it was awfulâsince the only way to reach it was by climbing directly over the mountain of discarded toys. Nightwing visibly cringed. "This is officially the worst thing Iâve done all week." Nevertheless, he climbed.
After squeezing through the opening, he continued deeper into the underground tunnels until he eventually reached an overturned train resting along a damaged section of track. His communicator suddenly rang, and Nightwing immediately answered. "Ollie?"
"Hey. Itâs me again, Ollie," the boy sounded different, quieter, less energetic.
Nightwing straightened slightly, picking up on the shift in tone. "Whatâs wrong?"
"I wanted to⌠I wanted to talk to you. Before you go inside I mean."
Nightwing looked around the dark cavern, keeping his guard up. "Iâm listening."
For several seconds Ollie remained silent, then he spoke, his voice growing softer. "All the things youâre seeing down here⌠the piles⌠the dead⌠They all came from inside. Everything Poppy said about this place is true."
Nightwingâs gaze drifted back toward the wasteland behind him. "This place is absolute hell."
"Just try to stay safe. Please. Donât let your guard down for even a second⌠Iâll try to help you when I can," Ollie continued.
Nightwing tightened his grip on the communicator. "I will. And Ollie? You stay safe too." The line disconnected, and Nightwing lowered the device, staring at it for a moment before pocketing it again. Eventually he located the trainâs power controls and managed to restore enough electricity to get it running. Once the systems came online, he entered one of the passenger carriages, and the doors immediately sealed behind him. The room was small, windowless, and completely enclosed, with the walls, floor, and ceiling covered in padded material identical to what he had seen inside the Playhouse. Nightwing felt a chill run down his spine as the memory of DogDay hanging helplessly in that prison flashed through his mind, and he hoped the toy was still alive.
The train suddenly lurched forward, leaving Nightwing with nothing else to do but lean against one wall and wait. After several minutes, the train finally slowed to a stop, and a faint glow illuminated the carriage. Nightwing looked up as a television mounted on the wall crackled to life, static filling the screen. At first he assumed it would be another prerecorded Playtime advertisement, but then the speakers activated, and immediately, every instinct he possessed began screaming at him that something was wrong.
"Mmmm, now whatâs this? Do I feel something squirming its way beneath my skin." The static vanished and a single eye appeared on the screen, staring directly at him. Nightwing froze, realizing this wasnât a recording. "An invasive, foreign little germ? After all this time?⌠Ah, but I see⌠YouâŚWell little germ, letâs make a game out of you."
The train began to shake violently, forcing Nightwing to grab the nearest wall to steady himself. "Youâve blundered along the shadows above, and only managed to squirm all the way down here but by the barest skin of your teeth," the voice echoed. The shaking intensified as the entire carriage rattled around him. "There are no shadows here that would be of use to you. Not even the ground beneath you is yours." A massive jolt threw Nightwing completely off balance, causing his head to slam hard against one of the crates beside him. Pain exploded through his skull and the room spun, but the eye remained fixed on him, watching and waiting. "There are no places you can hide. Not from me."
The laughter followed him into darkness. When he finally opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the floor of the ruined carriage, where part of the train had been torn open to expose a dimly lit corridor beyond. Nightwing slowly pushed himself upright, one hand pressed against the back of his head as the voiceâs final words echoed through his mind: There are no places you can hide. His stomach sank as he stepped out of the train and looked around, the signs on the walls leaving little room for doubt. He had arrived, and he was trapped inside the Prison.
The ruined train carriage lay half-crushed around him, twisted metal and torn padding scattered across the floor. Whatever had happened after he lost consciousness, he doubted it had been an accident; the ominous voice from the television had made sure of that. The prison beyond was worse than anything he had expected. Long, grim hallways stretched between rows of reinforced cells lined with thick steel doors, many of which were dented and scratched deeply from the inside. Some cells still contained hostile toys that slammed themselves against the metal barriers the moment they noticed his approach, while others stood empty or completely open. Those open cells were the dangerous ones, as small Critters hidden throughout the facility launched sudden ambushes whenever they got the chance. Nightwing spent the next stretch of his journey hyper-focused on avoiding these traps, sealing open cell doors, and utilizing his orange flare hand to scare the creatures away with bright bursts of light whenever they pushed too close.
Throughout it all, the mocking observer continued speaking through the prisonâs intercom system, shifting between cruel taunts, unsettling praise, and clinical observations. Every cold word made Nightwing feel less like an intruder and more like a lab rat trapped in a highly calculated maze. The tests escalated quickly. One section of the prison released several Critters simultaneously, forcing him to navigate a dizzying labyrinth of cell blocks while keeping the horde contained. Another test completely flooded the corridors with hazardous Red Smoke, forcing him into a desperate race through unfamiliar passages before the thick gas could consume everything around him. Each challenge felt deliberately designed, and whoever was watching seemed entirely delighted by every second of his struggle.
What disturbed Nightwing far more than the physical gauntlets were the incomplete documents, reports, and medical notes scattered throughout the facility. He located the first report describing Experiment 1186.
A female test subject assign to a larger version of a toy known as Bobby BearHug.
The report detailed severe complications following awakening.
Muscle spasms, balance problems, loss of hearing, loss of speech.
Moving deeper, he uncovered the next report detailing Experiment 1391.
A subject named Cassie. Assign to a miniature Green Huggy toy.
The report ended abruptly with notes regarding surgery and post-operation observation.
Hidden among the scattered files, another document described Experiment 1393.
A boy named Timmy. Assign to a toy-sized Bron.
The final pages referenced monitoring his corpse after a procedure.
Nightwing read through each report twice, then a third time, his stomach twisting with every page as the pieces began to click into place. The documents never explicitly explained the ultimate truth, but they implied far too much. If his grim suspicions were right, and if the true nature of these experiments was what he feared, it changed everything.
Then the toys werenât toys at all.
They were children.
Children who had somehow become these creatures.
Children like the ones who had lived in Home Sweet Home.
Children like Benji.
Folding the gathered paperwork, Nightwing slipped it safely into his utility belt to process later. "No," he muttered quietly, actively forcing down the rising panic. He couldnât afford to lose focus right now; he needed absolute answers first. Poppy had mentioned having hidden allies somewhere down here, and he hoped they could provide the clarity these redacted files couldn't.
Eventually, the dark halls opened up into a massive central hub surrounded by observation rooms with large glass windows overlooking padded chambers. Searching the main desk carefully, Nightwing located another file concerning Experiment 1163.
A larger-bodied version of a toy called Pianosaurus.
The notes described extreme aggression, poor coordination, and repeated reassignment for testing.
He had barely finished skimming the notes when he stepped into an adjacent observation room and heard the heavy security lock click firmly behind him.
The overhead intercom crackled to life. âYou know, I never thought Iâd see another like you. A human.â
Nightwing immediately turned back toward the exit, testing the handle only to find it completely immobilized. "Locked," he grimaced. Of course it was.
âBut something makes you different, I can tell that much,â the voice mused as Nightwing actively scanned the perimeter for another way out, finding no vents, no emergency exits, and nothing useful. âThough I canât say exactly what that something is. Not yet. The others you faced. 1170. 1188. 1222.â
Nightwing frowned at the speaker, recognizing the format. Experiment numbersâthe voice was categorizing the toys.
âLetâs try our hand at something different,â the speaker continued, a chilling wave of excitement bleeding through the audio. âOh, Yarnaby.â
A loud metallic crash echoed through the observation suite as a heavy security door inside the padded chamber slid open. Something massive burst into the room, causing Nightwing to instinctively step back as the creature slammed itself hard against the reinforced glass. It was a towering entity covered in thick, tangled strands of rainbow-colored yarn, sporting long claws, powerful limbs, and a terrifying mouth that split its head vertically to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Yarnaby roared savagely, scratching furiously at the window in a desperate bid to smash through to his side.
âPlease, do keep making this enjoyable for me. Iâll be taking notes,â the intercom clicked off, leaving him in silence with the beast.
After several tense moments of fruitlessly battering the glass, Yarnaby finally retreated through a jagged hole in the chamber wall. Only then did the observation room's exit door click open, and Nightwing wasted no time slipping out into the next hallway. The immediate corridor led straight to a dead end blocked by a locked security gate. As he turned around to find the hallway behind him completely empty, a sudden metallic clatter echoed from above. Nightwing looked up just in time to see a high vent pop open as a long, familiar yellow arm stretched out from the darkness. Without hesitation, the mysterious hand reached down, swiftly unlocked the security gate, and immediately disappeared back into the ceiling.
Nightwing stared at the empty vent for a second. âWhat are youâŚ?â
No answer came, but a distant, thunderous roar echoed through the structural framework of the prison. Yarnaby was back on the hunt, prompting Nightwing to move forward immediately.
He soon entered a towering storage warehouse packed from floor to ceiling with massive inventory shelves. Navigating the narrow aisles carefully, a sudden flash of movement caught his eye as Yarnaby emerged from a gap in the nearby wall. Nightwing froze instantly, holding his breath as the monster's nose twitched, actively catching his scent and hunting for his position. Before the creature could pin down his exact hiding spot, a faint, urgent psst sounded from above. Nightwing glanced upward to see the mysterious yellow arm pointing toward a high ventilation shaft on the far side of the room before descending to spark a fire among some nearby boxes. The sudden blaze erupted instantly, drawing Yarnabyâs head toward the flames.
Taking the distraction, Nightwing bolted across the room and scrambled into the ventilation shaft just as massive claws slashed violently at his legs, rattling the metal grating beneath him. Looking back, he saw Yarnaby jumping repeatedly, snarling and snapping its jaws just inches below. Nightwing crawled rapidly through the tight ductwork until it dropped him into a maintenance area where, for a brief second, he thought he had escaped.
Then, Yarnaby suddenly burst through an opening in the adjacent wall. Nightwing suppressed a curse, keeping low and moving with absolute stealth to avoid making any structural noise as the creature prowled the room. Slipping into a side passage, he finally reached a much larger primary storage bay with an exit door waiting on the far side.
Freedom was right there, at least temporarily, but a low growl stopped him dead in his tracks. Looking up, he spotted Yarnaby crouching atop one of the highest storage shelves, tracking his movements perfectly. The creature roared and charged.
Nightwing ran hard, treating the falling crates and collapsing shelves as an obstacle courseâvaulting over debris and sliding beneath tumbling racks while Yarnaby effortlessly crashed through everything in its path behind him. The distance between them shrank rapidly, and the exit door was still too far out of reach. Suddenly, the yellow arm materialized from the ceiling ahead, swiftly unlocking the exit door before vanishing back into the shadows. Nightwing didn't hesitate; he dove straight through the opening and slammed the heavy door shut behind him.
Something enormous crashed violently into the other side, causing the entire metal frame to shake. Nightwing grabbed the manual locking mechanism and forced it into place just as a second and third impact rattled the structure. Deciding that he had waited long enough for the barrier to give way, he spotted an open ventilation duct farther down the safety corridor, climbing inside and disappearing into the relative safety of the dark network.
Eventually, Nightwing deemed himself safe enough to slow down. Yarnabyâs snarls had long since faded into the distance, leaving only the hum of machinery and the occasional creak of old metal echoing through the facility. While exploring the area, he found another report lying forgotten among a pile of storage crates: Experiment 1166.
A male test subject known as Quinn Navidson.
Placed into a Bigger Body version of the toy known as Yarnaby.
The report described an intelligent and capable subject that showed little hostility toward staff and displayed fierce loyalty toward Harley Sawyer following extended isolation sessions. After Sawyerâs eventual removal, the report noted that Yarnaby had fallen into a deep depression. Nightwing lowered the paper slowly.
Quinn Navidson.
Yarnaby had once been a person.
A child.
Just like the others.
His grip tightened around the report. He could not afford to dwell on it now; the longer he stayed in one place, the greater the chance Yarnaby would find him again. Moving on, Nightwing eventually entered another observation room overlooking a large padded enclosure where a massive green shape rested below. A catwalk stretched across the paddock toward a door on the opposite side, and Nightwing stepped onto it. The metal groaned, then snapped, and the entire walkway collapsed beneath him. He hit the floor hard and immediately rolled to his feet as, across the enclosure, the green figure stirred slowly, deliberately. Nightwing recognized it at once as Pianosaurus, the same experiment from the report. The massive dinosaur toy rose to its full height and stared directly at him. Nightwing slowly drew his escrima sticks, and Pianosaurus charged.
Before it could reach him, dozens of dough-like hands erupted from the surrounding shadows. They seized the dinosaur from every direction, lifted it off the ground, and began slamming it violently into the floor, walls, and ceiling.
Nightwing could only watch.
The creature disappeared into the darkness, crashes echoed through the room. Pieces of green plastic and stuffing flew from the shadows.
Then silence. A cheerful voice broke it.
âNow that hit the spot! I havenât eaten in weeks!â
A large figure bounced out from the darkness.
The toy was made entirely of pale dough-like material that constantly shifted and moved. His body lacked any fixed shape, stretching and reshaping itself with every step. A tiny hat rested on top of his head.
The figure spotted Nightwing and immediately beamed.
âHiya there, pal!â He pointed at Nightwing. âDonât worry, I wonât eat you!â The toy burst into laughter.
Nightwing stared at him for a moment. âThatâs⌠reassuring.â
The figure laughed even harder before finally calming down and removing his hat. âIâm Doey. I was told to expect you.â
âNightwing.â
Doey immediately slapped him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly make him stumble. âGreat! This way. Follow me.â
Nightwing wasnât entirely sure how he felt about the walking dough creature, but he followed anyway. As they traveled, Doey proved surprisingly friendly. He chatted constantly, pointed out landmarks, and acted less like a monster hiding beneath a ruined factory and more like an excited neighbor showing off his hometown until they finally reached a point where their paths split. âIâve gotta go disable some defenses before you can come inside safely,â Doey explained. âGuess Iâll see you inside?â
Nightwing chuckled. âTry not to eat anyone while Iâm gone.â
âNo promises!â Doey dissolved into a crack in the wall, still giggling, and Nightwing continued alone.
Several hallways later, something suddenly grabbed him and yanked him sideways.
Training took over instantly, and Nightwing twisted free and drew an escrima stick, then froze. Kissy Missy stood in front of him, Poppy sat on her shoulder, and DogDay was strapped carefully to her back.
Kissy looked terrible. Burn marks covered much of her right side, and one arm hung in a sling.
Nightwing opened his mouth to speak, but Poppy immediately pressed a finger to her lips. âShh.â
A heavy mechanical sound echoed through the corridor as a massive shadow passed across the opening. Nightwing didnât need anyone to explainâit was the Prototype. The shadow paused, and Poppy physically recoiled, turning away as fear twisted her expression. Several long seconds passed before the sounds finally disappeared, and only then did everyone relax. âThrough the showers,â Poppy whispered. âWe should be able to make it into Safe Haven from there.â
The group moved quickly, nobody speaking because nobody wanted to risk attracting attention. Eventually they reached a pair of enormous metal doors. Kissy knocked twice, and the doors opened immediately. âHurry! Close it!â Poppy shouted.
Everyone rushed inside as the doors slammed shut, and heavy footsteps approached moments later.
Doey came running toward them, breathing heavily. âWhatâs going on? Whatâsââ He stopped dead. âKissy! DogDay! Goodness, what happened?â
âWeâll live,â DogDay said weakly.
âWe need to get them help. Now,â Poppy interrupted.
Doey finally noticed her, and his expression changed completely. âPoppy?â
âThe Prototype is outside.â
âYou brought him downââ Doeyâs face darkened.
Nightwing stepped between them to diffuse the tension. âGetting angry wonât help anyone. We can figure out what happened later. Right now they need help.â
Doey stared for a moment before releasing a long breath. âYeah⌠yeah. Youâre right.â He pointed toward a cluster of tents. âGet them settled. Iâll make sure whateverâs out there stays out there.â Without another word, he hurried away.
Nightwing carefully unstrapped DogDay and carried him to one of the nearby tents with Kissy following while Poppy stayed close behind. Once inside, Nightwing helped DogDay onto a cot and made sure both him and Kissy were comfortable.
Neither injury looked good.
Neither looked immediately fatal.
âGet some rest, you two.â
DogDay gave a tired nod, and Kissy simply leaned back against the bed. Nightwing stepped outside while Poppy followed him, and the sight of Safe Haven stretched before them: makeshift tents, campfires, toys talking quietly among themselves, families, survivors. Poppy looked around slowly, her voice soft. âI didnât know it had gotten this badâŚâ
Silence hung between them before her expression hardened. âThe Prototype needs to die.â
Nightwing already knew where this was going. âPoppyââ
âThe Red Smoke can still work. We fill the foundation. Set the charges. Bring the whole place down on him.â
âAnd everyone else down here?â Nightwing asked. âWhat happens to them?â
Poppy looked away. âWe donât have another choice.â
âWe always have another choice.â
âIf we donât stop him now, more people die.â
Nightwing gestured toward Safe Haven. âTheyâre people too.â
The words hit harder than he intended, and Poppy fell silent. âWe get them out. Every one we can. Then we deal with the Prototype,â Nightwing continued.
âAnd if we canât?â
âThen weâll figure something else out.â
Poppy looked unconvinced, but she didnât argue further. After a moment, she folded her arms. âGo talk to Doey. He wanted to speak with you.â
Nightwing sighed. âSure.â He spotted Doey in the distance and made his way over.
The dough creature noticed him immediately and waved enthusiastically. âHiya pal!â
Nightwing smiled. âHey, Doey.â
âGot something I wanna talk to you about.â Doeyâs cheerful expression faded slightly as he lowered his voice. âSomething important.â
Nightwingâs posture straightened. âLead the way.â
Doey guided him away from the tents and deeper into Safe Haven until they reached a room labeled AUXILIARY POWER. Once the door closed behind them, the toyâs expression became completely serious. âI heard what you did above. What you survived. If itâs all true, then we need your help. The voice out there, the one in the prisonâŚâ Doey clenched his fists. âThey called him The Doctor. Doctor Harley Sawyer.â Nightwing listened carefully.
âHe was the scientist in charge of creating⌠us.â The last word came out as a growl.
Nightwing felt his stomach sink.
His theory.
The one he had been desperately trying not to believe.
âCreating you how?â He asked quietly.
Doey looked away.
âWhat exactly are you?â
The room fell silent for a moment before Doey finally answered. âMost of the toys down here⌠we used to be children.â
Nightwing froze.
âThe orphans from Home Sweet Home. The workers would take us away for âcheckups.â Then weâd wake up like this.â Doey gestured toward himself. âDifferent bodies. Different lives. Some of us remembered more than others. Some barely remembered anything at all.â
The rest of the explanation blurred together, and Nightwing barely heard it.
All he could think about was Benji.
His hand instinctively drifted to the journal hanging at his belt.
Benji.
His little brother.
After a moment, Doey noticed his expression.
âNightwing?â
Nightwing blinked.
âYou okay?â
âDo you remember any of the kids?â he asked suddenly.
Doey paused. âNot really. Iâm⌠different from most toys.â
Nightwing frowned. âWhat do you mean?â
âLong story.â Doey rubbed the back of his neck. âWhy do you want to know?â
Nightwing hesitated then sighed.
âMy brother was here.â
Doeyâs eyes widened.
âI only found out recently. He was one of the children in Home Sweet Home.â Nightwingâs hand tightened around the journal. âIâve been looking for him for almost twenty years.â
The words felt strange spoken aloud. Painful.
âI didnât know what this place was doing to those kids.â He swallowed. âNow I find out he might have suffered the same fate as all of you.â
Slowly, he pulled the journal free and handed it over. âThis is all I have left.â
Doey carefully looked through it before lowering it again. âIâm sorry.â
Nightwing already knew the answer before it came.
âI donât remember enough. Not after all this time." He handed the journal back.
Nightwing slipped it away and forced a small smile. âHonestly, it was a long shot anyway.â Neither of them believed that.
A loud mechanical groan interrupted the conversation, and both turned toward the large machine dominating one side of the room. Doey walked over to it. âThis generator powers all of Safe Haven.â
Nightwing studied it. âWhatâs so special about it?â
âThe Doctor canât control it,â Doey explained, immediately catching Nightwingâs attention. âHe uses something called an Omni-Hand. Itâs basically a master key for the factory. Opens doors, controls systems, powers machinery. If itâs connected to Playtime, he can control it.â He rested a hand on the generator. âEverything except this. This runs on a completely separate grid. Away from the prison. For a while it kept us safe.â Doeyâs expression darkened. âBut now itâs failing.â
Nightwing immediately understood where this was going. âYou need me to get the Omni-Hand.â
Doey nodded. âIf weâre going to repair the generator, we need it. And if you want to put Red Smoke in the foundation, youâll need it too.â
Nightwing sighed. âYou know, I donât agree with Poppyâs plan.â
Doey blinked in surprise.
âItâs too risky,â Nightwing continued. âSheâs willing to put every toy in this place in danger just to kill the Prototype.â
âThe toys out there are my family,â Doey admitted quietly, his arms wrapping around himself. âI understand what Poppy wants. Destroy the factory. Destroy him. But it makes me wonder⌠if we throw everything away. Everyone. Just to kill the Prototype⌠how much do we waste?â
Nightwing nodded. âExactly.â
âThe others think burying everything is the only answer.â
âMaybe theyâre wrong.â Nightwing looked toward the door leading back to Safe Haven. âI have people on the surface. Good people. If we can get everyone out, weâll find another way.â
Doey studied him for several seconds before slowly nodding. âThank you.â
Nightwing looked surprised. âFor what?â
âFor remembering weâre still people.â
The words hit harder than Nightwing expected, and Doey smiled faintly. âHead to the infirmary when youâre ready. Thereâs a sewer passage that leads to No Manâs Land⌠and to him. If you need time first, Safe Havenâs yours too.â
âThanks, Doey.â
The dough creature straightened. âNo. Thank you.â
Nightwing patted his shoulder. âWeâll get everyone out of here. Somehow.â He turned to leave.
âNightwing?â Doey called out, causing Nightwing to look back. For a moment, he didnât understand, but then he did as Doey asked, âWhat was his name? Your brother.â
Nightwingâs expression softened. âBenjamin. Benjamin Grayson.â
Hope was dangerous, but still, Nightwing couldnât stop it. âThanks.â
Leaving the auxiliary room behind, he headed toward the infirmary. Along the way he passed several tents where toys quietly talked among themselves, and one conversation caught his attention. âPlease⌠do you have anything to eat?â The toy being asked shook their head, causing Nightwing to stop. Reaching into his utility belt, he searched through one of the smaller pouches. Batman would probably call it unnecessary, Alfred would call it preparedness, and Jason had spent years insisting emergency snacks were important.
Nightwing approached the group, and the toys immediately tensed up as he crouched down and offered several snack bars. âHere.â
The smallest toy stared at him, then at the food, then back at him before slowly accepting the bars. âThank you.â
Nightwing simply nodded. As he walked away, he glanced back once to see the toy already breaking the bars apart and sharing them with the others gathered around. A small smile appeared on Nightwingâs face, and then he continued on, leaving Safe Haven behind as he entered the sewer passage leading toward No Manâs Land.
Nightwing reached the gate leading into No Manâs Land and powered the control panel. The massive doors groaned open.
The moment they began to separate, a giant paw shot through the gap.
Nightwing threw himself backward just as claws sliced through the air where he had been standing. A familiar snarl echoed through the chamber.
âYarnaby.â
The creature forced its way through the opening, lowering its head and fixing Nightwing with an unblinking stare. Nightwing immediately spotted a side passage and bolted for it before the gate could fully open. Behind him, Yarnaby let out a roar and gave chase.
The next several minutes became a tense game of cat and mouse. Nightwing navigated abandoned maintenance corridors and power stations while trying to avoid the massive toy stalking him through the darkness. At one point he was forced to remain completely still while activating a series of power relays, listening as Yarnaby prowled nearby, sniffing the air for any sign of him.
Eventually, Nightwing reached what appeared to be a dead end.
Yarnaby emerged from the shadows.
The creature snarled and advanced slowly.
Nightwing reached for an escrima stick before freezing.
Something had fallen from his utility belt.
A torn pouch.
Dog treats.
Damian had insisted he carry them during patrols.
âYou never know when youâll find a dog.â
At the time Nightwing had laughed, now he silently thanked his youngest brother.
Yarnaby stopped. Its nose twitched. The snarling ceased as the creature lowered its head and sniffed at the treats scattered across the floor.
Nightwing stared.
Yarnaby cautiously picked one up and ate it.
Then another.
And another.
âYouâve got to be kidding me.â
Nightwing slowly crouched down and held out the remaining treats. For a moment Yarnaby simply stared at him. Then the creature carefully approached and ate from his hand. Nightwing let out a relieved breath and slowly reached up. Yarnaby allowed him to scratch around the head, and the giant monster immediately leaned into it.
âYep. Definitely Damianâs fault.â
By the time they left No Manâs Land together, Yarnaby followed beside him like an oversized guard dog.
They eventually encountered Doey working beside a large section of exposed piping.
âHey, Doey!â Nightwing called.
âOh, itâs youââ Doey froze. His eyes slowly shifted toward the massive rainbow-maned creature standing beside Nightwing. ââŚPal?â
Nightwing sighed. âThe Doctor conditioned him. Most of the aggression was learned behavior. Once he wasnât taking orders anymore, he calmed down.â
Yarnaby chose that moment to nudge Nightwingâs shoulder and demand another treat.
Doey blinked.
Several times.
âSo⌠no Doctor?â
âNot yet,â Nightwing admitted. âI was hoping you could take him back to Safe Haven while I keep looking. Somewhere Sawyer canât reach him.â
Doey looked between them before finally nodding. âI suppose we can try.â
Before either could say more, a pipe beside Doey suddenly burst. A freezing jet of vapor slammed into his back, instantly freezing him solid.
âDoey!â Nightwing rushed forward, quickly locating the emergency valve and forcing it shut. The stream stopped and the ice slowly began to melt.
âHurts hurts hurts hurts hurts,â Doey muttered as he dragged himself into a corner, Yarnaby immediately sat beside him.
After several moments, Doey finally regained enough composure to stand. âIâm okay,â he said. âMostly.â
Nightwing folded his arms. âYouâre taking Yarnaby home and taking a break.â
Doey laughed weakly. âBossy.â
âSays the giant sentient dough monster.â
Doey giggled.
A few minutes later, Nightwing left them behind and continued deeper into the facility.
The search for Harley Sawyer took hours. Throughout it all, the Doctorâs voice followed him through speakers, monitors, and intercom systems. Sometimes he taunted. Sometimes he asked questions. Sometimes he simply observed.
Nightwing continued finding reports on experiments throughout the facility.
Experiment numbers.
Medical notes.
Behavioral assessments.
Failed procedures.
Each report painted a clearer picture of what Playtime had done to the children trapped inside these bodies. Every new document made it harder for him to ignore the possibility of what might have happened to Benji.
The Doctorâs influence seemed woven into every corner of the prison. To stop him, Nightwing was forced to systematically destroy the machinery keeping him alive.
Lungs.
Organs.
Life support systems.
Each destroyed piece brought him closer to the source, and with every step, the weight of what he was doing grew heavier.
Harley Sawyer was a monster.
But he was still alive.
Eventually, Nightwing reached the center of it all. A massive machine. A preserved human brain suspended within a containment chamber.
The Doctor.
For the first time, the voice came directly from the room around him. âYouâve come very far, Richard Grayson.â
Nightwing immediately stiffened. âYou know who I am?â
âI know many things.â
The Doctor chuckled. âI know youâre looking for someone.â
Nightwingâs hand tightened around the controls. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âNo?â The Doctor sounded amused. âThen why carry that journal everywhere? The little notebook. The one that belonged to the child.â
Silence filled the room.
âI could help you find him.â
Nightwing didnât respond.
âI have records. Names. Procedures. Outcomes. Answers.â
For a moment, Nightwing hesitated. Then he noticed movement.
One of the Doctorâs television-headed servants creeping toward him from behind.
âYou destroy this machine and youâll never know what happened to your brother.â The Doctor continued speaking.
Nightwing looked from the robotâŚ
âŚto the brain.
Then he pressed the shutdown control.
The machine powered down.
Every robot in the room froze.
The Doctorâs voice crackled through the speakers.
âYou⌠saved⌠no oneâŚâ
The lights around the chamber dimmed.
Then the voice disappeared forever.
Nightwing stood silently for several seconds before turning and walking away.
A short time later he reached the facility that housed the Omni-Hand. After overcoming its security systems, he finally attached the device to his GrabPack.
The moment it activated, systems throughout the surrounding facility responded.
Doors unlocked.
Machinery awakened.
Control panels lit up.
Exactly what Doey had described.
Nightwing flexed his hand once before turning toward the path back to Safe Haven.
For the first time since entering the prison, he finally had what they needed.
When Nightwing returned to Safe Haven, he was greeted by an unexpected sight.
He couldnât help smiling as he watched the toys playing with Yarnaby. The giant lion-like toy was sprawled out on the floor while smaller toys climbed over him without fear.
âYou, you have it!â Poppyâs voice snapped him out of it. âThe Omni-Hand!â She hurried over, staring at the device attached to his GrabPack.
Nightwing gave a tired nod. âTold you Iâd get it.â
âThen we can do thisâŚâ Poppy said, practically vibrating with excitement. âYou have no idea what this means. Itâs⌠itâs everything!â
Nightwing immediately deflated. He knew exactly what she meant.
Poppy either didnât notice or chose not to. âCatch your breath. Doey and I will be in the generator room when youâre ready.â
As she walked away, Nightwing took the opportunity to check on everyone. DogDay was resting comfortably and surrounded by several toys who seemed relieved to see him awake. Kissy looked exhausted but was doing much better than before. Yarnaby immediately abandoned the group of toys the second he saw Nightwing and began nudging him insistently.
âNo, you already ate all the treats.â
Yarnaby huffed.
âThat was your fault.â
The toy looked entirely unconvinced.
Eventually, Nightwing made his way to the generator room. Both Poppy and Doey looked up when he entered.
âGood. Youâre here. Letâs get started.â Poppy stepped forward. âLosing the Doctor will have gotten the Prototypeâs attention. Heâll be scared. He knows heâs losing now, and he has nothing left.â She looked between them. âNowâs the time to get to the foundation. Make everything ready.â
Nightwing and Doey exchanged a look.
âPoppyââ
âThis is still a terrible idea.â
Both of them spoke at the same time.
Before either could continue, the nearby phone rang. Poppy immediately grabbed it. âOllie, you there? Whatâsââ
âHEâS OUTSIDE!!â
The panic in Ollieâs voice froze all three of them.
âOllie?â
âHEâS OUTSIDE!!â
Nobody needed clarification.
The Prototype.
Poppy immediately turned to Doey. âYou need to distract him. Keep him away from Safe Haven.â
âWithout the generatorââ Doey began.
âIâll fix it,â Nightwing interrupted. âBut the Prototype cannot get inside. No matter what.â
Doey hesitated before nodding. âRight.â Then he was gone.
Poppy turned toward the settlement. âIâm getting everyone somewhere safe. Ollie will help you with the generator.â
Nightwing gave her a confident grin. âHow hard can one generator be?â
The second she disappeared, he opened the maintenance panel.
His smile vanished.
The machine looked ancient.
âWhat am I even looking at?â After several seconds of staring, he picked up the phone. âOllie?â
âIâm here.â
âI need help.â
Thankfully, Ollie walked him through the repairs step by step. It took far longer than Nightwing wanted, but eventually the generator rumbled back to life.
For a moment there was silence.
Then Nightwing heard Ollie exhale heavily. âItâs done⌠We did it⌠GoodâŚâ
The line went dead.
Nightwing slowly lowered the phone.
Something about that felt wrong.
Very wrong.
Before he could dwell on it, Poppy entered the room. âYou did it. I⌠thank you isnât nearly enough.â
Nightwing shrugged. âJust doing what I do.â
Poppy released a breath she seemed to have been holding for hours. Then she frowned. âDoey isnât back.â
âHe mightâve run into trouble,â Nightwing said.
Poppy waved the concern away. âWe donât have time to wait anymore. You need to head to the foundation and plant the explosives.â
Nightwing stared at her. âPoppy.â
âNo.â
âYou didnât even let me finish.â
âI know what youâre going to say.â
Nightwing folded his arms. âThen you know this is a bad idea.â
âWe donât have another choice.â
âActually, we do.â
Poppyâs expression hardened.
Nightwing continued. âI can get help from the surface. Real help. We can evacuate everyone down here and deal with the Prototype without risking hundreds of lives.â
âYou just want more time.â
Nightwing stopped.
Poppy looked directly at him. âI heard Doey asking around.â
His stomach dropped.
âYour brother.â
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
âIf he really was one of the children here, then heâs probably dead.â
Nightwingâs jaw tightened.
âAnd if he became a toy?â Poppy continued. âThen he isnât here in Safe Haven. Which means heâs probably with the Prototype. Or one of the toys too far gone to save.â She hesitated. âIf thatâs the case⌠maybe putting him out of his misery would be kinder.â
The silence that followed was dangerous.
âYou have no idea what youâre talking about.â
Poppy blinked.
Nightwing stepped forward.
âIâve spent almost twenty years looking for him.â Another step.
âI finally found something.â Another.
âIf heâs dead, then I need to know." His voice cracked slightly.
âAnd if heâs alive?â He shook his head. âIâm not giving up on him.â
For several moments neither spoke.
Finally Nightwing looked away. âIâm going to check the exits. See if Doey needs help.â
The heavy door of the generator room clicked shut, leaving the echo of the argument behind as Nightwing walked away to cool down. He decided to clear his head by making the rounds along the perimeter, heading past the quiet tents toward the lower access tunnels.
A faint sound cut through the steady hum of the machinery, drifting from the darkness of the exit corridor.
"Is anybody there... help..."
Nightwing pulled up short, his hand instinctively dropping toward his belt. His first thought went to the families in the camp; it wouldn't be the first time a panicked survivor had lost their bearings in the dark. He stepped closer to the threshold, calling into the gloom. "Stay where you are. I can help you, just call out again."
The response that came back wasn't a standard cry for help. The voice drifted through the damp air using a specific, private nicknameâa word no one in this factory could possibly know, spoken with a familiar, hesitant inflection that made the air turn to ice in his lungs.
The world around him narrowed to a pinpoint. Every logical instinct told him it was a trap, an impossibility cooked up by the shadows, but the emotional reflex was too fast to contain.
"...Benji?" The name felt heavy, unfamiliar on his tongue after two decades of silence.
From somewhere deeper in the stone passages, the voice called out once more, sounding small, distant, and completely terrified.
The last remnants of his caution shattered. Nightwing moved forward, his steady stride breaking instantly into a desperate sprint as he plunged past the safety markers of Safe Haven. He tore through the twisting turns of the outer grid, the flashlight on his suit cutting erratic arcs across the wet stone walls.
"Benji! Keep talking to me!" he shouted, his voice echoing fiercely off the rock face. "Iâm tracking your voice! Just hold on, Iâm right here!"
He pushed himself faster, navigating the blind corners by sheer instinct, completely focused on the sound. Then, as abruptly as it had started, the audio trail went dead. The sudden silence in the tunnels was deafening, leaving nothing but the sound of his own breathing.
He didn't slow down. The momentum carried him forward until the narrow passage suddenly spilled out into a vast, shadow-drenched cavern. Ahead of him, the distinct scrape of gravel signaled movement in the dark.
"Benji, is that you?!" Nightwing called out, pressing forward into the open space.
Something grabbed him from behind. Nightwing spun instantly, escrima stick halfway drawn before he recognized Doey. The dough creature looked exhausted.
âThe PrototypeâŚâ Doey panted. âI lost track of him in the tunnels. Have you seen him?â
Nightwing shook his head. âNo. I thought I heard somebody calling for help.â
Doey blinked. âCalling for help?â
Nightwing nodded. âA voice. It led me down here.â
Doey looked genuinely confused. âW-what? Whatâs going on? Heâs⌠I led him away, didnât I? The generatorâs fine, itâsââ
An explosion cut him off, causing the entire cavern to shake. Both of them turned toward Safe Haven.
âOh no.â
Doey immediately launched himself into one of the tubes.
Nightwing ran.
The closer he got to Safe Haven, the more wrong everything felt. Fresh blood stained the ground. Pieces of debris littered hallways that had been intact less than an hour ago.
Then he heard a cry.
Doey.
Nightwing pushed himself faster.
Bodies began appearing. Toy corpses. Broken limbs. Blood. One of them was the toy heâd given his snack bars to earlier. Nightwing felt his stomach drop but forced himself to keep moving.
When he finally reached Safe Haven, the sight nearly stopped him cold.
It was gone.
The tents were destroyed. The walls were shattered. The floor was covered in rubble, blood, and bodies.
In the middle of it all stood Doey.
âIâm sorryâŚâ he whispered. âIâm so, SO sorry. I failed you.â
Nightwing slowly approached while Doey stared at the destruction around him.
âMy fault. My fault.â
His voice changed.
âHurt.â
Nightwing stopped.
âEverything hurts.â
The anger in his voice made Nightwing tense.
âHurt back. ALWAYS hurt back.â Doey growled low in his throat. âParents. Scientists. Everyone. Have toââ
He cut himself off, suddenly breaking down again. Tears streamed down his face as he looked at the dead toys around him.
Then he froze. His head snapped upward and a trembling hand pointed directly at Nightwing.
âYou.â
Nightwing slowly stepped back.
âIt all started with you. You and her.â His voice became furious. âIt was YOU who ruined everything!!â
Then suddenly he slapped himself. âNo. No, thatâs not true. He jumpstarted the generator. HeâŚâ
Doeyâs expression twisted. He slapped himself again. âDestroyed everything!! Iâll kill you!â
His body began expanding, stretching and growing as more arms erupted from his form. His cheerful appearance vanished beneath a monstrous mass of dough and limbs.
Then he lunged.
Nightwing turned and ran.
The chase led into an abandoned excavation site. Doey smashed through walls and machinery while Nightwing searched desperately for a way to stop him without killing him. A freezing capsule caught his eye. Nightwing grabbed it and threw.
The capsule burst against Doeyâs chest, and ice spread instantly. Doey froze just long enough for Nightwing to drop a heavy piece of equipment onto him, pinning him beneath it.
âDoey!â Nightwing shouted. âListen to me!â
âLIAR!â Doey tore himself free, and the chase continued.
Again and again Nightwing used freezing capsules and collapsing machinery to slow him down. Again and again he tried talking. Doey either screamed threats, cursed him, or broke down crying over the toys he couldnât save.
Eventually Doey collapsed unconscious.
Nightwing didnât wait around, he ran.
The tunnels eventually led him into a large chamber dominated by an enormous machine hanging from the ceiling. A door waited on the far side.
Nightwing had almost reached it when something grabbed him. He was lifted completely off the ground.
âYOU!â Doey screamed. âYOU AND POPPY!! ITâS ALL YOUR FAULT!!â
One of his massive arms slammed into a control panel, the machine overhead roared to life.
Another arm struck a freezing capsule, it exploded directly against Doeyâs side.
The giant creature cried out and dropped Nightwing.
âDoey!â Nightwing yelled, backing away from the spinning machine overhead. âThis isnât you! None of this is your fault!â
Nightwingâs eyes widened. At the last second he lunged forward, grabbed Doey, and threw both of them out of the way.
The machine crashed into the floor with a deafening boom.
Dust filled the room.
Silence followed.
Then sobbing.
Nightwing turned just to see Doey sat on the floor crying.
âI tried to be better,â he whispered. âTo be who they needed.â
Nightwing slowly approached.
âNot smart enough. Not good enough. NOTââ
Before he could continue, Nightwing wrapped his arms around him.
Doey froze.
Nightwing held on.
âYou did everything you could,â he said quietly. âYou protected them. You gave them a home. You gave them hope. None of this is on you.â
Doeyâs entire body trembled.
âI-IâŚâ His voice broke. âIâm sorry.â
Nightwing tightened the hug slightly.
âI know.â
Doey finally relaxed.
The tension drained from his body. Slowly he shrank back into his normal form and remained sitting there while the two talked.
When they eventually stood, Doey glanced at the machine that had nearly crushed him.
âThank you,â he said quietly.
Nightwing nodded. âWe should look for survivors.â
Doey agreed. The two split up, heading in opposite directions.
After several steps Doey stopped. ââŚSorry. For trying to kill you.â
Nightwing couldnât help laughing. âYouâre forgiven.â
Doey managed a weak smile before disappearing down another tunnel.
Nightwing continued searching.
After a while, Nightwing heard movement inside a vent. Following the sound led him to a chute that suddenly gave way beneath him. He slid down and crashed into a shelf-like ventilation compartment.
Kissy and Poppy were already there, with Poppy clutching the phone. âOllie! Ollie! Can you hear me?! Ollie?!â Only static answered. Then she noticed Nightwing, and immediately her face darkened. âYou. What did you do?!â
Nightwing stared at her. âI had nothing to do with this.â
âThe Prototype, heâŚâ Poppy stopped and took a shaky breath. âIf youâd listened to me, none of this wouldâve happened.â
Nightwingâs jaw tightened. âAnd if Iâd planted the explosives, he wouldâve taken those too. He still got inside, Poppy.â
Nightwing immediately felt the same unease heâd felt during the generator call.
âIs this where you are, Poppy?â Ollie asked.
âWhat?â
âStay where you are⌠and listen closely.â The next voice wasnât Ollieâs, or maybe it was. Several voices seemed layered together, changing constantly.
âYou are not going to run. You are not going to fight. The charade is over.â
Kissy began trembling violently.
âWho⌠who is this?â Poppy asked.
âAn obvious question with an obvious answer.â
Nightwingâs blood ran cold.
The Prototype.
âYouâŚâ Poppy hissed. âWhat did you do with Ollie?â
âI am right here, Poppy. For you, Iâll ALWAYS be here.â Ollieâs voice returned briefly before dissolving back into the shifting chorus.
Poppyâs anger exploded. She listed every ally the Prototype had lost: the Doctor, CatNap, Mommy, Huggy. She told him he had nothing left.
The Prototype remained silent until she finished.
âStop that.â The simple words immediately shut her up. âYou donât need to pretend anymore, Poppy. You can come home.â
Poppy visibly recoiled. âHow much do you know?â
âEverything.â
The phone slipped slightly in her grip.
Around them, heavy sounds echoed through the walls, like something massive was moving.
âLet me tell you what comes next,â the Prototype continued. âIâm going to come up there, and Iâm going to find you. Your collaboration, the few you have left, they will be dealt with.â
Nightwing instinctively scanned the room.
Poppyâs voice shook. âWhat are you going to do to me?â
âI have something special prepared for you. This time youâll never want to leave it.â
Poppy started trembling.
He meant another case.
âIâve taken the liberty of collecting the explosives from the mines,â the Prototype continued. âThough perhaps it wouldâve been better if your angel had gathered them and carried them to the foundation. This works as well.â Nightwing went still. Heâd been right. It never wouldâve mattered. The Prototype wouldâve gotten the explosives either way. âI put them to good use.â
Safe Haven.
The explosion.
The bodies.
Poppyâs eyes filled with panic.
âItâs time to come home, Poppy.â
âI canâtâŚâ she whispered.
Nightwing crouched beside her. âPoppy, look at me. Donât listen to him.â
She did.
For a moment.
Then she shook her head. âI canât go back in that case. I canâtâŚâ Tears filled her eyes. âIâm sorry.â
She lunged instantly, grabbing Nightwing as the ventilation shaft collapsed. One hand caught the remaining ledge while the other held Nightwing suspended over the abyss.
For one brief moment they held.
Then there was a tearing sound and Kissyâs injured arm ripped free.
Nightwing fell.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
And here we have chapter 5, now this will be the last chapter that correlates to the in game chapters, the next chapter (chapter, not interlude) will be original, and most probably the last
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠CHAPTER IV | ⧠INTERLUDE IV | ⧠CHAPTER V
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???'S POV:
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The laughter echoing through the halls of Home Sweet Home had long since faded into the quiet murmur of children settling into bed for the night. Most of the lights had been dimmed, leaving only the warm glow of a small lamp outside each doorway to illuminate the corridors. Behind one of those doors, tucked safely away from the chaos of the larger dormitories, Benji sat cross-legged atop his neatly made bed.
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The room was small but entirely his own.
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It had not always been that way. Too many of the other children had tried to take Sammy from him, fascinated by the colorful little bird that never seemed to leave his side, until eventually one of the caretakers had decided it would simply be easier to give Benji his own space. He had been grateful for it, even if the quiet sometimes made him miss the circus even more.
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Sammy rested beside him now, perched patiently on the blanket as Benji bent over the small journal balanced across his knees. His tongue poked slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration while the pencil moved slowly across the page, every letter carefully formed with practiced precision. Occasionally he would stop, staring at the words for several seconds before adding another sentence, pressing just a little harder whenever emotions threatened to spill into the graphite.
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Sometimes he wrote about his day.
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Sometimes he wrote about things he remembered.
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And sometimes he filled entire pages with letters addressed to people he knew would never read them.
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He wrote about the trapeze swings.
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About the smell of popcorn drifting through the tents.
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About the games he used to play with the other performers before the audience arrived.
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He wrote about the brother he hoped was still looking for him somewhere out there.
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The thoughts settled into neat little rows of handwriting as the pencil scratched softly across the paper, one of the only sounds in the room besides Sammyâs occasional chirp.
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A gentle knock came from the doorway.
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Benji looked up quickly. Standing there was a man he recognized immediately, though not from Home Sweet Home. Unlike the colorful uniforms worn by the caretakers, this visitor wore pressed black trousers, a crisp dress shirt, and a long white coat that reached almost to his knees. His expression was warm and welcoming, the same gentle smile Benji remembered from the night of the circus.
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âMister Pierre.â
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âThere you are,â the man said softly. âHow are you feeling today?â
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Benji shrugged, still clutching the journal against his lap.
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Pierre noticed and stepped inside without hurry, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed while leaving plenty of space between them.
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âWhat are you writing?â
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âLetters.â
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âTo who?â
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âMy brother.â
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Pierreâs smile never disappeared, though something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. âI imagine heâd like to read them someday.â
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Benji looked down at the pages. âI hope so.â
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For a moment neither of them spoke. The quiet wasnât uncomfortable, only heavy with thoughts too big for a child to explain.
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Eventually Pierre stood and extended a hand toward him.
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âI actually came to bring you in for a checkup.â
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Benji blinked. âBut I feel okay.â
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âI know,â Pierre replied gently. âItâs only to make sure you stay that way. Every child here has them.â
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The explanation seemed simple enough.
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Benji carefully closed the journal with both hands before sliding it beneath the mattress, pushing it as far underneath as he could until it disappeared from sight.
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Pierre tilted his head slightly.
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âWhy hide it?â
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âSo the other kids donât take it.â
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âA wise precaution.â
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Satisfied that it was safe, Benji climbed down from the bed and slipped his small hand into Pierreâs.
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The pair had barely reached the doorway before Benji suddenly froze.
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âWait.â
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He let go and hurried back into the room, crossing straight to the pillow where Sammy still sat waiting. Scooping the little bird into his arms, he hugged him tightly before running back toward the hall.
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Pierreâs attention lingered on the toy for a moment longer than necessary.
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When Benji looked up at him, the man simply smiled again. âReady now?â
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Benji nodded.
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He took Pierreâs hand once more.
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Together they stepped into the hallway, passing beneath the dim lights while the sounds of distant conversations echoed through Home Sweet Home. Other children peeked from half-open doors before disappearing again, and caretakers continued their nightly routines without paying the pair much attention.
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Hand in hand, the little boy and the man in the white coat walked toward the exit.
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Benji believed he was simply going for a routine checkup.
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He never looked back toward the room where his journal remained hidden beneath the mattress, waiting patiently for the day someone would finally find it.
The corridors of the Counselorâs Office were silent once again.
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Only the lingering haze of Red Smoke drifted lazily through the air where the intruder had disappeared moments before.
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Perched atop a broken filing cabinet near the ceiling, hidden among cracked ventilation ducts and hanging cables, the figure watched the empty hallway without moving. His glowing eyes remained fixed on the place where the human had vanished until even the sound of footsteps had faded away.
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Slowly, he lowered his gaze.
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Clutched carefully beneath one taloned foot was the discarded gas mask.
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He hooked the damaged strap with a claw and lifted it into the air, rotating it from side to side. Deep grooves ran across the front where CatNapâs claws had raked through the plastic, one strike tearing straight across the visor. Another inch lower and the attack would have carved through flesh instead.
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The bird stared at the ruined mask for a long time.
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The human should have died.
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CatNap had almost reached him.
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Why had he�
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His head tilted.
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A quiet click escaped his beak.
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Then, in the voice of a woman he no longer remembered, soft and patient:
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âGood people help people.â
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Silence returned.
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His feathers shifted uneasily.
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Another voice emerged, this one deeper, spoken with firm certainty.
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âKill everyone.â
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The words lingered in the empty hallway.
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The bird looked back toward the corridor where the intruder had gone.
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His eyes narrowed.
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Then another borrowed sentence surfaced, carrying the unmistakable voice of a little porcelain doll.
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âHeâs here to save us.â
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The bird froze.
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He repeated nothing after that.
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Only watched.
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Only listened.
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Eventually he lowered the damaged mask once more, hopping down from the cabinet and making his way to an overturned desk pushed against the wall. Using his beak, he tugged open one of the warped drawers and carefully tucked the ruined mask inside before nudging it shut again.
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For reasons he could not explain, he wanted to keep it.
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With one final glance toward the empty hallway, the figure turned and silently disappeared into the maze of vents overhead, leaving the hidden drawer and its strange little treasure behind.
And here we have interlude 4, had a little trouble deciding deciding on what to do for this interlude, but managed eventually
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠INTERLUDE III | ⧠CHAPTER IV | ⧠INTERLUDE IV
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 NIGHTWING'S POV:
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The heavy darkness broke apart as Nightwing regained consciousness to the unmistakable sensation of being dragged across a rough floor. Before his combat training could override the disorientation, the movement abruptly stopped, and his body weight shifted as he was dropped into a steep maintenance chute. He twisted mid-air, his armor scraping against smooth plastic, and looked upward just in time to see a massive, smiling purple feline face with glowing white eyes peering down from the rim before the darkness swallowed him completely.
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He plummeted through the vertical pipe, utilizing his core strength to stabilize his descent until he launched out of the opening and landed hard on the rusted metal floor of what appeared to be an inactive trash compactor. He quickly scanned the enclosure, spotting a jagged breach in the far wall, and scrambled through the tight opening just as a faint mechanical groan echoed behind him. Navigating through a labyrinth of forgotten maintenance corridors and narrow ventilation shafts required every bit of his acrobatic skill, forcing him to vault over split pipes and execute precise wall-jumps to scale vertical concrete gaps.
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The silence of the lower levels was suddenly shattered by the sharp, electronic ring of a nearby telephone resting on a security desk. Nightwing approached the console cautiously, keeping his fingers near his unholstered escrima sticks, before picking up the receiver and placing it to his ear.
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"HeyâŚ. Hey, can you hear me?" a childâs voice asked from the other side of the line.
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"I can hear you," Nightwing replied, his tone guarded as his eyes swept the dark corners of the room. "Who is this?"
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"You look kind of lost," the voice continued, completely ignoring his question. Nightwing frowned, glancing up at the darkened security cameras and wondering if this child had active eyes on his position. "I donât want you to die, so Iâm going to help you!"
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Nightwing opened his mouth to press for a location, but the kid cut him off eagerly. "Check this out!"
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A heavy, industrial battery cell dropped from an overhead pneumatic tube, landing on the desk with a dull thud. "You can use this battery to open the door," the voice instructed.
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"Great, a corporate scavenger hunt," Nightwing muttered, inspecting the heavy casing before lifting it with the GrabPack's green hand. He slotted the power cell into a recessed wall receptacle beside the exit. The thick cables running from the socket to the door frame immediately hummed to life, glowing a vibrant blue as the hydraulic locks disengaged and allowed the heavy security door to slide upward.
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Stepping through the threshold, he found himself standing on a vast network of subterranean train tracks. To his left lay the scattered, twisted ruins of the transit cart he had been riding hours before, its metal frame entirely crushed from the derailment.
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"Woah! Did you do that?" the child questioned through the receiver. "I guess thatâs where CatNap found you."
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Nightwing surveyed the wreckage, checking the perimeter for structural stability. "The crash wasn't my choice, but I walked away from it. This CatNap creature must have dragged me down here while I was blacked out."
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"I know youâre probably mad at Poppy for not letting you leave, but she needs you. We need you," the child said, his voice dropping into a earnest plea.
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Nightwing remained silent, his jaw tightening at the mention of the porcelain doll. The sting of her betrayal still burned, and he had no intention of being used as a pawn by another living toy, regardless of what this new voice claimed. He turned away from the wreckage and began walking down the tracks to the right, his boots crunching against the gravel.
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The child continued to speak, explaining that the tracks led directly to Playcare, which served as the hunting grounds for CatNap. He described the creature as the final remaining member of the Smiling Critters line, warning Nightwing that the giant feline actively patrolled the dark sectors of the orphanage. "Oh, and by the way, my name is Ollie. Nice to meet you," the boy added, and the line abruptly went dead.
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Nightwing secured the portable receiver to his utility belt, checking the frequency parameters. He harbored a deep, instinctual suspicion toward this mysterious guide, finding it entirely impossible to trust a random voice on a phone after what Poppy had done. It felt wrong to doubt a child, but the detective in him couldn't ignore the logical contradiction: a normal kid could never survive in the deep foundations of a closed factory surrounded by hostile entities.
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He continued down the tracks until the tunnel expanded into a wider station platform housing a rusted gondola lift. Before stepping inside the transport vehicle, his tactical flashlight illuminated a large, colorful cardboard standee shaped like a cheerful blue bird with vibrant red wings and a bright yellow belly. A printed arrow on the cardboard pointed toward a prominent red button labeled 'PRESS HERE.'
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Curious if the device contained any automated logs, Nightwing pressed the button. A high-pitched, incredibly loud voice blared from the internal speaker. "Hiya friend! Iâm Cheery Chirp! Perch me anywhere and Iâll keep you company!"
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Nightwing shifted his stance slightly, his ears ringing from the aggressive cheerfulness of the audio. "Well, you're definitely louder than Batman," he muttered to the empty room.
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He pressed the button a second time, hoping for a secondary corporate disclaimer or a hidden audio log. "Cheery Chirp loves repeating his friends! Say something fun!" the toy chirped back.
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Nightwing leaned closer, examining the seams of the plastic cutout. "Let's see if your programmers left any corporate backdoors in your memory drive."
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He hit the button a third time. "Cheery Chirp is always nearby!" the voice stated, though the audio suddenly began to stutter, the cheerful pitch dropping into a distorted, mechanical drone. "...always nearby."
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"Right, because that's not unsettling at all," Nightwing said, stepping away from the glitching cardboard display. He left the cutout behind and climbed into the narrow cabin of the gondola lift, pulling the safety gate shut.
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As the lift engaged and began to glide smoothly down a steep, descending tunnel, an old television monitor mounted in the corner of the cabin flickered to life. The black-and-white broadcast featured Elliot Ludwig, the eccentric founder of Playtime Co. Nightwing focused his attention on the screen, logging the dates and names mentioned in the footage, but the historical data became background noise as the gondola suddenly exited the narrow tunnel and broke out into an immense underground cavern.
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The sheer, staggering scale of the subterranean space was breathtaking, easily rivaling the structural dimensions of the Batcave back in Gotham. Directly ahead of the tracks stood a colossal metal dome embedded into the stone foundations of the mountain, the gondola line heading straight toward a circular breach in its armored shell. On the television speaker, Ludwig's voice drifted back into focus, discussing the company's social responsibilities. "...These children deserve to smile, they deserve to love, and they deserve a safe home."
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The transport vehicle passed cleanly through the opening of the dome, and the view inside caused Nightwing to halt his physical checks entirely. The interior walls of the massive structure were meticulously painted to resemble a bright fake sky, complete with overhead spotlights that simulated an artificial sun and giant painted clouds suspended from the high ceiling framework. Below the artificial atmosphere lay a fully realized miniature town, featuring stylized residential buildings, a school, and a playground arranged along a circular street system that intersected at a grand monument in the center. The presentation was clearly designed to look welcoming, but the absolute silence of the empty streets gave the underground orphanage a deeply macabre, synthetic atmosphere.
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"PLAYCARE!" the recorded voice of Elliot Ludwig announced proudly from the monitor. "Our very own onsite orphanage."
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Nightwing watched the empty playgrounds rotate into view as the gondola began a wide, sweeping circular descent to reach the cavern floor. The broadcast detailed the various specialized facilities hidden within the dome, framing the entire project as a sanctuary where children could belong. "For what gives life a meaning, if not a smile?" the founder concluded as the television screen snapped back to static.
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The gondola came to a smooth halt at the primary platform, and the automated doors slid open. Nightwing stepped out cautiously, his hand resting on his belt as he scanned the fake horizon. The sudden, loud ring of his belt communicator broke his concentration, and he quickly pulled the receiver free to answer.
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"Pssst. Itâs me again, Ollie," the kid's voice whispered through the static. "Cool place, right?"
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Nightwing looked at the rusted swing sets and the peeling paint of the nearby facades. "It looks like a ghost town built inside a survival bunker, Ollie. It's definitely something."
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"The kids used to live here. Now look at it," Ollie murmured, a brief note of sadness entering his tone. The guide then directed him to navigate toward the maintenance access room located directly beneath the central statue in the middle of the courtyard, explaining that the terminal housed the primary security overrides and would yield a necessary access key.
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Following the directional coordinates, Nightwing sprinted across the vacant square, keeping low to avoid exposing himself to the high windows of the surrounding structures. He slipped into the concrete maintenance hatch beneath the monument, finding himself in a cramped security outpost filled with dead monitors. A sharp mechanical click echoed through the room as a heavy brass key dropped out of a overhead localized pneumatic tube.
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He retrieved the key, checking its serial number against his gauntlet's database. "Got the key. Where to next, Ollie?"
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"Great! Now head out and find the reinforced security door located just to the right of the gondola lift platform," Ollie instructed. "That leads to the primary infrastructure."
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Nightwing retraced his steps across the courtyard, unlocking the designated door with the brass key and proceeding down a long, sterile concrete corridor. The passage eventually terminated at the entrance of a massive, industrial chamber that housed a colossal, multi-tiered compression system. Three towering glass cylinders dominated the center of the room, though only the tube on the far right was actively filled with a dense, swirling crimson vapor.
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"Welcome to the Gas Production Zone," Ollie announced as Nightwing stepped onto the observation platform.
Nightwing stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the chemical hazard symbols stamped on the tanks. "The what Zone? What exactly are they manufacturing down here?"
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"The beating heart of the whole evil Playcare system," Ollie explained simply, ignoring the tactical question. "The gas is made right here in the factory. Its name is 'Red Smoke.' Right now, itâs all headed off to the right. We need to make that smoke go left instead. Thatâs how we can get to him."
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The child told him to search the perimeter for a secondary power routing terminal to jumpstart the valves, hanging up the phone before Nightwing could demand further breakdown on the toxin's chemical composition.
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"Right, because turning on unknown chemical machinery always goes well," Nightwing muttered, moving toward the primary distribution grid. He utilized his technological training to bypass the broken safety relays, matching the circuit frequencies with his GrabPack hands until the auxiliary power lines sparked back to life.
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Returning to the main station console, he pressed the large manual activation button. The heavy machinery roared to life with a deep hydraulic throb, and Nightwing watched closely as the crimson vapor began to drain from the right cylinder, transferring steadily into the central holding tank. The middle tube filled completely, but just as the automated system prepared to divert the flow into the final left cylinder, a loud electrical pop echoed through the framework, and the entire facility was instantly plunged into absolute darkness.
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The belt communicator rang immediately, its screen illuminating the dark room. Nightwing snapped it up. "Ollie! What just happened? The grid completely blew out from the outside."
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"Oh no! Someone just killed the power," Ollie cried, his voice laced with sudden panic.
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Nightwing's fingers dropped to his escrima sticks, his eyes adjusting to the deep shadows of the industrial bay. "Who has the clearance to cut a backup grid this deep down? Is CatNap controlling the power distribution?"
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The child didn't answer his question, rushing through the next set of instructions. "I sent another key down to the tube under the statue. Use it to get into Home Sweet Home. And once youâre inside, find the buildingâs backup generator." The boy wished him luck before the connection went completely dead.
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Nightwing pocketed the receiver and moved swiftly back toward the exit door, his visor shifting into low-light extraction mode. He knew that an intentional power blackout was the textbook setup for a tactical ambush, and as he prepared to head back out into the open courtyard to retrieve the second key, he was fully aware that whatever was hunting this sector was likely waiting for him in the dark.
The key slid into the rusted lock with a reluctant click, and the heavy doors of Home Sweet Home groaned open just enough for Nightwing to slip inside. Beyond them, another staircase descended beneath the building, disappearing into darkness broken only by the faint emergency lights still clinging to life.
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The air changed almost immediately. It was heavier, warmer, carrying with it a faint chemical sting that settled uncomfortably in the back of his throat. By the time he reached the hallway below, he could already see crimson vapor drifting through the corridor ahead, hanging low across the floor before rising to swallow the ceiling.
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Red Smoke.
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Nightwing quietly cursed himself for not bringing his rebreather.
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Holding one arm over his nose and mouth out of instinct more than effectiveness, he stepped into the haze. The smoke burned faintly with every breath, irritating his lungs and making his eyes sting, but there was no other path forward. He kept moving until he found another staircase leading downward, and by the time he reached the bottom the concentration of gas had thinned enough that he could breathe without coughing.
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The relief was short-lived. The deeper he ventured into Home Sweet Home, the stranger everything became. Childrenâs drawings decorated the walls, but many had been scratched through or painted over with frantic messages and crude symbols. Tiny handprints stained the doors, furniture had been overturned years ago and never righted, and the entire place looked as though everyone had simply vanished in the middle of their daily lives.
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A radio suddenly crackled to life somewhere nearby.
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Nightwing froze.
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Static gave way to the calm voice of a news anchor.
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ââŚthe body of a child has been recovered from the residence of the late Elliot LudwigâŚâ
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Following the sound, he entered a small lounge where an old radio sat alone on a dusty shelf, still somehow broadcasting after all these years.
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ââŚauthorities report that several parts of the remains appear to be missingâŚâ
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His jaw tightened as he listened.
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The report continued for only a few more moments before dissolving into harsh static that filled the room.
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Then another sound replaced it.
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A telephone.
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The shrill ringing echoed through the hallway.
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Nightwing immediately recognized that it was not coming from the communicator clipped to his belt. He followed the sound into a nearby office where an old rotary phone rested on a desk, still functional despite decades of neglect.
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The ringing stopped the instant he lifted the receiver.
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âYou need to run!â
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Ollieâs voice burst through the speaker before Nightwing could say a single word.
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He immediately straightened.
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Movement flashed at the edge of his vision.
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Nightwing turned just in time to catch sight of the same giant purple face he had seen before being dropped down the chute. It peeked around the corner for only a second before disappearing again.
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Having nowhere else to go, Nightwing hurried back into the hallway, but by the time he reached the intersection the creature was gone.
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He continued searching for another exit as the atmosphere around him grew steadily more unsettling. Giant claw marks carved through the walls and floor, some deep enough to gouge through solid concrete. Heavy footsteps echoed somewhere nearby, accompanied by violent banging that rattled distant doors, though whenever he tried to locate the source the sounds seemed to shift somewhere else.
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Eventually he reached what appeared to have once been an infirmary.
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An old television sat against one wall displaying nothing but static.
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Beside it rested a videotape.
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Curiosity won as he slid the tape into the player.
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The screen flickered to life, revealing what looked like an orientation video for new Playcare employees. Huggy Wuggy waved cheerfully from the screen while a narrator welcomed new staff to the facility.
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Then the image distorted.
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Huggyâs smile stretched wider. Its mouth opened impossibly far. Rows of jagged teeth filled the screen.
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âMay you descend into the dark and the dust,â the narrator continued pleasantly.
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Nightwing instinctively backed away as the picture warped again.
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âFinding all that awaits you are incomprehensible horrorsâŚâ
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The image sharpened with Huggy staring directly at him.
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Then the final words came.
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âWelcome home.â
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An alarm blared throughout the room.
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The television exploded outward.
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A massive yellow hand connected to a blue arm reached through the shattered screen.
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Nightwing cursed loudly and immediately ran.
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Heavy footsteps thundered after him as something impossibly fast closed the distance. He pushed himself harder, boots pounding against the floor, but it was not enough.
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A giant hand wrapped around his torso and violently pulled him backward.
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For one impossible second he found himself face to face with a nightmare version of Huggy Wuggy.
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Then everything went black.
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When he opened his eyes again, he was lying alone on the dusty floor.
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No monster.
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No broken television.
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Only silence.
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Nightwing slowly pushed himself up from the cold concrete, his gauntlets pressing into a thick layer of undisturbed dust. He checked his vital telemetry through his cowlâs internal display, noting that his respiration and heart rate were steady despite the chemical spikes in his system. The terrifying vision of the giant toy was gone, leaving nothing but an empty, silent corridor behind.
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"An illusion," he muttered, shaking his head to clear the remaining mental fog. "The gas acts as a localized hallucinogen. It preys on systemic fears."
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Now grounded back in reality, he stood up and began a tactical sweep of the genuine Home Sweet Home facility. Navigating the quiet rooms, he discovered an industrial storage locker containing a heavy-duty, filter-equipped gas mask designed for hazardous facility maintenance. He examined the seal and structural integrity of the rubber, determining that the military-grade filtration system would successfully neutralize the airborne contaminants of the Red Smoke if he encountered another high-density pocket.
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He moved deeper into the residential sectors of the orphanage, logging the architectural layout for his database. The building was vast, divided into specialized sections including abandoned play structures, barren learning centers, and a stark nursing ward lined with rows of rusted iron cribs. Eventually, the corridor opened into a massive communal dormitory packed with closely spaced bed frames, a visual testament to the sheer number of children who had been housed beneath the factory floor.
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Branching off from the main ward were smaller, private quarters intended for single occupants. Investigating one of them he found against one wall sat a narrow bed. Beside it remained a few carefully folded articles of childrenâs clothing, and covering much of the room were colorful drawings depicting a bright circus beneath blue skies where three figures soared high above the crowd.
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His chest tightened for reasons he couldnât explain.
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Nightwingâs sweep of the rest of the room uncovered a small, leather-bound journal tucked beneath a decayed mattress. Hoping to find recorded logs or personal insights regarding the daily operations of the facility, he opened the weathered pages.
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The text lacked a formal name entry, only page after page of childish handwriting, he started reading, the details contained within the personal entries caused him to freeze completely.
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His heartbeat slowed.
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Then nearly stopped altogether.
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âI still sleep with Sammy every night. One boy wanted to borrow him but I said no because Sammy belongs with me. Dicky gave him to me when there was a really loud storm and I wouldnât stop crying.â
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âSome of the kids donât remember where they came from anymore. I donât want to forget. My momâs hair smelled nice after shows, and Dad could catch me every time. Dicky said one day Iâd fly too.â
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âSometimes I think if I practice enough, Dicky will come back and see I can fly by myself. I found some bars in the playground and I can swing between them almost without falling.â
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Every new page made the impossible feel more real.
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His fingers trembled.
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âNoâŚâ
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He turned another page.
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âI had a dream that Dicky called me Chickadee again. When I woke up nobody was there.â
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Then another.
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âDear Dicky,
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Iâm four now. Maybe when you find me Iâll be big enough to fly with you after all.â
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The conclusion became unavoidable.
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His little brother had been here.
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Benji had lived in this room.
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Nightwing simply stood there, unable to move as twenty years of unanswered questions crashed into him all at once. If Benji had survived the circus, if he had been brought here, then what happened afterward? Had he escaped? Had someone rescued him? Or had he become another victim of whatever horrors still wandered this place?
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His hands began to tremble slightly against his tactical armor as his analytical mind fought to process the implications. "This is impossible," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly in the empty room.
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He immediately searched every drawer, every cabinet, every inch of the room.
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Nothing.
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Only forgotten clothes, faded drawings, and memories.
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Very carefully, he fastened the journal beneath one of the utility straps hanging from his belt.
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âIâll come back for the rest,â he whispered quietly.
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The promise was not for himself.
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It was for Benji.
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A sudden, sharp metallic scraping sound from the corridor outside snapped him back into absolute combat readiness. Nightwing immediately suppressed his emotional reaction, the discovery fundamentally altered the scope of his mission; he was no longer just conducting a standard missing person inquiry. He was tracking his brother's ghost.
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Determined to find the building's infrastructure and answers, he accelerated his pace through the remaining residential wings. He passed through several localized chambers heavily saturated with swirling pockets of Red Smoke, relying entirely on the newly acquired gas mask to preserve his equilibrium. His persistent search eventually led him to the sub-level utility room, where the facilityâs heavy backup generator sat idle.
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He operated the manual transfer switches, throwing his weight against the primary breaker lever until the massive diesel engine roared to life with a deep, rhythmic vibration that pulsed through the concrete floorboards. With the localized power grid restored, he navigated through a rear service exit lined with raw brick masonry, discovering a small freight elevator at the end of the passage.
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The lift carried him back up to the primary reception lobbyâthe very same chamber that had previously been choked with the hallucinogenic gas. The automated ventilation systems powered by the generator had already scrubbed the air completely clear, leaving the exit path unobstructed.
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Nightwing marched up the entrance stairs and pushed through the heavy external doors, stepping back out onto the dark porch of Home Sweet Home. The massive artificial dome of Playcare remained cast in deep shadow due to the primary grid failure, but he kept his eyes locked on the central monument, advancing toward the statue to await the next radio transmission from his guide.
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Before he had taken more than a dozen steps away from the porch, something enormous slammed into him from behind and sent him crashing onto the pavement.
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Instinct took over.
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One escrima stick was already in his hand before he had even rolled onto his back.
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Towering above him stood another gigantic toy.
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Huggy Wuggy
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Before he could strike, another voice interrupted.
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âNO, NO! LET GO!â Poppy rushed between them, throwing herself directly in front of the larger figure. âThey didnât do anything wrong! Weâre actually here to help.â
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The towering toy froze.
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Only then did Nightwing properly notice the long eyelashes and frightened posture. Rather than aggression, the creature seemed almost anxious.
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âThis place makes her tenseâŚâ Poppy explained.
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Nightwing finally recognized the doll and fixed her with an icy glare.
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âIâm glad that Ollie could get you this far. Heâs the reason we found you at all.â
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âYou have a strange way of helping people,â Nightwing replied flatly.
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The pink toy hugged herself while Poppy climbed onto her shoulder, whispering soft reassurances that slowly calmed her trembling.
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âLooks like the train crash hurt us bothâŚâ Poppy said quietly.
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Nightwingâs glare only sharpened.
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âYou deserve an explanation.â
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They began walking together until they reached a maintenance panel hidden in one of the walls. Poppy opened it and pulled a lever inside, causing a platform nearby to rise from the floor. Once they were aboard and it began carrying them upward, she looked back toward him.
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âListen⌠Iâm not your enemy.â
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âYou drove a train off the rails,â Nightwing answered.
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âBut I canât just let you leave. Whatâs happening down here is bigger than all of us. And I need you⌠so we can get revenge on those monsters whoâve hurt you, whoâve hurt us.â
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She spoke of another being.
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The Prototype. The original. The one controlling everything inside the factory. The one responsible for trapping her inside that glass case.
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The platform finally reached the top.
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Poppy pointed toward a nearby red button. Nightwing walked over and pressed it. Light immediately flooded the surrounding area.
Poppy hesitated before trying again. âThen help me save everyone.â
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That made him pause.
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She continued anyway, telling him they had all seen what he was capable of, mentioning Huggy and Mommy by name.
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Nightwing visibly flinched.
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Mommyâs screams still echoed inside his head.
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He could still hear her begging.
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âThe Prototype knows weâre coming by now,â Poppy warned quietly. âYou try to escape, heâll kill you before you ever reach the door.â
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Nightwing remained silent.
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She continued speaking about everything the Prototype had done, about how he had trapped her, about how CatNap was the final obstacle standing between them and stopping him.
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As the platform slowly descended, carrying Poppy and the larger toy back down, she looked up one last time.
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âStay safe.â
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Nightwing watched until they disappeared from sight.
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Then the telephone in his utility belt began ringing.
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He picked it up.
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âHey, uh⌠itâs me again.â The childâs voice come through
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âOllie.â
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âIt seems Poppy explained everything now.â
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Nightwing frowned slightly. âYouâre awfully quick to know things.â
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There was a brief pause before Ollie answered. âSo⌠the plan now is to restore power to the Gas Production Zone. Every area has its own generator, but theyâre all pretty dangerous. That playhouse especially.â
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âAnd your recommendation?â
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âYour best bet is probably the school. CatNap usually leaves that place alone.â
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Nightwing looked down briefly at the journal secured to his belt before tightening his grip on one of his escrima sticks.
Â
âIâve heard worse recommendations.â
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Without another word, he turned and began making his way toward the abandoned school building waiting in the darkness.
The heavy security door finally slid shut behind him.
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For a moment, Nightwing simply stood there, catching his breath as the silence settled over the abandoned hallway. The echoes of Miss Delightâs screams had already faded, swallowed by the thick brick corridors that wound beneath Playcare. He hadnât intended for it to end that way, but when she had thrown herself at the closing gate, there had been nothing he could do.
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He exhaled quietly before continuing forward.
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The passage stretched on for several minutes before something mounted on the wall caught his attention.
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An orange GrabPack hand.
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Unlike the others, this one was molded into the shape of a finger gun, its design immediately suggesting a completely different purpose. After giving it a quick inspection, Nightwing detached one of his existing hands and locked the new attachment into place.
Â
âI have several questions about the engineering department that designed this place.â
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The mechanism clicked into position.
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Satisfied, he continued onward.
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Eventually the tunnel opened into another section of the cavern outside the massive dome surrounding Playcare. Even after everything he had already witnessed, the sheer size of the underground space still managed to impress him. Artificial lights glowed faintly in the distance while enormous support pillars vanished into darkness above.
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A weathered sign eventually came into view.
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PLAYHOUSE.
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Nightwing briefly remembered Ollie mentioning the location before pushing through the doors.
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The interior looked almost like a surveillance room, filled with dusty monitors and abandoned equipment. Before he had taken more than a few steps, however, something shifted near the floor.
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His attention snapped toward a crack running along the base of one wall.
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A tiny creature crawled out.
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Its oversized smile never changed.
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One glowing white eye locked directly onto him.
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At first it moved slowly.
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Then it lunged.
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Nightwing barely had enough time to throw himself sideways as the miniature toy shot through the air where his head had been moments before. It landed against the wall with a low growl before immediately charging again.
Â
This time he reacted first.
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Raising the orange GrabPack hand, he fired toward the floor directly in front of it.
Â
A burst of bright energy illuminated the room.
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The little creature recoiled instantly, letting out a frightened squeal before scrambling back into the crack from which it had emerged.
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Nightwing lowered the hand slowly.
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ââŚGood. Youâre afraid of light.â
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He sincerely hoped there werenât more of them.
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Experience suggested otherwise.
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The deeper he ventured into the Playhouse, the stranger it became. Every wall, ceiling, and floor had been covered in thick padding until the entire structure resembled an oversized psychiatric ward. Colorful tents sat scattered throughout the rooms alongside mountains of abandoned toys, some lifeless, others suspiciously absent whenever he looked away.
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Again and again, small smiling creatures emerged from cracks and hidden tunnels.
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Again and again, the orange hand drove them back.
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Eventually the padded halls gave way to something entirely different.
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Cells.
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Iron bars.
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Concrete walls.
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A prison.
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The room was littered with broken toy bodies, many so badly damaged they were almost impossible to identify. Nightwing stepped carefully between them until another noise reached his ears.
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He immediately raised the orange hand.
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This time, however, the figure waiting for him wasnât small.
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It was enormous.
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Though only barely alive.
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Its lower half was completely gone, leaving the larger toy suspended against the wall by heavy restraints that bit into its remaining body. Despite its condition, it slowly lifted its head as Nightwing approached.
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âYou⌠Youâre Poppyâs angel.â
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Nightwing frowned.
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âCome to save us.â
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He didnât answer immediately.
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Instead, he carefully assessed the restraints, searching for the safest way to free the creature without causing further damage.
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âNothing left to save, not hereâŚâ the toy whispered painfully. âYouâre in CatNapâs home, angel. Their home.â
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The injuries were catastrophic.
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Even if freed, moving would be difficult.
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âThat⌠Thing⌠CatNap.â
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Nightwing quietly raised a hand.
Â
âEasy. Save your strength. You donât have to force yourself to talk.â
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But the toy continued anyway.
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âThe Prototype is his God. And this is what he does to heretics.â
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Nightwingâs expression hardened.
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âHe did this to you?â
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âThe little toys follow CatNap to avoid that very fate, and in return, they are fed.â
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A chill ran through him.
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The toy lowered its head before speaking again.
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âWe tried to fight The Prototypeâs control. Now⌠Iâm the last of the Smiling Critters.â
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Then it looked directly at him.
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âListen to me. You need to get out of this place. You need to live.â
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Soft tapping echoed through the walls.
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Nightwing immediately recognized the sound.
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The little creatures.
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âYou and Poppy can fix this, end this madness, the torment, theââ
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He didnât let the sentence finish.
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A Wing-Ding flew through the air, slicing cleanly through the restraints.
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The belts snapped apart.
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Almost instantly, hundreds of tiny smiling creatures poured from every crack in the walls.
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Without hesitation, Nightwing caught the larger toy before it could collapse, hoisted him across his shoulders, and ran.
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The toy protested weakly.
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âLeave me⌠Take your chanceâŚâ
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âNot happening.â
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The swarm followed.
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They poured through tunnels and ventilation shafts, throwing themselves after him as he sprinted through winding corridors, down twisting slides, and across unstable platforms. Every turn brought another wave of snapping jaws until finally an elevator came into view.
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Nightwing threw himself inside.
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The doors slammed shut.
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Tiny claws scratched furiously against the metal as the elevator began its ascent.
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Only then did he finally lower himself against the wall, breathing heavily beneath his mask while the toy rested beside him.
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For several moments neither of them spoke.
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Then, barely above a whisperâ
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âThank you.â
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Nightwing looked over.
Â
âI couldnât leave you there.â
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âYou should have.â
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âThere wasnât a chance of that.â
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The toy gave a weak smile.
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ââŚDogDay.â
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Nightwing tilted his head.
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âMy name is DogDay.â
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A pause.
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âAt least⌠itâs the only one I remember.â
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Nightwing extended his hand.
Â
âNightwing.â
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DogDay reached out and clasped it.
Â
âThank you, Nightwing.â
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The elevator reached the surface.
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Stepping back into the artificial outdoors, Nightwing quickly located Poppy and the pink toy waiting nearby. Without hesitation, he helped DogDay over to them before another familiar telephone began ringing.
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He answered.
Â
âHey, are you alright?â
Â
âIâm still standing. Thatâs about the best update I can give.â
Â
âI heard you saved DogDay. Iâm surprised he was still alive. I thought CatNap was the last of the Smiling Critters.â
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Nightwing glanced back toward DogDay.
Â
âSo did CatNap, apparently.â
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âIâm glad youâre okay⌠I donât wanna lose anymore friends in this place.â
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The words lingered with him as he crossed the courtyard toward the maintenance room beneath the statue.
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Another brass key dropped from the pneumatic tube.
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Ollie explained that the next destination was the Counselorâs Office, warning him to be careful around CatNap before ending the call.
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Using the newly acquired key, Nightwing entered the building.
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Compared to everything else, it looked almost ordinary.
Â
Rows of offices lined the corridors, paperwork still scattered across desks exactly where it had been left. Only the creeping Red Smoke seeping beneath certain doors reminded him that appearances meant very little inside this factory.
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Searching for the next generator, he wandered deeper into the building.
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Then everything happened at once.
Â
A massive shape burst from the fog.
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Claws struck.
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His gas mask was ripped clean from his face.
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He stumbled backward as the Red Smoke flooded his lungs.
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The hallway twisted.
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The walls seemed to breathe.
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Shapes moved where there should have been none.
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Desperately trying to stay upright, Nightwing barely noticed another figure emerging from the haze.
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A bird.
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Large.
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Silent.
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Its outline looked strangely familiar.
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Even through the hallucinations, he recognized it from the cardboard cutout he had passed earlier.
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The creature didnât attack.
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Instead, it lowered its head and gently placed something at his feet.
Â
A gas mask.
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Nightwing looked up.
Â
The bird was already gone.
Â
Not wasting another second, he grabbed the replacement and secured it over his face.
Â
Fresh air rushed back into his lungs.
Â
His vision steadied.
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Almost immediately, his communicator rang.
Â
Expecting Ollie, he answered without hesitation.
Â
âLeave Playcare, or Iâm coming for you.â
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The voice froze him in place.
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CatNap.
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The line went dead.
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Nightwing wasted no time escaping the building, emerging back into the courtyard only to find much of Playcare dark once again. Power still flickered in scattered places, but something had clearly gone wrong.
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Another phone rang.
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This time he answered far more cautiously.
Â
âOllie?â
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âSomethingâs gone wrong.â
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âSo Iâve noticed.â
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Ollie quickly instructed him to connect the power cable from the Counselorâs Office back into the maintenance systems beneath the central statue. Once Nightwing completed the task, a massive battery was delivered through the machinery.
Â
âTake it to the GPZ,â Ollie explained. âItâs the only way weâre getting the power back.â
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âOn my way.â
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âGood luck.â
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The call ended.
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Nightwing hefted the oversized battery into position and began making his way toward the Gas Production Zone.
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High above him, hidden among the shadows where the lights no longer reached, a pair of glowing eyes quietly watched him disappear into the darkness.
Nightwing carried the massive battery in both arms as he crossed back into the Gas Production Zone, every step accompanied by the low groan of strained muscles. The thing was absurdly heavy, more like industrial machinery than a portable power source, but Ollie had insisted it was necessary. The huge cylinders overhead remained filled with swirling crimson vapor, illuminated only by scattered emergency lights that cast long shadows across the steel walkways and concrete floor.
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He reached the empty socket set into the wall and shifted his grip, preparing to slide the battery into place.
Â
The door beside him exploded open with a deafening metallic crash, as CatNap emerged from the darkness without making a sound, his massive purple frame moving with unsettling grace despite his size. Before Nightwing could react, thick clouds of Red Smoke poured from the creatureâs mouth, flooding the chamber with alarming speed. The crimson gas rolled across the floor before rising toward the ceiling, swallowing machinery and catwalks alike until visibility dropped to only a few feet.
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Nightwing immediately yanked the replacement mask over his face, sealing it into place just as the smoke reached him. âReally starting to hate this stuff,â he muttered through the filter, taking several steps backward as the enormous feline continued its slow approach. There was no time to stand and fight.
Â
His eyes caught the outline of a service elevator behind him. He sprinted for it, practically diving through the gate before slamming the activation button. The heavy doors rattled shut while the lift lurched upward, carrying him away from the spreading cloud below.
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For a moment, he allowed himself a single breath of relief.
Â
Then movement outside the cage caught his attention.
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CatNap wasnât staying behind, the creature had climbed onto the elevator shaft itself, scaling the framework with impossible speed while keeping all four glowing eyes locked directly onto him. Long claws dug effortlessly into the metal supports as it matched the elevatorâs ascent, its unnaturally wide smile never changing.
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âOh, youâve got to be kidding me.â The elevator reached the upper level with a violent jolt, and Nightwing wasted no time rushing out onto the maintenance platform. The chamber beyond resembled an enormous electrical distribution center, filled with battery ports, suspended cables, and industrial machinery stretching high into the darkness. At the center stood a digital monitor displaying a single message.
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ENERGY RESTORED: 0%
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âSo thatâs the game.â He slid the battery into the nearest receptacle. The percentage crawled upward.
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One.
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Two.
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Three.
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Far too slowly.
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A scraping sound echoed from one of the side corridors. Nightwing looked up just in time to see CatNapâs silhouette emerging from the darkness, moving silently toward him. Instead of retreating, he ripped the battery back out and shoved it into another socket positioned beside the hallway entrance.
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Compressed air blasted downward from hidden vents overhead. CatNap instantly recoiled, vanishing back into the shadows as the mechanism activated.
Â
Nightwing blinked. âSo you donât like that.â He grabbed the battery again before the system fully discharged and hurried back to the central console, forcing more energy into the primary machine.
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Another hallway. Another glimpse of glowing eyes. Another battery swap.
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The pattern repeated again and again until the encounter became a frantic balancing act between restoring power and forcing CatNap away whenever the creature got too close. Several times the giant cat nearly cornered him, only for Nightwing to improvise another solution, redirecting batteries or triggering defensive systems seconds before claws could reach him.
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At one point, a hatch above his head burst open.
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Looking up, he found himself staring directly into that impossible grin. Without hesitation he fired the GrabPack upward, the blue hand locking onto the heavy latch before he threw his entire weight against it. Metal groaned as he physically held the opening shut while something on the other side pushed back with frightening strength.
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âIâve dealt with worse house cats.â The pressure finally eased, Nightwing released the latch and immediately resumed transferring power.
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Minutes blurred together until the monitor finally flashed a new message.
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ENERGY RESTORED: 100%
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A massive generator suspended above the room crackled to life, arcs of electricity dancing across its exposed conduits.
Â
âFinally.â He quickly detached the blue hand from the GrabPack and replaced it with the green conductive model, aiming it toward the energized machine.
Â
That was when CatNap dropped from the ceiling. The creature landed directly in front of him with enough force to shake the platform, one enormous claw already swinging toward his chest.
Â
Nightwing twisted away just in time, the attack missing him by inches, carving deep grooves through solid steel instead.
Â
He didnât hesitate, the green hand launched forward. Its cable wrapped around CatNapâs torso just as it connected with the live generator overhead, an overwhelming surge of electricity erupted through the wire.
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Blue-white current engulfed the giant toy, illuminating the entire chamber as CatNap convulsed violently under the force of the discharge. Flames ignited across his fur almost instantly, spreading faster than Nightwing could have imagined. The smell of burning fabric and melted plastic filled the room.
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CatNap let out a horrible cry as he collapsed onto the floor, rolling desperately while the fire consumed him. Eventually the flames weakened, leaving behind a scorched and barely moving figure.
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Nightwing remained frozen, breathing heavily through the mask. âI⌠didnât mean for that to happen.â
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Metal scraped somewhere overhead. His head snapped upward.
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A skeletal mechanical arm slowly descended through an opening in the ceiling, long, needle-like fingers unfolded one by one.
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Nightwing recognized it immediately. âThe Prototype.â
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CatNap saw it too.
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To his complete confusion, the dying creature didnât try to flee.
Â
Instead, it slowly forced itself onto its knees.
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Its arms spread outward.
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Its head tilted back in silent acceptance.
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âWhat are you doing?â Nightwing whispered.
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The answer came a heartbeat later.
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The mechanical hand shot forward.
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Its sharpened fingers pierced straight through CatNapâs open mouth and out the back of his head in a single brutal motion.
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Nightwing stood completely still, unable to process what he was seeing as the arm lifted the limp body effortlessly into the air. The massive purple form hung for only a moment before disappearing upward through the opening, swallowed once more by darkness.
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The chamber fell silent.
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Only the hum of the restored machinery remained.
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Nightwing stared at the empty space above for several long seconds before finally letting out a slow breath.
Â
ââŚI have so many questions.â
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There would be time for answers later.
Â
Right now, Playcare still needed power.
Nightwing slid the massive battery into its designated slot and immediately moved to the control console. The machinery around him rumbled to life as valves rotated overhead, redirecting the flow of Red Smoke through an entirely different network of pipes. One by one, warning lights switched from crimson to green, and somewhere beyond the thick walls of the Gas Production Zone, Playcareâs electrical systems began waking from years of darkness.
When the final lever locked into place, bright light flooded the chamber.
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Turning away from the controls, he noticed the door on the right side of the room had unlocked. He stepped through cautiously, immediately recognizing the familiar circular chamber beyond.
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âGood, youâre here.â Poppyâs voice echoed softly through the room. She stood inside one of the large maintenance pipes built into the wall, relief evident even on her porcelain features. âAnd youâve done it again. The impossible.â
Nightwing knew exactly what she meant.
He didnât answer.
âJust like I knew you would,â she continued quietly. âCatNapâs gone⌠The Red Smoke is diverted. Everything is falling into place, thanks to you.â
The massive circular platform dominating the center of the room began to rise with a deep mechanical groan, revealing something hidden beneath.
âBut if weâre to keep going then⌠you deserved to have the truth.â
Only now did Nightwing notice the cassette tape clutched in her tiny hands.
âI donât know why or how you came here, but I know you want to find out what happened here, and why.â She looked down at it before carefully extending it toward him. âThis⌠This is your answer.â
Without another word, she walked across the platform to an old cassette player mounted beside a dusty television and slid the tape inside. âWe called it âThe Hour Of Joyâ.â
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The television flickered to life.
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The white lettering appeared across the screen 'THE HOUR OF JOY'.
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The title vanished.
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A grainy security camera recording replaced it. Nightwing immediately recognized the factory lobby.
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Huggy Wuggy stood motionless in the center while employees moved casually around him.
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The footage advanced frame by frame.
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Then Huggy wasnât standing anymore, he was bent over someone.
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The next frame showed nearby workers recoiling.
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The next revealed a body on the floor while Huggy turned toward the others.
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Panic spread through every subsequent image as people scattered in every direction.
Another cut.
The entrance to Game Station.
Six workers sprinted desperately across the room while Mommy Long Legs crawled after them with terrifying speed.
One frame later three had been crushed beneath her body, while the remaining three dangled helplessly from her stretched arms.
Another frame.
They were lifted toward the ceiling.
Another and they were gone.
The following image showed all three lying motionless on the floor.
Dark stains spread beneath them as he tape continued.
One camera captured dozens of tiny creatures overwhelming a lone employee.
Another showed a classroom where someone barricaded themselves inside, only for countless Miss Delights to emerge from every corner.
Another displayed a different Huggy, almost certainly Kissy Missy despite the monochrome footage, restrained on an operating table before suddenly breaking free.
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The final sequence lingered on Playcareâs courtyard, bodies covered the ground.
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CatNap wandered slowly among them, absentmindedly nudging one aside with his foot before disappearing into the distance.
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Then came images from throughout the factory. Hallways, storage rooms, assembly lines.
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Every single one littered with the dead.
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The tape ended, but Nightwing couldnât tear his eyes away.
Â
Only after several long moments did he step backward and turn toward Poppy. She looked impossibly small.
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âI remember hearing every moment of it,â she whispered. âIt went on so long⌠so agonizingly long.â
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He remained silent. There simply werenât words for what heâd witnessed.
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âThe workers tried to run. They tried to hide. They tried to stay alive,â Poppy continued. âNone of it mattered. They all died. The guilty, the innocent⌠it didnât matter. And in the end, their bodies were dragged down below where theyâd never be found.â
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Nightwing swallowed.
Â
ââŚFor what? Why drag them away?â His voice came out quieter than expected.
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Poppy looked at the floor.
Â
ââŚThey ate the bodies⌠To stay alive.â
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He shut his eyes. The answer somehow made everything worse.
âSo every missing worker⌠every family that never got closureâŚâ
âTheyâre gone.â
The weight of it settled heavily over the room.
A mechanical gate opened nearby as Kissy Missy stepped through carrying DogDay carefully across her back.
His injuries had been cleaned and wrapped as best they could be, and although exhaustion still clouded his face, and though his smile as a permanent fixture in his face, it seemed to become genuine when he spots Nightwing.
âAngel.â
Nightwing finally returned the expression with one of his own. It wasnât much, but it was enough.
âThe Prototype has to die. For this. For everything.â Poppyâs voice hardened.
Again Nightwing found himself unable to answer.
Kissy approached the newly opened shaft beneath the circular platform and gently lowered Poppy onto the waiting elevator.
The doll looked back up at her friends. âSoon as we reach the bottom, weâll send the lift back up. Just hold tight, okay?â
Kissy nodded.
DogDay shifted enough to extend a hand toward the vigilante. âBe careful, my friend. The levels below are a lot more dangerous.â
Nightwing clasped his hand firmly. âAnd you stay alive until I get back. Thatâs an order.â
DogDay let out a faint laugh. âIâll do my best.â
Nightwing stepped onto the elevator beside Poppy, as Kissy reached over and pulled the control lever.
The platform began its slow descent into the darkness, and above them, the massive circular latch started lowering into place.
âAlright. Once we hit the ground, we need to be cautious, thereâs somethingââ Poppyâs sentence was interrupted.
A scream. Kissy.
Nightwingâs head snapped upward. âWait, what?â
Another scream echoed through the shaft.
âWhat are they doing?⌠This isnâtâŚâ
Then DogDayâs voice joined hers.
âNo, no no⌠NO!â Without hesitation Nightwing slammed the emergency controls, reversing the platformâs direction.
The elevator crawled upward. Far too slowly.
âWeâre coming! Just hold on!â He grabbed the side rail, willing the machinery to move faster.
Above them, however, the enormous latch continued descending.
âCâmon, câmon! Go faster!â
Nightwing yanked desperately on the manual override. âMove! Come on, move!â
The gap grew smaller, as the screams became more frantic.
Then the metal disk slammed shut.
The shaft sealed completely.
Darkness swallowed everything above.
âKissy!â âDogDay!â
Neither answered.
Only silence remained as the elevator, no longer able to rise, resumed its slow descent into the depths below.
For a long time neither Nightwing nor Poppy spoke.
The only sound left was the quiet hum of machinery carrying them farther into the darkness.
Holy!! This might just be my biggest chapter in this story, I wanted to have all of the game chapter in this chapter, as to not have to divide it into two parts, might have been a bit too much
Has to redo a few things since tumblr only accepts posts with a max of 1000 paragraphs and I overdid it a bit, itâs fine though
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠CHAPTER III | ⧠INTERLUDE III | ⧠CHAPTER IV
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???'S POV:
The expansive playroom of Playcare was alive with an overwhelming cascade of noise and color. Underneath the massive painted ceiling, dozens of children ran in every direction, their laughter bouncing off the high, reinforced walls in a constant echo. Across the polished floor mats, a large group of kids had gathered for a chaotic game of hide and seek, their voices rising in excitement whenever someone was discovered behind the colorful plastic barriers. Near the center of the room, another crowd of children stood frozen in rigid positions, giggling uncontrollably as they tried to play a game of Red Light, Green Light under the watchful, encouraging eyes of the staff. Every corner of the massive recreational space seemed packed with genuine energy, a vibrant display of safety and structured happiness that the facility worked so hard to project.Â
Yet, the sheer volume of the joy surrounding him only seemed to widen the distance between the boy and the rest of the world.
He sat completely alone on the edge of a small wooden bench tucked away in the quietest corner of the room, far removed from the ongoing games. His knees were pulled tightly against his chest, and his small frame was hunched over as he stared blankly at the swirling patterns of the floor mats. He did not look at the children running past, nor did he look at the bright murals painted on the walls. The sprawling playground felt less like a haven and more like a vast, empty canyon where he simply did not belong.Â
All he could think about was how much he desperately missed his family. The ache in his chest was heavy, a quiet, persistent pain that the cheerful sounds of the playroom could not drown out. He closed his big eyes, letting his mind drift completely away from the sterile, brightly lit facility and backward into the warm, familiar memories of the life he had lost.Â
He remembered the circus tent, filled with the comforting scents of sawdust, popcorn, and canvas. He remembered the smooth feel of the practice trapeze bar beneath his hands and the exact sound of his older brotherâs voice calling out to him from the safety net below. His brother had always been there to catch him whenever his grip slipped, cheering loudly and beaming with proud admiration every single time he successfully managed to learn a new movement on the bars. The memory of that laughter was so clear it almost hurt.Â
He remembered his father sitting on the edge of his small mattress in the family trailer, holding a worn storybook open under the dim light of a lantern. His father would always do the most ridiculous, booming voices for all the different characters in the stories, making the boy laugh until his stomach ached, completely erasing any fears or worries before it was time to sleep.
And he remembered his mother. Whenever the storm outside grew too loud, or the bustling chaos of the backstage crowds became entirely too much for him to handle, his mother would wrap her arms around him and rock him gently in the quiet dressing room. She would sing a soft, low lullaby right into his ear, her soothing melody creating a perfect barrier against the rest of the world until his tiny fists untangled and he finally felt safe again.Â
A gentle shadow fell across his lap, breaking the fragile thread of his thoughts.
The boy blinked, his eyes adjusting as he looked up to find one of the classroom teachers crouching directly in front of his bench. The woman wore the standard uniform of the facility, her face carefully arranged into a soft, comforting smile meant to encourage the children to trust her.Â
"Hey there, little one," the teacher said gently, her voice pitched perfectly to carry over the ambient roar of the playroom. "Why are you sitting all the way back here by yourself? The others are having so much fun with the games, and there is plenty of room for you to join in. Don't you want to go play with your friends?"
The child did not speak. He slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the sea of children who were currently sprinting, dodging, and screaming in absolute happiness across the floor mats. They looked so close, yet they felt like strangers from an entirely different world. He didn't know how to explain to the adult that none of these people were his friends, and that no amount of games could ever replace what had been taken from him.
Instead of answering, the boy simply turned away from the crowd and looked back down at his lap. He shifted his small arms, wrapping them tightly around the faded blue plush bird clutched against his chest. He buried his chin into the toy's worn, soft fabric, squeezing it with a desperate, protective force as if it were the last real piece of home he had left to hold onto.Â
He closed his eyes again, ignoring the teacher's encouraging smile, and silently wished with everything he had that his mother was right there beside him to sing her quiet lullaby and make the loneliness finally go away.
The fragile echo of the memory shattered instantly, leaving behind a lingering, heavy ache that the figure could not entirely comprehend. It shifted restlessly on its metal perch, a deep wave of frustration rolling through its artificial consciousness as these unbidden, colorful images continued to invade its mind. It violently shook its small, bird-like head, trying to clear the static from its processors and force the phantom scents of sawdust and old canvas back into the dark corner where they belonged.
Once the internal noise finally settled, the figure focused its unblinking gaze back down toward the concrete corridors below. It quietly tracked the movements of the weird human in the black and blue armor and the porcelain traitor, watching as the pair finalized their plans and began making their way toward the abandoned railway platform. Every movement the human made was sharp, efficient, and entirely different from the desperate actions of the previous employees who had trapped themselves in the facility's lower levels.
The figure continued its silent observation, shifting its weight along the rusted ceiling pipe as the two targets moved closer to the waiting train. It decided it had seen enough of their progress when a sudden, low-frequency vibration hummed directly through its internal voice box. The signal was unmistakable, a quiet command echoing through the darkness that meant He was calling it back to the lower foundations.
The master of the depths had likely already completed whatever He had planned for the remaining, mangled pieces of Mommy Long Legs' body. There was no purpose in staying up here any longer; the figure needed to return to the dark labs immediately and report the strange human's success in the trials.
Just as the figure prepared to turn and slip into the nearest ventilation shaft, it noticed the human's head suddenly tilt upward, his sharp gaze snapping directly toward the specific shadow where the small blue shape was perched. The figure did not hesitate, launching itself backward into the deep gloom of the open vent before the flashlight beam could illuminate its position. It scurried quietly through the narrow metal tubes, moving too fast to leave a trace, not knowing if the human had actually managed to catch a glimpse of it or not.
Hopefully the human did not see anything.
And here we have interlude 3, itâs short just like all the previous interlude have been and will be
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠INTERLUDE II | ⧠CHAPTER III | ⧠INTERLUDE III
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WARNING:Â This charpter contaings a graphic scene depicting death, I put this ***** when it starts, if you wish to skip it I'll also put it after
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 NIGHTWING'S POV:
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The porcelain doll moved with a stiff, unsettling grace. As Nightwing followed her deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the Playtime Co. factory, his eyes remained locked on the back of her crimson hair. He kept his footsteps light, his weight distributed perfectly so he could react to an ambush at any given second. He did not trust her. His training under Batman had taught him to look at every unknown variable with absolute skepticism, and a living, breathing doll definitely counted as an unknown variable. Still, she claimed to know the path to the train station, and since the rest of the upper level was a collapsed ruin, she was currently his only viable lead.
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They navigated through a series of narrow, concrete hallways where the paint was cracked and bubbling from decades of neglect. The air grew progressively colder, carrying a damp, metallic odor that grew heavier with every turn. Poppy did not look back at him as she walked, her small shoes making a rhythmic tapping sound against the concrete. Nightwing remained quiet, his fingers occasionally brushing against the handles of his escrima sticks at his waist, a grounding reminder of his own capabilities in a place that defied logic.
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Eventually, the narrow corridor opened up into a sprawling, cavernous room. The floor was made of reinforced steel grating, and directly in the center was a massive, yawning chasm that plummeted into the foundations of the factory. The hole was wide enough to swallow a vehicle, its edges jagged and rusted. Poppy marched straight toward the lip of the abyss and came to a halt, her small form silhouetted against the absolute darkness below.
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Nightwing closed the distance cautiously, stepping onto the metal grating with a practiced silence. As he drew near, Poppy turned her porcelain head to face him, her painted eyes reflecting the dim, flickering security lights of the chamber.
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"Listen, I'm going to need you to trust me on this," she began, her voice carrying that strangely sweet, clear tone.
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Before she could finish the sentence, Nightwing's peripheral vision caught a sudden movement from the depths of the chasm. A pale pink, impossibly long hand shot out from the dark, its fingers sprawling wide as it lunged directly toward the doll.
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"Get back!" Nightwing shouted, lunging forward with his arm outstretched to pull her away from the edge.
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He was a fraction of a second too late. The slender fingers clamped firmly around Poppyâs torso, pinning her arms to her sides. With a sickeningly fast tug, the arm retracted into the void. Poppy let out a sharp, echoing scream that was cut short as she vanished entirely into the darkness below.
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Nightwing slammed his boots against the edge of the pit, leaning over the rusted rim while scanning the blackness. He reached to his belt and pulled free a high-intensity tactical flashlight, clicking it on and sweeping the beam downward. The light was swallowed by the sheer depth of the vertical shaft; there was nothing to see but smooth, metallic lining that resembled a massive disposal chute. He quickly scanned the rest of the room, but the security doors were entirely locked from the outside, and the ceiling panels were solid steel. There was only one path left.
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Without hesitation, Nightwing reholstered his flashlight and drew his twin escrima sticks, his thumbs flicking the activation switches to ready the internal stun charges. He stepped off the ledge, plunging into the dark opening.
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The descent was faster than he anticipated. The vertical drop quickly transitioned into a steep, sloping tube that twisted sharply through the concrete foundations. Nightwing kept his knees bent and his back rigid, using the friction of his armored suit against the smooth plastic walls of the chute to control his momentum. The environment became a blur of absolute shadow, the air rushing past his ears in a deafening roar until the tube suddenly leveled out.
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He launched out of the exit, executing a flawless forward roll across a tiled floor to absorb the impact. He immediately sprang to his feet, bringing his escrima sticks up into a defensive guard as he scanned his new surroundings.
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He was standing in a wide, subterranean junction. The room was cast in a dull, ambient glow, and directly ahead of him was a grand archway painted with faded, cheerful colors. Mounted above the arch was a cracked neon sign that read: Game Station. Seeing no other available exits, Nightwing lowered his weapons but kept them unholstered, proceeding down the high-ceilinged hallway.
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At the very end of the passage stood a heavy, reinforced security door. Mounted high above the frame was a large, glowing red handprint panel, an obvious interface for his equipment. Nightwing raised his right arm, aiming the red hand of his GrabPack at the ceiling mechanism. He fired, the mechanical hand launching forward with a sharp hiss of compressed air.
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Just before the red palm could make contact with the panel, a second hand dropped from the rafters above. It was slender, neon-pink, and attached to an elastic arm that seemed to stretch indefinitely. The pink fingers wrapped tightly around the GrabPack hand mid-air, halting its forward momentum instantly.
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"Gasp. A new playmate!" a high-pitched, singing voice echoed from the darkness of the high ceiling.
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Before Nightwing could trigger the retraction mechanism, the pink hand yanked the cable with immense force. The sudden, violent pull dislodged the red hand entirely from the GrabPack launcher, snapping the high-tensile wire with a loud crack. Nightwing immediately took a tactical step backward, his eyes tracking the movement above as a massive shape began to descend from the shadowy rafters.
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The creature moved with the sickening agility of a giant spider, using four incredibly long, flexible limbs to grip the walls and pipes as it lowered itself into the light. It was a giant, pink toy-like figure with a porcelain-smooth face, wild green eyes, and a mop of plastic curls. Clutched tightly in its left hand was Poppy.
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The plastic monstrosity brought the doll up to its face, tilting its head with a grotesque parody of maternal affection.
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"Isn't this exciting, Poppy?" the creature cooed. She then began to manipulate Poppy's limp form, shaking her back and forth toward the locked door as if she were a puppet.
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"Very exciting, Mommy!" the pink toy proclaimed in a forced, mockery of a high-pitched voice, answering her own question while pretending to be the captive doll.
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Mommy Long Legs then turned her wide, unblinking green eyes directly toward Nightwing, her elastic body swaying slightly as she clung to the vertical pipes. Her voice shifted back to its bright, overly cheerful tone as she addressed him. She explained that she had heard all about Poppy's little plan to help him escape the factory using the train, but she found that idea entirely boring.
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Instead, she stated that the Game Station was still fully operational. She proposed a wager: if Nightwing could successfully navigate and win all three games managed by the facility, she would willingly hand over the activation code required to start the train. She gestured with a long, spindly finger toward a side corridor, instructing him to make his way to the Musical Memory sector while she set up the parameters.
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Then, the cheerful demeanor vanished instantly. Mommy Long Legs stretched her elastic neck downward, her porcelain face descending until it was mere inches from Nightwing's visor.
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"Obey the rules, or I will tear you apart and eat your insides while you're still alive," she whispered, her voice dropping into a harsh, venomous hiss.
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She burst into a loud, manic giggle that echoed violently against the tile walls. With a sudden burst of speed, her long limbs scrambled upward, dragging Poppy along with her as she disappeared back into the dark network of the ceiling rafters.
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Nightwing stood perfectly still for a moment, his escrima sticks humming faintly in the silence. He analyzed the structural layout of the station and the sheer physical reach of the entity he was dealing with. He knew he needed that train code to get out of this facility, and if playing along with a deranged metahuman-level toy was the only way to secure it, he would play. But he would play by his own strategy.
Time in this place had entirely lost its meaning. Nightwing felt as though he had been traversing the decaying bowels of the factory for days, though his internal clock murmured that it had likely only been a few hours. Two of Mommyâs twisted trials were already behind him.
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Musical Memory had been straightforward enough, despite the grotesque pressure of a giant cymbal-clashing rabbit suspended above his head, ready to crush him. Years of grueling mental conditioning under Bruceâreplaying complex chemical formulas and memorizing vast criminal registries under simulated stressâmade tracking the color sequences second nature. He cleared the board flawlessly and quickly. Mommyâs voice over the intercom had laced with a sharp, ugly irritation at his success, though she begrudgingly yielded the first piece of the train code.
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Wack-a-Wuggy had proved far more exhausting. The premise mimicked a standard carnival game, but instead of a waist-high table, the holes riddled the walls entirely around him in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree trap. The targets weren't mechanical; they were feral, miniature Huggy Wuggys that crawled completely out of the darkness, snapping and lunging directly for his throat. Utilizing his heightened reflexes, he fended them off. He used the remaining blue hand of his GrabPack alongside a newly acquired green handâwhich he had picked up to replace the lost red oneâto violently strike the creatures back into their tunnels. Mommyâs subsequent broadcast had sounded deeply frustrated, the cheerful facade fracturing further as she delivered the second fragment of the sequence.
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Now, he stood at the entrance of a massive, darkened indoor playground for the final challenge: Statues. As Mommyâs crackling voice laid out the parameters over the speakers, the concept seemed elementary. It was a macabre rendition of Red Light, Green Light.
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The catch was reversed; he could only advance when the lights were completely out. The moment the fluorescent bulbs hummed back to life, he had to freeze. To ensure he couldn't simply wait out the clock, a monstrous toy designated as the PJ Pug-a-Pillarâa grotesque, elongated hybrid of a dog and a caterpillarâwould be relentlessly pursuing him from the starting line. The creature would not stop moving, even when the room was illuminated.
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The game began, and the darkness descended. Nightwing vaulted over plastic barriers and scrambled through colorful crawl tubes, the chaotic sound of dozens of skittering, fabric-covered feet echoing directly behind him in the dark. Every time the lights flashed back on, he threw himself into a rigid, motionless stance, his muscles locked in place while the heavy breathing of the multi-legged abomination crept closer. The psychological pressure was immense, requiring strict physical discipline to keep his footing amidst the structural decay of the playroom.
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He navigated a steep incline, only to slide down to the floor and find his path entirely cut off. A massive section of the concrete ceiling had collapsed into the play area, creating an impassable wall of rubble and twisted metal rebar. There was absolutely no way around it.
The realization hit him instantly. Mommy had known about this obstruction all along. She had never intended for him to reach the exit; the entire layout was a calculated execution chamber wrapped in the guise of a children's game. This was her definitive declaration that she wanted him dead.
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The lights suddenly hummed back into existence, illuminating the dead end. Nightwing glanced over his shoulder and saw the Pug-a-Pillar less than ten feet away, its massive, unblinking pug face twitching as it prepared to close the remaining distance. He quickly scanned the vertical perimeter of the room and spotted a sturdy metal security bar fixed above an elevated glass window leading into a high-level observation room.
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The lights plunged back into darkness. Nightwing didn't hesitate. He reached to his utility belt, drew his mechanical grapple gun, and aimed upward.
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He fired the line, the steel claw clamping securely around the metal bar. The internal winch engaged, lifting his body off the floor just as the lights violently flickered back on. The sudden illumination revealed the Pug-a-Pillar lunging directly beneath him, its massive jaws snapping open to take a literal bite out of his head.
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"Not today," Nightwing growled.
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With his free hand, he whipped out one of his escrima sticks and slammed the live tip directly into the creature's wet nose. He squeezed the trigger, unleashing the weapon's maximum electrical voltage. A bright, blue arc of electricity surged through the toy's massive frame, causing it to screech and seize up, temporarily incapacitated on the playroom floor.
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The distraction bought him the seconds he needed. The grapple line pulled him the rest of the way up, and he kicked through the reinforced glass of the viewing room, rolling safely onto the dusty floor inside.
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He stood up and immediately checked the room's main exit door, but the electronic locking mechanism was entirely fried and welded shut from the outside. Searching for an alternative route, his flashlight beam caught a ragged, dark hole breached in the corner of the floorboards.
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He dropped down into the opening and found himself navigating a raw, subterranean cavern beneath the factory's foundation. There were no painted murals or tiled floors here, only jagged rock formations, damp dirt, and a wide chasm separating him from a dark access hallway on the far side.
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Before he could fire another line to cross the gap, Mommy's voice boomed through the structural pipes above, echoing loudly in the enclosed cavern.
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"Where did you go? The game is over! Come on! Come back and Mommy will give you the code, pinkie promise!"
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Nightwing kept completely silent, his breathing shallow as he fired his grapple across the chasm. He swung smoothly over the drop, landing without a sound on the opposite ledge before stepping into the concrete hallway. He knew with absolute certainty that she was lying. He had bypassed the boundaries of her game, and the erratic tone in her voice signaled that she would murder him the second she caught sight of him.
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As he moved swiftly through a sequence of identical, intersecting corridors, her voice boomed again, the artificial sweetness completely replaced by a desperate, screeching rage.
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"The rules are so simple! You die, and Mommy gets to watch!"
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A loud, incredibly forced giggle echoed through the ventilation shafts, twisting into a guttural snarl of pure frustration.
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"Come back!"
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Nightwing pressed forward into the gloom, increasing his pace as he looked for a way back up to the train station. He already possessed two-thirds of the required activation sequence. If he could find the terminal and stay ahead of the monstrous entity hunting him, he could likely bypass the final security lock and figure out the last part of the code on his own.
For several long moments, the only sounds came from his own measured footsteps and the deep, distant groan of old machinery shifting somewhere in the bowels of the facility. Nightwing kept moving through the winding corridors, occasionally stopping to examine a locked terminal or another bizarre puzzle mechanism blocking his path. At this point, he had completely stopped trying to understand the factoryâs design philosophy.
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"Who approved any of this?" he muttered to himself as he finished rerouting power through another complex circuit panel. "Did employees have to solve escape rooms before clocking in?"
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The hallway he entered next looked significantly older and more neglected than the rest of the facility. Thick sheets of rust stained the corrugated metal walls, and the distinct sound of water dripped rhythmically somewhere in the absolute darkness ahead. At the far end of the passage, a jagged, broken hole in the ceiling led into an opening several feet above the ground, offering a potential way out of the subterranean tunnels.
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Finally, a clear path upward. Nightwing pulled out his grappling hook from his utility belt and took precise aim at the structural beams visible through the gap. Before he could pull the trigger, a piercing scream echoed violently through the narrow corridor.
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His reflexes reacted before his brain could even process the sound. Nightwing threw himself backward in a sharp, athletic dodge just as a massive pink shape crashed down from the opening above, slamming into the concrete floor with immense force. The entire floor shook from the impact.
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Mommy Long Legs landed exactly where he had been standing a mere second prior, her elastic limbs absorbing the shock of the drop. "Oh, youâve got to be kidding me," Nightwing grumbled, quickly regaining his footing and shifting into a defensive stance.
The creature slowly lifted her head, her long neck uncoiling with a sickeningly smooth motion. Her plastic face was completely twisted into a mask of pure rage, entirely removed from the cheerful mascot she was originally built to be.
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"I asked you to play fair," she hissed, her wide green eyes locking onto him.
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Nightwing took a cautious step back, his eyes scanning the narrow dimensions of the hallway. "And you cheated."
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He took another step, keeping his movements deliberate. Mommyâs long, spindly limbs unfolded with a series of sharp clicks as she rose to her full, imposing height. The reinforced wall beside her exploded inward in a shower of concrete dust as one of her massive pink fists slammed directly into it.
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"I hate cheaters!" she shrieked, dust and small debris raining down from the ceiling panels above.
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Nightwing glanced quickly over his shoulder to assess his surroundings. A heavy, closed security gate barred the path behind him. There were no side doors, no ventilation shafts within reach, and no alternative exits. Fantastic.
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Mommy began advancing toward him. She moved slowly and deliberately, her elastic limbs stretching and contracting as she made absolutely sure he watched every single step she took.
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"Now weâre going to play one last game," she cooed, her voice dropping into a dark, singing cadence. Nightwing continued to back up until his armored shoulders hit the cold metal of the closed gate.
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Mommy placed one oversized hand flat against the wall to her left, her fingers splaying wide. Then, she placed another hand against the wall to her right, completely boxing him into the dead end.
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"Itâs called..." she whispered, her porcelain face lunging forward until it was inches from his visor. "Hide."
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The heavy metal gate behind Nightwing suddenly shuddered, a loud mechanical click echoing through the frame.
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"...and..." Mommy continued, her grin widening grotesquely. The metal groaned as the locking mechanism finally disengaged.
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"SEEK!"
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The final word came out as a deafening shriek that reverberated off the metal walls. Her pupils widened in real-time until the vibrant green of her eyes nearly vanished into absolute black.
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With a loud hiss of pneumatics, the gate behind Nightwing finally slid open into a new corridor. Mommy smiled, her head tilting to a sharp angle. "Ten..."
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Nightwing didn't need to be told twice; he immediately turned on his heel and launched into a full sprint. "Oh, good, weâre counting," he called out, his boots pounding against the floor.
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"Nine..." Mommy shouted from behind him.
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"Thatâs definitely not ominous," he muttered, quickly navigating a sharp turn in the passage.
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"Eight..."
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The heavy, rhythmic pounding of giant plastic hands striking the metal floor echoed loudly right behind him, gaining ground with alarming speed. "Seven..."
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"You know," Nightwing called over his shoulder, his voice strained as he pushed his pace to the absolute limit, "for someone who hates cheaters, youâre surprisingly okay with attempted murder!"
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"SIX!"
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"Didnât deny it," he whispered to himself. The unhinged shriek that followed his remark suggested he had touched a serious nerve.
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Nightwing approached a cluttered section of the maintenance hall; he vaulted cleanly over a fallen conveyor belt and immediately dropped into a low slide beneath a half-collapsed steel support beam. Behind him, Mommy didn't bother slowing down to navigate the terrain; she simply crashed straight through both obstacles, her sheer mass shattering the metal and plastic into debris. The entire corridor shook violently from her momentum.
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Okay. New plan. Definitely do not let her catch you.
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Suddenly, a massive pink arm shot around the upcoming corner, aiming to cut off his escape route. Nightwing barely ducked his head in time, the blunt force of the movement whistling past his cowl. The hard plastic fingers scraped sharply across his armored shoulder padding, leaving deep scores in the material.
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Mommy laughed, a loud, high-pitched sound that was completely unhinged. "Got you!" she cried, her arm stretching again, defying all physical limitations as it extended far longer than it had any right to.
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This time, the flexible pink fingers wrapped tightly around his left ankle. The sudden restriction threw off his stride, and Nightwing hit the concrete floor hard, sliding several feet across the grit. The creature immediately began dragging him backward toward her open jaws, her grip like a vice.
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"There you are!"
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"Oh, come on," Nightwing muttered, refusing to panic. He twisted his torso around on the floor, reaching down to his belt and grabbing one of his escrima sticks. He slammed the live tip directly into the pink fabric of Mommyâs extended arm.
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The electrified weapon discharged instantly, sending a high-voltage current pulsing through her elastic limb. The creature screamed in agony, her voice reaching a piercing pitch, and her grip loosened instantly under the shock.
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Nightwing ripped his ankle free, tucked his knees, and rolled backward onto his feet in one fluid motion. "Personal space!" he shouted, then took off running again, his boots striking the floor in a desperate sprint.
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The chaotic chase continued through a blur of dark maintenance tunnels, rusted conveyor systems, and narrow service passages. Every single time Nightwing thought he had finally gained a safe distance, another pink limb would violently breach the environment from an impossible angleâan open vent, a loose ceiling panel, or a jagged hole in the wall. It felt less like escaping a physical predator and entirely like trying to outrun a living nightmare that controlled the very structure around him.
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Eventually, he burst through a heavy set of double doors and into a massive, high-ceilinged industrial room. The center of the chamber was completely dominated by a giant, industrial waste grinder, its massive steel teeth silent but imposing. Nightwing ran toward the opposite side, only to find the path completely sealed by solid concrete walls.
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There was nowhere left to go. A total dead end. Of course.
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With a heavy thud, Mommy dropped straight from the high ceiling rafters, landing between him and the exit doors. "You canât run forever!" she screeched, her long limbs twitching with erratic energy.
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Nightwing backed away from her, his heels stopping just short of the safety railing overlooking the grinder pit. "Funny," he said, his hands dropping to his belt as he gripped his weapons tightly. "Thatâs usually my line."
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Mommy lunged forward with blinding speed. Nightwing dove sharply to the side, executing a tight roll as her massive hand slammed directly into the heavy machinery behind him.
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The machine roared to life beneath them.
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*****
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For one horrible second, neither of them seemed to understand what had happened.
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Then Mommy screamed.
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The sound tore through the room, sharp and panicked, as one of her oversized hands became trapped between the rotating grinder wheels. The machinery seized the limb immediately, crushing plastic, metal, and whatever internal components made up her body. Mommy jerked backward with all her strength, but the machine refused to let go. The gears continued turning with relentless force, dragging her arm deeper into the mechanism inch by inch.
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Nightwingâs eyes widened.
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âWait, wait, stop!â
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He immediately searched for some kind of emergency shutoff. His gaze darted across the walls, looking for a control panel, a safety lever, anything that could stop the grinder before it tore her apart. Every industrial machine had safeguards. It had to.
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Nothing.
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Either there wasnât one, or it wasnât anywhere he could reach in time.
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Mommy let out another scream as cracks spread through the pink plastic of her arm. She planted her free hand against the floor and pulled with everything she had, desperately trying to free herself from the machineâs grip. For a moment Nightwing thought she might actually manage it.
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Then the grinder pulled harder.
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The room echoed with the sound of snapping metal.
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âWhat have you done?!â Mommy shrieked.
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The accusation hit harder than it should have.
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Nightwing grimaced. âI didnât mean to do this!â
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It was the truth. He hadnât been trying to hurt her. Heâd been trying to survive. One bad step, one desperate dodge, and now this was happening.
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Mommy either didnât hear him or didnât care.
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âHeâll make me part of him!â she screamed, her voice cracking with genuine terror. âHeâll make me part of him!â
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Nightwing froze.
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Part of who?
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Before he could ask, one of her legs slipped against the floor and disappeared into the grinderâs reach. The machine caught it immediately.
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Mommyâs scream became something almost unbearable to listen to.
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For the first time since entering the factory, Nightwing felt truly helpless.
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He had fought metahumans. Assassins. Monsters. He had faced enemies capable of leveling buildings and still found ways to help people.
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There was nothing he could do here.
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The machine continued its work with mechanical indifference, uncaring to her cries or struggles. It simply pulled and crushed and dragged forward, obeying the purpose it had been built for years ago.
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Then, suddenly, the grinder jammed.
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The entire machine shuddered violently before grinding to a halt with a deafening metallic shriek.
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Silence followed.
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What remained of Mommy Long Legs collapsed onto the floor.
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Only the upper portion of her body was left intact. Her limbs were shattered beyond recognition, broken pieces of plastic and metal scattered around the machine. The wide smile that had dominated her face throughout their encounter was gone now. The expression staring back at the ceiling looked strangely small.
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Defeated.
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Nightwing stood motionless.
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The fight was over.
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The chase was over.
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And yet victory was the last thing he felt.
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The room remained silent for several long moments as he stared at the remains of the giant toy. Questions continued piling up in his mind faster than he could answer them. What had she meant about becoming part of him? Who was she talking about? Why had she sounded so terrified at the end?
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A scraping sound interrupted his thoughts.
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Nightwingâs head snapped toward the source.
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Near the base of the wall sat a narrow maintenance opening, barely large enough for a person to crawl through. Something moved within the darkness beyond it.
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Then an arm emerged.
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Nightwing immediately tensed.
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The appendage looked nothing like the toys he had encountered so far. It was skeletal and mechanical, constructed from exposed metal rods, cables, and rusted plating. Long needle-like fingers unfolded from the hand with unsettling precision, extending far beyond what should have been physically possible.
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For a brief moment, Nightwing simply stared.
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The arm stretched across the floor toward Mommyâs remains.
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Slowly.
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Purposefully.
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Like it had done this many times before.
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The fingers wrapped themselves around the ruined body and tightened their grip.
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Then they began to drag.
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Nightwing took an instinctive step forward, one hand already moving toward an escrima stick. Every instinct told him to stop whatever this thing was, but he had no idea what he was looking at. A machine? Another experiment? Something else entirely?
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The arm offered no answers.
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Without hesitation, it pulled Mommyâs body across the floor and back toward the maintenance opening. The remains disappeared into the darkness beyond the wall piece by piece until nothing was left behind.
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*****
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The needle-like fingers vanished into the shadows.
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Then it was gone.
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The opening sat empty once more.
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As though nothing had happened.
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As though a giant mechanical hand hadnât just emerged from the darkness to collect the corpse of a living toy.
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Nightwing remained where he was, staring at the now-empty opening while his mind tried to process everything he had witnessed.
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Finally, he let out a slow breath.
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ââŚYeah.â
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His voice sounded very small in the massive room.
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âIâm definitely telling Batman about that.â
The heavy metal gate behind him finally slid open with a screech of ungreased gears, allowing him to slip through and leave the ruined maintenance bay behind. Nightwing moved quickly up a series of rusted iron stairs, his boots clanging softly against the metal until he emerged onto the high catwalk overlooking the entire Game Station hub. He followed the upper layout until he reached the glass-walled observation room, stepping inside to find the porcelain doll waiting for him beside a console, where the final section of the train code lay cleanly printed on a slip of paper.
Poppy turned her head toward him as he walked into the room, her painted eyes scanning his battle-scratched armor. "Did you kill her?" she asked, her voice tight and smooth. Nightwing did not offer a verbal response, preferring to maintain his stoic silence as he retrieved the code, but the small doll seemed to read the grim finality in his posture and nodded to herself. "Good. Iâll board the train. We need to leave." Without waiting for him, she scurried through a small ventilation opening on the wall that evidently connected directly to the lower boarding platform.
Nightwing exited the observation room through the main doors and jogged along the dark catwalk until he found a maintenance tube slide that plummeted further down into the station's depths. He slid down the steep incline, landing on his feet in a concrete passage that led straight to the abandoned railway terminal where the train sat waiting on the tracks. As he approached the entrance of the front cart, a sudden flickering shadow above him caught his attention, revealing a brief blur of deep blue moving fluidly across the high ceiling pipes before vanishing into the darkness. He instantly unholstered his tactical flashlight and swept the beam across the rafters, but the shadows were empty; wanting to get out of the hostile facility as soon as possible, he pulled his gaze away and climbed into the train's control cabin.
Once inside the narrow cockpit, he quickly input the three fragments of the code into the main console and engaged the ignition sequence. The engine hummed to life with a heavy vibration, and the train began to roll slowly down the dark tracks, leaving the brightly colored nightmare of the Game Station behind as it entered a long, brick-lined transit tunnel. As the locomotive picked up momentum and the ambient light of the station faded away, the cabin speakers suddenly crackled to life, and Poppyâs sweet voice filled the small space.
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âI was so scared she would put me back in that case,â she murmured. her tone causing Nightwing to feel a brief pang of guilt for having distrusted her motives earlier.
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âBut you saved me,â her voice continued, though the tone suddenly dropped into a low, echoing cadence that sent an immediate chill down his spine. âYou are perfect, too perfect to lose.â
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His stomach immediately dropped.
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âYeah, see, thatâs the part that worries me.â
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The track ahead split into a junction inside the dark tunnel, and while a glowing green arrow initially pointed toward the left tunnel, seemingly marking the exit route, the light abruptly cut out and shifted to a bright arrow pointing toward the right tunnel.
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âIâm sorry, I canât let you leave.â
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The train violently lurched onto the right track, heading deeper into the sub-levels of the facility.
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âPoppy.â
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His voice sharpened instantly.
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âStop the train.â
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Nightwing lunged forward and grabbed the manual levers on the control panel, straining his muscles as he tried to force them backward, but the automated system overrode his physical inputs completely.
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âIâve never met anyone like you,â she cheered through the speakers, letting out a soft, innocent giggle that contrasted horribly with the situation.
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Nightwing gave a humorless laugh.
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âYou need to get out more.â The joke fell completely flat. âPoppy, seriously. Stop the train.â
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The tunnel began to tilt sharply downward, sending the train into a steep descent. He abandoned the console and threw his weight against the heavy side exit door, but the pneumatic locks were entirely engaged, and the reinforced windows were far too narrow for a grown man to pass through.
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âDo you know how long Iâve been stuck in that case?â Poppyâs voice continued to echo calmly from the walls as the train rattled violently against the rails.
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âLong enough to think kidnapping is a good first impression apparently.â Nightwing continued working the controls, moving rapidly from switch to switch in search of some kind of manual override. âI got you out because I thought you needed help. Donât make me regret that.â
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âWell, too long. I had so much time to think and reflect, time to figure out exactly what I would do when free.â
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Nightwing kept his voice controlled, attempting to bargain with her while analyzing the structural layout of the cabin. âPoppy, listen to me. I have resources outside of this factory. I know people who can help fix whatever happened here, but I need to get to the surface to contact them.â
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She completely ignored his words, her voice growing more detached and enthusiastic âWe will set things right. Terrible things have happened, but I know that whatever I need you to do, youâre capable. We willââ
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Her sentence was abruptly cut off by a piercing electronic beep from the main console as the train began gaining excessive speed, the descent causing gravity to pull the carts down much faster than the automated engine could handle. A bright red warning light began flashing rapidly on the dashboard, illuminating a digital sign beside the secondary emergency brake lever that blinked:
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WARNING: UNSAFE SPEED. STOP TRAIN.
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Nightwing locked his boots onto the floor, gripped the heavy metal emergency lever with both hands, and threw his entire body weight backward to pull it. With a loud, grinding screech, the mechanical brakes finally engaged, and massive showers of bright orange sparks erupted outside the windows as the metal brake pads locked against the spinning wheels. The immense friction sent a violent shudder through the entire train, the cabin shaking so forcefully that the plastic panels on the walls began to pop loose.
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The momentum proved too great for the curved tracks. The front cart tilted heavily onto its side, the wheels lifting off the rails with a deafening roar of twisting metal.
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âOh, this is bad.â
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The train derailed completely, flipping sideways and sliding several yards through the pitch-black tunnel until it slammed into a concrete support pillar and came to a final, dead stop.
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Silence descended on the ruined tunnel, broken only by the hiss of escaping steam from the broken engine pipes. Nightwing lay flat on the dented floor of the cabin, the wind completely knocked out of him as he slowly forced his eyes open to survey the damage through the shattered glass of the front windshield. The environment was entirely dark save for a single flickering emergency light outside, which illuminated a large, faded sign mounted on the concrete wall of the station platform.
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Playcare.
And here we have chapter 3, Iâll also be working on interlude 3 today as well
A little graphic on Mommyâs ending, but Iâm pretty sure the entire game is, but Iâll try to make it less gory in the chapters to come
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠CHAPTER II | ⧠INTERLUDE II | ⧠CHAPTER III
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???'S POV:
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The room was too bright. It was always too bright in this place, the harsh white light from the ceiling panels reflecting off the glossy, polished floors until everything seemed to bleed together in a blur of primary colors and sharp glare. Painted murals of smiling cartoon characters lined the walls, their massive, static grins stretching wide over rows of low tables and foam mats.Â
Everywhere, there was noise. Children were running in erratic circles, their sneakers squeaking loudly against the floor as they chased each other between the play areas. High-pitched laughter and sudden, overlapping screams of excitement bounced off the high ceiling, filling the vast space with a constant, rumbling din that made the childâs ears ring. Adults in neat, identical uniforms moved through the chaos with practiced ease, bending down to hand out crayons, stacking bright plastic building blocks, or gently guiding stray toddlers back toward the group. Everyone was moving. Everyone was interacting. Everyone seemed to belong to the rhythm of the room.Â
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Except for one boy.
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He stood in the far corner, his back pressed flat against the intersection of two walls, trying to make himself as small as possible. The corner offered a tiny sliver of shadow, a brief reprieve from the overwhelming brightness of the main floor. His small feet were tucked close together, and his shoulders were hunched forward in a defensive curve. He didnât know what to do with his hands, so he kept them wrapped tightly around the only thing that made sense to him.
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His fingers dug deep into the worn, faded blue plush of his bird toy. The fabric was thin in places, smooth from years of being held through restless nights and long, unfamiliar journeys. One of the stitched eyes sat a little lower than the other, staring up at him with a familiar, comforting blankness. He squeezed the toy against his chest, burying his chin in its soft head, using the familiar scent of old canvas and laundry soap to block out the sterile, chemical smell of disinfectant that hung heavy in the air.Â
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He watched the other children, but he didn't really see them. They were like shapes moving behind a thick pane of glass. He didn't know their names, and he didn't know how to talk to them. Back home, there had always been a routine, a familiar voice guiding him, a larger hand holding his own to show him where to go and what to do. Here, there were only strangers who spoke in quiet, measured tones that sounded gentle but never answered the questions that actually mattered.Â
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A shadow fell over him, cutting off a portion of the overhead glare.Â
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The child stiffened, his grip on the bird toy tightening instinctively as he looked up. One of the uniform-clad workers had crouched down in front of him, bringing themselves down to his eye level. The adult wore a warm, carefully constructed smileâthe kind of expression the grown-ups here always used when they wanted the children to look at them. It was a kind face, but it felt distant, like a mask that never quite changed.Â
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"Hey there," the worker said, keeping their voice soft and low, pitching it just below the surrounding noise of the playroom. "Why are you standing all the way back here in the corner? Thereâs a big game of tag starting near the blocks, and some of the others are drawing at the tables. Don't you want to go play with any of your friends?"Â
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The child didn't answer right away. He lowered his head slightly, his eyes tracking a scuff mark on the polished floor near the workerâs shoes. The silence stretched between them for several long seconds, punctuated only by the distant, echoing shouts of the other children. He wanted to ask about the circus. He wanted to ask about the train, or his parents, or the brother who was supposed to be looking for him. But the words always got stuck in his throat, heavy and useless.Â
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When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, a tiny sound that was nearly swallowed by the room. "I don't have any friends here." He shifted his arms, pulling the bird toy up until it shielded the lower half of his face. "I only have Sammy."
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The workerâs expression softened further, a flicker of professional sympathy crossing their features. They looked down at the faded blue bird, noting the way the child clung to it like a lifeline.Â
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"Sammy is a very good bird," the worker said smoothly, reached behind their back, and pulled something out from a large plastic crate they had been carrying. "But you know, Sammy might get a little lonely if heâs the only one taking care of you. And itâs always nice to have someone else around to help look after things."
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The adult lifted a brand-new toy into the space between them.Â
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The child blinked, his gaze drawn to the object. He had never seen anything like it before, and his mind struggled to find the right words to categorize what he was looking at. It didn't look like any animal or character he remembered from the circus posters. It was tall, covered in a thick, incredibly vibrant blue fur that seemed entirely untouched by dust or wear. The material looked impossibly soft, almost glistening under the harsh ceiling lights.Â
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But it was the shape that made him hesitate. The toy had an unnaturally long, slender torso, and its arms and legs stretched out far past normal proportions, dangling limply from the workerâs hands like loose ropes. Attached to the ends of those elongated limbs were large, oversized yellow mittens and matching feet.Â
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Most unsettling of all was its face. The head was wide and slightly triangular, dominated by two massive, perfectly round eyes that stared forward without blinking. Below those eyes, a bright red border outlined a mouth that was stretched into a massive, permanent smile. The smile was so wide it curved up toward the edges of its face, frozen in a look of endless, aggressive cheer.Â
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"This is Huggy Wuggy," the worker explained, shifting their grip so the long blue arms swayed slightly in the air. "Heâs the factoryâs best friend, and heâs everyone elseâs best friend too. He specializes in big, warm hugs whenever someone is feeling a little sad or left out. Do you think maybe he could be your friend? Yours and Sammy's?"Â
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The child looked from the workerâs encouraging smile back to the toy. He stared at the wide, unblinking eyes of the blue creature. Up close, the fur looked plush and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, hard concrete and metal of the building around them. The permanent smile was strange, almost overwhelming, but the workerâs words echoed quietly in his mind. Everyoneâs best friend.Â
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Slowly, hesitatingly, the child let go of Sammy with one hand. He reached out, his small fingers brushing against the pristine blue fur of the new toy. It felt incredibly soft, molding easily against his palm as his fingers closed around one of the long, limber arms. He pulled the creature toward himself, lifting it out of the workerâs grasp.Â
He held the toy up, staring directly into its large, vacant eyes for a few quiet moments. The frozen red smile didn't move, matching the permanent joy of the murals on the walls.Â
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With a small, quiet sigh, the child pulled the long-limbed creature into his chest. He adjusted his grip, wrapping both arms around the new blue toy while still keeping Sammy pressed securely beneath his elbow, refusing to let the old bird go. The worker smiled, gave the child a gentle pat on the shoulder, and stood up to tend to the rest of the room.Â
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The child sank back into his corner, enveloped by the faded blue of the past and the bright, unnatural blue of the present, hiding behind his new friends as the noise of the factory continued to roar around him.
The dust in the upper rafters had barely settled. High above the fractured catwalks, tucked away in the deep shadows where the rusted pipes crisscrossed like a skeletal ceiling, the figure remained perfectly still. Its grip on the cold metal was effortless, balanced in a way that defied the steep, empty drops below. It did not breathe, did not rustle, and did not make a single sound to betray its presence in the dark.
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Below, the final echoes of the collapse were fading. The blue furred monstrosity had lunged, its rows of sharp teeth bared in a desperate attempt to tear into its prey, but the trap had already been sprung. The heavy crate had smashed through the weak supports, and the metal walkway had given way entirely. The figure watched with wide, unblinking eyes as the massive blue toy plummeted, its long, flailing limbs swallowed instantly by the deep black void at the bottom of the factory.
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There was a heavy, lingering silence after the impact.
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The figure shifted its gaze slightly, focusing on the lone survivor standing near the broken edge. The weird human in the black and blue suit was breathing steadily, his posture tense but controlled as he looked down into the darkness where the monster had just vanished. He didn't look like the other adults who used to walk these halls in their neat uniforms. He moved differently. He thought faster.
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For a long moment, the man simply stood over the abyss, assessing the damage and looking for any sign of movement below. The figure tracked his every breath from the rafters, completely invisible against the dark, soot-stained metal of the ceiling. There was a strange, distant friction in the figure's mind as it stared down at the man, an unreadable sensation that it couldn't quite shape into a memory.
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Then, the man began to move.
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His head tilted upward, his sharp gaze sweeping across the dark network of pipes and ventilation shafts above him. He was searching the shadows, his instincts warning him that he was no longer alone in the ruined room.
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The figure reacted instantly and silently. Before the man's eyes could finish scanning the specific beam where it was perched, the figure retreated into the deeper darkness of an open vent. It slipped away without scraping a single wire or disturbing the thick layers of dust, vanishing completely just as the man's gaze brushed past the empty space.
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It needed to return to the lower levels. It needed to report what had happened here.
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He will want to know about this.
HahahaâŚ..
Hey guuyyys!!
I know itâs been a while, but uni has been quiet hectic, BUT, by the time I post this, I have already finished all the chapters of this story, and will be posting them one by one
Again, very sorry for the, very, late post, but I should be good now, trying to write them all quick since I plan on having eye surgery by the end of June or early July, so I wonât be posting anything for at least a month after that
And if anyone has lost interest in the story and no longer wants to be tagged, leave a comment or DM me and Iâll can remove you, no hard feelings
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠INTERLUDE I | ⧠CHAPTER II | ⧠INTERLUDE II
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 NIGHTWING'S POV:
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The factory does not greet him.
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It looms.
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The massive structure stands silent against the night, its once-bright colors dulled by time and neglect. Paint peels from the walls near the entrance, the cheerful reds and blues now muted into something lifeless. The windows are dark, coated in dust thick enough to block whatever once shined through them. Even the air feels different here, heavier, as if the building itself has been holding its breath for years.
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Nightwing pauses only for a moment before stepping inside.
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The doors groan faintly as they give way, the sound echoing deeper into the factory than it should. The moment he crosses the threshold, the outside world feels distant. The quiet inside is unnatural, the kind that presses in on the ears until even the smallest movement feels too loud.
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His boots land softly against the tiled floor.
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He does not rush.
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Careful steps carry him further into the lobby, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from broken windows above. The space opens up around him, larger than expected. This was once meant to impress. High ceilings stretch overhead, and the walls are lined with colorful decorations that have long since lost their shine.
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Posters cling to the walls.
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Smiling mascots stare out at him from every direction, their bright cartoon faces frozen in permanent cheer. Their slogans promise fun, safety, happiness. The words feel hollow now, especially here, where everything has been left to rot.
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Dust coats nearly every surface.
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It shifts faintly under his steps, disturbed for the first time in a long while. Nightwing crouches briefly, running two fingers along the floor. The marks left behind are clear, uninterrupted.
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No recent movement.
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At least not here.
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He rises again, gaze sweeping across the room, taking in every detail. The front desk stands abandoned near the far wall, drawers half-open as if someone left in a hurry and never came back. A few overturned chairs lie scattered nearby, their positions just off enough to suggest something disrupted them.
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Not chaos.
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Just⌠interruption.
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His attention shifts.
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At the center of the room stands something impossible to ignore.
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Tall.
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Blue.
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Unmoving.
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The figure towers above everything else in the lobby, positioned as if it had once been meant to welcome visitors. Long limbs hang loosely at its sides, ending in oversized hands and feet that look almost comical. Its fur, though dulled by dust, still holds traces of a bright, unnatural blue. A wide red smile stretches across its face.
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Its eyes are large.
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Round.
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Unblinking.
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Huggy Wuggy.
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The name is printed in cheerful letters on a sign near its feet.
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Nightwing studies it for a moment.
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At first glance, it looks harmless. Just another oversized mascot meant to entertain children and draw attention. The proportions are exaggerated, the features intentionally friendly in that unsettling way some toys tend to be. It stands perfectly still, exactly where it was placed years ago.
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Still, something about it feels⌠off.
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Not enough to act on. Just enough to notice.
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He shifts his focus away from it and continues forward.
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The rest of the lobby offers little in terms of immediate answers. Doors line the walls, most of them sealed shut. Some have small panels beside them, dark screens that suggest electronic locks. Others are blocked entirely, either by debris or by mechanisms that clearly require power to function.
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Nightwing approaches one of the panels. He studies it closely, fingers hovering near the surface without touching. The design is unfamiliar but simple enough to understand. It is meant to read input, most likely from some kind of access device. A scan system, perhaps.
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His gaze flicks upward toward the dark ceiling.
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No power.
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He tries accessing it anyway, pulling a small tool from his belt. The device hums quietly as he attempts to interface with the panel, but nothing responds. Whatever system this place used, it is completely dead.
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He steps back, slipping the tool away.
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Locked paths.
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Limited access.
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Whoever designed this place did not intend for people to move freely without the proper equipment. Which means that equipment is somewhere inside.
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Nightwing moves again, this time with more purpose. His search becomes more focused as he checks side rooms branching off from the main lobby. Offices, storage spaces, maintenance areas. Most are empty, stripped of anything useful or left to decay under layers of dust.
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Eventually, he finds what he is looking for.
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A small security room sits tucked behind a partially closed door. The handle resists slightly before giving way, opening into a space filled with outdated monitors and control panels. Screens line one wall, all dark, their surfaces reflecting faint shapes in the low light.
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A locker stands against the opposite side of the room.
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It is closed, though not locked.
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Nightwing opens it carefully.
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Inside rests a strange piece of equipment.
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He pulls it free, turning it over in his hands as he examines it. The device is compact but clearly engineered for function rather than appearance. Two mechanical arms extend from its base, each ending in a molded hand, one blue and one red. The design is unusual, almost excessive for something that appears to be used for interaction rather than heavy labor.
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A label is stamped along the side.
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GrabPack.
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He studies it for a moment longer before glancing toward the nearby desk.
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A cassette tape sits beside an old player.
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After a brief inspection, he presses it into place and activates the machine. The tape whirs to life, the sound crackling slightly as a prerecorded voice fills the room. The tone is bright, instructional, overly cheerful in a way that does not quite match the silence surrounding it.
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The recording explains the device in simple terms.
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Extendable hands.
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Remote interaction.
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Access to restricted systems.
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It is presented as a tool for employees, something meant to make navigating the factory easier. The explanation is thorough, almost too much so for something that should be straightforward.
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Nightwing listens without interrupting, committing the important details to memory.
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When the tape clicks off, the room falls silent again.
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He looks down at the device in his hands.
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Weird.
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There is no other word for it.
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A toy factory that requires something like this to function properly raises more questions than it answers. Still, the logic behind it is clear. If the systems here rely on this kind of interface, then this is his way forward.
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He adjusts his stance and begins fitting the GrabPack into place.
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The straps settle across his shoulders and back, secure without restricting movement. He shifts slightly, testing the weight and balance. It is different from his usual gear, but not enough to be a problem. His eskrima sticks are removed from their place across his back and clipped securely at his belt instead, ensuring they remain within easy reach.
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He flexes his shoulders once.
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Then again.
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The added equipment settles quickly into something usable.
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Nightwing glances once more around the room before stepping back into the hallway.
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Now, the factory is no longer completely closed to him.
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Now, it has started to respond.
With the GrabPack secured to his back, Nightwing moves with clearer intent. The factory is no longer just a dead space full of locked doors, it is something structured, something built to function in a very specific way. If power is the key to everything, then restoring it comes first.
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He follows the layout deeper inside until he finds what he is looking for.
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A maintenance room sits behind a reinforced door, filled with old generators and control panels. Everything is still, layered in dust, but not destroyed. Just inactive. Nightwing studies the system for a moment before reaching for the GrabPack, testing its reach and response. The mechanical hands extend smoothly, more precise than they look.
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He gets to work quickly. Wires are reconnected, circuits bridged, pathways completed in ways that would have taken far longer without the device. The process feels almost too efficient, like the entire system was designed with this exact tool in mind.
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That thought lingers, but he does not dwell on it.
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The final connection clicks into place, and for a moment nothing happens. Then the room hums to life. Lights flicker overhead before stabilizing, and somewhere deeper in the factory something shifts as power begins to flow again.
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Nightwing steps back, watching for any immediate reaction, then turns and heads back the way he came.
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When he re-enters the lobby, he slows.
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At first nothing seems different. The posters are still there, the desks untouched, the same layer of dust covering the floor. But as his eyes sweep across the room, something feels off. It takes only a second for him to realize what it is.
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The center of the room is empty.
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The spot where the tall blue mascot once stood is now nothing but bare floor. There are no marks, no signs it was dragged or moved. It is simply gone.
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Nightwing stops, his attention sharpening as the realization settles in. That thing had been impossible to miss. There is no chance he imagined it.
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Which means it moved.
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His hand shifts slightly toward his escrima sticks as he considers calling for backup. This is no longer just an abandoned factory. Something is active here, something that should not be. The decision hangs for only a moment before a faint noise cuts through the silence.
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Metal, distant, coming from one of the side hallways.
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Nightwing turns toward it immediately and moves to investigate.
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The hallway leads him to a security room, now accessible with the power restored. He unlocks it using the GrabPack and steps inside, eyes immediately drawn to the monitors lining the walls. Most show empty corridors and silent rooms, the camera feeds grainy but functional.
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He scans them quickly, looking for anything out of place.
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Then one of the screens changes.
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A shape moves into view.
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Blue.
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Large.
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Huggy Wuggy.
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Nightwingâs focus locks onto the screen as the figure walks through the frame. There is nothing stiff about it now, no sign of it being a simple display. Its movements are slow but deliberate, controlled in a way that makes it clear this is no statue.
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It crosses the cameraâs view, pauses briefly as if listening, then continues out of frame.
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The hallway is empty again.
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Nightwing immediately checks the adjacent feeds, searching for where it went, but every screen shows nothing. Just empty corridors, silent rooms, and the same lifeless factory he had walked through minutes ago.
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He stills in front of the monitors, the implications settling in.
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The factory is not empty.
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And whatever is inside it is moving.
Now Nightwing moves with caution.
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Before, the factory had been something to explore. Now it feels like something he is moving through while being watched. Every step is quieter, more deliberate, his attention split between the path ahead and whatever might be following behind.
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He continues forward, deeper into the building, until he reaches another blocked section. A metal gate bars the way, its mechanism inactive until he studies the slot beside it. It is shaped to receive something specific.
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A toy.
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Nightwing pauses, glancing between the slot and the surrounding machinery. The realization settles in slowly, bringing more questions with it. This place was not just producing toys. It was built around them. Systems, access points, progression, all tied to something as simple as a finished product.
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Did employees have to make a toy every time they needed to pass through here?
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What happened to those toys afterward?
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The thought lingers, but it does not stop him. He moves through the assembly line, following the process step by step. Parts are collected, fitted together, guided into place with the help of the GrabPack when needed. The motions are simple, almost routine, as if the system expects repetition.
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When the toy is complete, he places it into the scanner.
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The machine hums briefly before the gate unlocks with a heavy click, lifting just enough to allow him through.
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Beyond it is a narrow hallway. Two doors sit on either side, both locked, their panels unresponsive even with the restored power. Ahead, the corridor stretches into darkness, the light from behind him fading before it can reach the end.
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Nightwing tests the doors first, confirming what he already suspects, then turns toward the dark passage.
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He takes a step forward.
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Then stops.
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Something is there.
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At the edge of the darkness, a shape begins to form. Tall. Blue. Familiar.
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Huggy Wuggy steps into the light.
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It moves slowly at first, its long limbs carrying it forward with an unsettling ease. The red smile remains fixed in place, wide and unnatural, as its large eyes settle on him. Nightwing shifts his stance slightly, taking a step back as the distance between them closes.
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The toy stops near the gate, tilting its head just slightly as if studying him.
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For a few seconds, neither of them moves.
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Nightwing exhales quietly, then speaks, his tone cautious. âHey there.â
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The response is immediate.
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Huggyâs mouth opens wider than it should, stretching into something monstrous as rows of sharp teeth reveal themselves. The illusion of a harmless mascot disappears in an instant. A low, guttural sound follows, something closer to a roar than anything mechanical.
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Then it lunges.
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Nightwing reacts on instinct, throwing himself to the side as the massive figure crashes into the space where he had been standing. He does not hesitate after that. He runs.
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The hallway is tight, forcing him forward with no room to slow down or change direction. Behind him, the sound of heavy footsteps slams against the floor, fast and relentless. Huggy follows without hesitation, closing the distance with alarming speed.
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Nightwing pushes forward, slipping into a narrower passage in hopes of losing it. For a brief second, he thinks it might work.
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Then he looks back.
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Huggy is still there.
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Its body forces its way through the confined space, limbs scraping against the walls as it squeezes through without slowing down. The size that once made it seem cumbersome now works against him. It does not need space to move. It just needs to reach him.
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He keeps running.
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The passage opens suddenly onto a catwalk suspended over a massive drop. The darkness below is too deep to see the bottom, swallowing whatever lies beneath. Nightwing does not stop to think about it. He keeps moving, boots hitting metal as he searches for anything he can use.
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The footsteps behind him grow louder.
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Closer.
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His eyes catch on something above. A large crate hangs loosely overhead, suspended just enough to be within reach.
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He raises the GrabPack and fires.
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The mechanical hand shoots forward, latching onto the crate. He pulls, expecting resistance, expecting it to hold.
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It doesnât.
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The crate breaks loose.
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It drops.
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At the exact moment Huggy bursts onto the catwalk behind him, the crate slams down between them. The impact shudders through the structure, the already unstable metal giving way beneath the sudden weight.
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The catwalk collapses.
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Nightwing reacts immediately, twisting his body as he falls, managing to catch onto the lower level and land hard but controlled. Above him, Huggy hits the railing, its massive body sliding forward before disappearing into the darkness below.
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The sound of its fall echoes for a long moment.
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Then silence.
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Nightwing stays where he is for a second, breathing steady as he processes what just happened. Slowly, he rises, glancing over the edge, but there is nothing to see. No movement. No sign of where the creature landed.
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Just darkness.
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He turns away, focusing instead on finding a way forward.
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As he moves along the lower catwalk, the feeling returns.
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That same sensation from before.
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Being watched.
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He pauses, scanning the area carefully, but finds nothing. No movement, no sound, nothing to confirm the instinct. After a moment, he continues on, though the awareness does not fade.
Â
It follows him.
Â
The path eventually leads to a door marked by a large painted poppy flower, its bright red color standing out against the otherwise decayed surroundings. Nightwing pushes it open and steps through.
Â
The change is immediate.
Â
The interior beyond does not resemble the factory at all. The walls are cleaner, shaped like the inside of a house rather than an industrial space. Furniture sits arranged neatly, untouched by the decay outside. It feels wrong, like stepping into something that does not belong here.
Â
He moves through it cautiously, taking in the details as he goes.
Â
The path leads him into a final room, dimly lit by a red glow. At the center stands a pedestal, and on it rests a glass case.
Â
Inside is a doll.
Â
Small. Porcelain. Red hair framing a pale face frozen in a delicate expression. It looks harmless at first glance, but something about it puts him on edge. The stillness is too perfect, too deliberate.
Â
For a brief moment, a thought crosses his mind. This would not be the first time a doll turned out to be something far worse.
Â
He approaches anyway.
Â
Against better judgment, he opens the case.
Â
Nothing happens at first.
Â
Silence stretches for a few seconds as he watches the doll, waiting for some kind of reaction. Then, slowly, its eyes open.
Â
They lock onto his.
Â
Nightwing stills, ready for another attack, expecting movement, expecting something violent.
Â
Instead, the doll speaks.
Â
âYou opened my case.â
First of all, I apologize for the wait, classe have been kicking my behind, and I was going to work on this chapter last weekend but I ended up just doing some work ahead of time for university so I would have more time to write
Then Monday I relaxed a bit, then Thursday i was busy the whole day class in the morning, vaccine after that then another class at night, and now today I woke up feeling like shit, since my imune system is terrible the effect vaccine decided to act up, so if this chapter is a little working is because I wrote while I had a fever, so sorry
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠CHAPTER I | ⧠INTERLUDE I | ⧠CHAPTER II
???'S POV:
Footsteps echo along a hallway that seems too long for such small legs. The floor is polished and bright beneath flickering lights, reflecting shapes that move past in slow stretches of color and shadow. A large hand is wrapped loosely around a smaller one, guiding it forward without stopping. The grip is firm but not painful, steady enough that resistance feels useless.
The child asks questions as they walk.
The voice is small and uncertain. It asks where they are going. It asks where their parents are. It asks for their brother.
The answers are always the same.
Soft voices from adults who do not stop walking.
Words that sound gentle but do not explain anything.
They say the child cannot stay with them anymore.
They say this will be a better place.
They say everything will be alright.
The hallway bends. Another set of doors appears ahead. Bright colors leak through the crack where one of them stands slightly open, spilling light into the otherwise pale corridor.
The door opens wider.
The room beyond is enormous.
It is filled with color.
Walls painted in bright murals stretch high overhead, each surface covered in smiling cartoon mascots with round eyes and wide grins. Some wave cheerfully from painted clouds while others stand beside children who look small and happy beneath them. Red, yellow, blue and green swirl together in shapes meant to look playful. The colors are so bright they almost hurt to look at after the dull hallway outside.
Children fill the room. Some sit on the floor in small groups. Others play with toys spread across bright foam mats. Their laughter drifts through the air in uneven bursts, mixing with the low murmur of adults moving through the room.
Workers walk among them in neat uniforms, bending occasionally to speak softly to a child or guide someone toward a table covered in crayons and paper. Their voices carry a practiced calm, the kind used when speaking to frightened children.
Everyone keeps saying the same thing.
You are safe here.
This is your new home.
Everything will be alright.
The child does not move very far into the room.
Small fingers tighten around the stuffed bird held against their chest. The plush toy is soft and worn in places where it has clearly been held too often, its small wings flattened slightly from years of being carried around. The fabric presses against the childâs shirt as it is pulled closer, held almost protectively.
Children run past, laughing as they chase each other between tables. One nearly bumps into the newcomer before darting away again, drawn toward a pile of bright building blocks on the other side of the room.
The murals on the walls seem to watch all of it with wide painted smiles.
A shadow falls across the floor beside the child.
A hand settles gently on their shoulder.
The touch is light, meant to reassure, though it only makes the child stiffen slightly where they stand. Slowly they look up.
The man standing behind them feels familiar in a strange and distant way. His face stirs something faint in the back of the childâs mind, as if they have seen him before but cannot remember when. The memory slips away before it can be caught.
He crouches slightly so his eyes are level with the childâs.
His expression is warm, practiced into something that looks kind. The kind of smile adults give when they want children to trust them.
His lips begin to move.
The words in the memory are thin and distant, like sound heard from the far end of a tunnel. Most of what he says cannot be heard clearly. The meaning is lost somewhere between the moment it happened and the broken echo that remains now.
Only pieces survive.
Welcome.
Your new home.
The rest dissolves into silence.
At the very end of the sentence the child can see the manâs lips form one last word.
A name.
But the voice that spoke it is gone from the memory.
Awareness returns in uneven pieces, the way the memory arrived moments ago. Dust hangs motionless in stale air. The faint groan of old metal echoes somewhere far above, carried through the vast skeleton of the factory. Pipes stretch along the ceiling like rusted veins, running through dark corridors and forgotten rooms where the lights have not worked in years.
Perched high among those pipes, a figure remains perfectly still.
For a moment it does not move at all, as if waiting for the remnants of the strange dream to settle back into the quiet place where broken memories usually stay. The fragments linger only briefly before fading again into something unreachable.
Then something else presses against its awareness.
A presence.
The sensation is sudden enough to pull its attention completely away from the fading dream. It is not unfamiliar with movement inside the factory. The building has never truly been empty. Shapes move in the dark hallways below, wandering through rooms that once belonged to people who no longer return.
But this presence feels different.
It comes from above.
From the very top level of the factory.
The entrance.
That alone is strange enough to draw attention. The upper floors have been silent for a long time, only the rare sounds that come from the furry blue figure. Dust gathers there without disturbance, and the air rarely carries the sound of footsteps anymore.
The figure tilts its head slightly, listening.
Something has entered the building.
Curiosity flickers quietly where the dream had been only moments before. Slowly, carefully, it shifts its weight along the narrow pipe where it had been perched. The movement is light and deliberate, practiced in the art of remaining unseen even in the open spaces between the rafters.
Nearby, a ventilation shaft sits partially open where its metal cover once hung loose before falling away long ago.
The figure turns toward it.
Curiosity lingers for only a moment longer before the figure begins moving through the vent, heading toward the upper level of the factory to find the source of the disturbance.
And to see who has come inside.
And here we have an the first interlude!
It was a bit short, but all interludes will be this way
Like⌠Benji writing letters to Dick in a journal while living in Playcare. It's childish, he knows, but it gives Benji a link back to his brother, talking about his day, even if he knows Dick will never read them, keeping the book under his pillowcase to keep his brother closeâŚ
Dick discovering the journal in Chapter 3, when exploring Home Sweet Home and finds page upon page of a life his brother was living without himâŚ
God, I'm making myself tear up.
PLEASE keep inspiring me with plots like these.
Okay but can I just say something.
This comment right here actually made me rewrite several parts of the story.
Like genuinely.
When I first read this ask I just sat there thinking âwait⌠that is actually such a good idea.â It ended up changing how I structured some of the chapters and even how the interludes work.
So when you say âkeep inspiring me with plots like theseâ I have to turn that right back around and say:
You are the one inspiring me.
Seriously.
Seeing readers get invested enough to start imagining scenes, adding ideas, and emotionally reacting to the characters is one of the coolest parts of posting stories online. It makes the whole process feel collaborative in a way.
So thank you for that idea, because it honestly helped shape the story into something better.
And also Iâm very sorry in advance for the emotional damage the new added scenes might cause later.
But then again, you gave me the idea đ¤ˇââď¸
Hiii I genuinely loved your last fic, and I am so excited to read this one too. I was wondering if Birds Of A Feather will also have multiple endings?
Honestly, probably not this time.
When I started planning Birds Of A Feather I really wanted to do the same thing I did with my last fic. A good ending, a bad ending, maybe even a secret one if you made certain choices while reading. I tried for a while to think of different directions the story could go.
But every time I mapped things out, the story kept leading me back to the same conclusion.
There are probably other endings that could exist, but they would only work if the events of the story happened differently from the beginning, and that would change the whole narrative structure I already have planned.
So for now the story will most likely have one ending.
That said, I am still writing it chapter by chapter, so if some wild idea appears while Iâm working on it, Iâm not going to rule anything out completely.
But as it stands right now, Birds Of A Feather is planned as a single ending story.
⧠MASTERLIST | ⧠PROLOGUE | ⧠CHAPTER I | ⧠INTERLUDE I
DICK'S POV:
The trapeze bar felt familiar in Dickâs hands, smooth from years of use and faintly dusty from the chalk that clung to his palms. He shifted his grip slightly and steadied his breathing the way his parents had taught him. Above him, the ropes creaked softly as they swayed. Below him, the circus floor stretched wide and distant, the safety net pulled tight across the ring like a promise.
Dick leaned forward and let the motion of the swing carry him. His body followed the rhythm easily, legs tucked and then extended as he built momentum. He had done this hundreds of times already, but the concentration never faded. His mother always said the trapeze demanded respect. One wrong movement, one moment of distraction, and gravity would remind you that it was still there.
He swung forward again, eyes focused on the next bar. The air rushed past his ears as the ropes tightened and pulled him upward.
One more swing.
Then another.
The quiet backstage area was filled with the small sounds of preparation. Someone was adjusting lights near the curtain. Metal tools clinked faintly against a ladder somewhere below. The smell of sawdust and popcorn drifted faintly through the tent, mixing with the chalk on Dickâs hands.
For a moment, everything felt exactly the way it always had.
Then a small voice broke through his concentration.
âWhen can I fly like you?â
Dick nearly missed the next swing.
He caught himself quickly and turned his head toward the sound, one hand still gripping the bar as the trapeze slowed.
Benjamin, or Benji, stood just outside the training net, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. His dark hair was sticking up in several directions, and his small hands were wrapped tightly around the stuffed bird he carried almost everywhere. The toyâs soft wings hung slightly crooked from years of being squeezed and dragged around backstage.
Dick grinned despite himself.
âHey, Chickadee,â he called down.
Benjiâs face brightened immediately at the nickname.
Dick shifted his weight and let the trapeze settle before dropping lightly onto the net below. The woven ropes dipped under his weight before springing back as he stepped off and walked toward the edge where Sammy stood.
Up close, the toy bird was impossible to ignore. The blue plush had faded in places from wear, and one of the stitched eyes sat just a little lower than the other.
Dick knew that toy well.
He remembered the night Benji first got it.
Benji had only been a few months old at the time, and a thunderstorm had rolled over the circus grounds late in the evening. The rain had battered against the canvas tents while thunder cracked across the sky loud enough to shake the metal poles holding everything upright. Sammy had cried and cried in the small trailer their parents used as a dressing room, his tiny fists clenched as if the storm itself had offended him.
Dick had been four then, still small enough that his feet barely reached the floor when he sat on the bench near the costume racks.
He had watched their mother rock Sammy for almost an hour, murmuring softly and trying everything she could think of to calm him down. Nothing worked.
Eventually Dick had wandered over, holding the stuffed bird he had slept with since he was even younger.
He remembered offering it without really thinking about it.
âHere,â he had said, pressing the toy into the babyâs hands.
Benji had stopped crying almost immediately.
Their mother had laughed softly in surprise, and Dick had felt strangely proud as the baby quieted, clutching the toy like it had always belonged to him.
From that moment on, it had.
Benji rarely went anywhere without it.
Dick blinked and returned to the present as Benji shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.
Dick crouched down in front of him so they were almost eye level.
âYouâre still too little to fly with us,â he said gently.
Benjiâs face fell immediately.
His grip tightened around the bird toy as he stared down at the ground. Dick could practically see the disappointment forming behind those big eyes.
Before the silence could last too long, Dick leaned forward slightly and nudged the toy bird with one finger.
âBut,â he added, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret, âthat doesnât mean you canât practice.â
Benjiâs head snapped up.
âReally?â
Dick nodded and stood again.
âCome on. Iâll show you.â
He led Benji toward a smaller training frame set up near the back of the tent. It was a much lower trapeze rig, designed for practice rather than performance, with shorter ropes and bars that hung only a few feet above the ground.
Perfect for someone Benjiâs size.
Dick lifted his brother easily and set him on the padded mat beneath the bar.
Benji immediately tried to climb it by himself, though his legs kicked a little wildly in the process.
âHold on,â Dick laughed, catching him before he tipped backward.
He helped Benji wrap his hands around the bar properly, adjusting his grip the way their father had shown him countless times before.
âOkay,â Dick said, stepping back just enough to watch him. âFirst thing. You have to keep your hands tight like this.â
Benji copied the motion with exaggerated concentration.
âLike this?â
âExactly like that.â
For the next few hours, the two of them practiced together beneath the quiet canopy of the circus tent.
Dick showed him how to swing his legs to build momentum and how to shift his weight so the bar moved instead of fighting against him. Benji listened carefully to every instruction, though his excitement often made him rush ahead before Dick had finished explaining.
Several times Dick had to catch him when he swung a little too far.
Each time Benji burst into giggles instead of fear.
Eventually Dick guided him to the second bar hanging just a short distance away.
Benji stared at it with wide eyes.
âYou think you can reach it?â Dick asked.
Sammy nodded so hard his hair bounced.
âOkay,â Dick said, stepping slightly to the side while keeping his hands close in case he needed to catch him. âRemember what I told you.â
Benji bent his knees a little and started to swing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The motion grew bigger with every pass.
Then he let go.
For a split second he hung in the air between the two bars.
âDicky, watch me!â
His small hands closed around the second trapeze with a triumphant thump.
Dick laughed immediately, the sound echoing lightly against the canvas walls of the tent as Benji swung proudly from the bar like he had just completed the greatest act in the world.
âNice one, Chickadee,â Dick called up to him.
Benji beamed down at him, clutching the trapeze with one hand while the stuffed bird dangled safely from the other.
By the time evening arrived, the circus grounds had transformed completely.
What had been a quiet training space during the afternoon was now alive with movement and noise. Lanterns hung from tall poles, casting warm golden light across rows of game stalls and food carts. The smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts drifted through the air while music from a calliope echoed faintly near the entrance of the main tent. Families wandered between attractions, children tugging excitedly at their parentsâ sleeves while performers in bright costumes passed through the crowds on their way to the show.
Tonight was their performance in Gotham.
Backstage, the atmosphere buzzed with preparation. Assistants carried equipment from one tent to another, animals were guided toward their enclosures, and performers rehearsed final movements before the show began. The air was thick with anticipation.
John and Mary Grayson moved through the activity with practiced ease. They paused near the trapeze rig to inspect the ropes and spoke briefly with a stagehand about the timing of the act. After checking a few final details, they stepped away again, heading toward the front of the tent to speak with the ringmaster before the show began.
Dick remained behind to continue practicing.
He hung from the trapeze with both hands, letting the bar sway gently beneath him while he adjusted his grip. Each movement came naturally now, the familiar rhythm of swing and balance guiding his body without much thought.
Not far away, Benji sat cross-legged on the padded mat beneath the rig.
He watched his brother with open admiration, the stuffed bird clutched tightly in his arms. The toyâs soft blue fabric had faded in places from years of use, but Benji carried it everywhere with the careful dedication only a child could manage.
Dick swung forward once more before slowing the bar to a stop.
As he glanced down toward the mat, something unusual caught his attention.
A man had knelt beside Benji.
Dick immediately released the trapeze and dropped lightly onto the mat before jogging toward them.
The man looked well dressed, his coat neatly pressed and his posture straight even while crouched at Benjiâs level. He appeared calm, almost amused, as he spoke to the younger boy.
Dick stepped forward quickly.
âWho are you?â he asked, positioning himself beside Benji.
The man straightened at once.
âI apologize if I startled you,â he said politely. âI had a VIP ticket that allowed me to meet some of the performers backstage. I simply wandered a little too far and noticed this young fellow sitting here alone.â
His voice was smooth and friendly.
Dick did not relax.
The man glanced down toward the toy in Benjiâs arms and smiled.
âThatâs a very cute bird you have there,â he said. âDoes it have a name?â
Benjiâs face lit up immediately.
He lifted the toy proudly and held it out for the man to see.
âHis name is Sammy!â
Dick stepped closer and placed a hand gently on Benjiâs shoulder before pulling him upright beside him.
âThis tent is for warmups,â Dick said carefully. âIf you want to meet the performers, that happens out front.â
The man nodded, accepting the explanation without argument.
âOf course. My mistake.â
Dick turned slightly toward his brother.
âWe should go find Mom and Dad before the show starts.â
Benji nodded enthusiastically and waved back toward the man as Dick began guiding him away.
âBye, mister!â
The manâs smile remained calm and polite.
âPierre,â he said. âLeith Pierre. Goodbye, Benji.â
Dick continued walking, though he kept glancing back over his shoulder as they moved across the tent. Pierre had not moved from his spot. He simply stood there, watching them leave with a thoughtful expression.
Dick did not look away from him until the man finally disappeared behind a row of stacked crates.
Only then did he turn forward again.
They walked through the narrow paths between tents until they spotted their parents speaking with another performer near the animal pens.
Before Dick could call out to them, a small voice spoke up nearby.
âExcuse meâŚâ
A little boy stood several feet away from them, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He looked about three years old, maybe younger, and clutched the sleeve of his own jacket with anxious fingers.
Dick crouched down slightly.
âAre you lost?â
The boy nodded.
âMy parents were here,â he said quietly. âBut I canât find them.â
Benji immediately moved closer to the boy.
âItâs okay,â he said confidently. âOur parents can help you.â
Dick smiled a little at that.
âCome on,â he said. âWeâll help you find them.â
It did not take long. After a few minutes of walking through the crowd, they found the boyâs parents near the entrance of the main tent. The moment they saw him, both adults rushed forward with clear relief.
âTim!â his mother exclaimed as she wrapped him in a tight hug.
His father turned toward the Graysons with grateful relief.
âThank you for bringing him back,â he said. âWe only turned away for a moment.â
Benji beamed proudly.
Dick shrugged slightly, embarrassed by the attention.
âIt was nothing.â
Timâs parents exchanged a quick glance before pulling a small camera from a nearby bag.
âWould you mind taking a picture with us?â Timâs father asked. âJust so we can remember the people who helped him.â
The request was innocent enough.
They gathered together near the edge of the tent, and the photo was taken quickly before the ringmasterâs voice began calling performers toward the stage.
In the rush that followed, Dick forgot entirely about the strange man he had met earlier.
Hours passed before he remembered anything at all.
By then, it was too late.
The main show began beneath a roaring crowd.
Rows of spectators filled the circus tent, their voices blending into a constant wave of excitement as the performance unfolded. The bright lights above the ring illuminated every act while music from the band echoed across the canvas ceiling.
Dick and Benji stood near the backstage entrance, watching from the side as their parents prepared for the trapeze act.
John and Mary Grayson climbed the ladder with the same steady confidence they always carried. The crowd cheered loudly as they reached the platform and bowed gracefully before stepping toward their bars.
Dick watched proudly as the act began.
His parents swung forward together, their movements perfectly synchronized as they soared through the air. The crowd gasped with delight each time they released the bar and caught the next one, their timing flawless and precise.
Benji watched with wide eyes.
âLook, Dicky!â he whispered excitedly.
Dick smiled.
âI see.â
The final sequence of the routine approached. Their parents prepared for the most dangerous jump, the one that always earned the loudest applause.
Mary released her bar.
John reached out to catch her.
For one brief moment, everything seemed exactly as it should be.
Then the rope snapped.
The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Both bars dropped at once.
The Flying Graysons fell.
They hit the ground before anyone could react.
The entire tent went silent.
For several seconds, no one moved.
Then the panic began.
People screamed. Spectators surged toward the exits. Performers rushed into the ring as the crowd dissolved into chaos.
Dick could not move.
He stood frozen, staring at the center of the ring where his parents lay motionless on the ground. The bright lights above them reflected off the spreading pool of blood beneath their bodies.
His mind refused to understand what he was seeing.
Around him, people shouted and ran in every direction.
Someone tried to guide him away from the ring.
Dick barely noticed.
Then the hand beside his slipped away.
It took several seconds before he realized something was wrong.
Dick turned sharply.
Benji was gone.
The space beside him was empty.
His heart dropped instantly into his stomach.
âBenji?â
He pushed past the performer trying to lead him away and ran into the crowd.
âBenji!â
The noise inside the tent drowned out his voice as people rushed toward the exits. Dick darted between them, scanning every face he passed.
He ran toward the backstage area.
Nothing.
He searched near the animal pens.
Nothing.
âBenji!â he shouted again, his voice cracking with panic.
Other performers tried to stop him, but Dick pulled free every time they grabbed his arm.
He kept searching.
Kept shouting.
But no matter where he looked, his brother was nowhere to be found.
By the time the police arrived, the circus no longer felt like the bright, lively place it had been only hours before.
The laughter and music had vanished completely. The lanterns that once gave the grounds a warm glow now cast long, uneasy shadows across the empty walkways. Most of the crowd had already been escorted away, leaving only performers, investigators, and a handful of workers who moved quietly between the tents.
The large circus ring where the accident had happened was nearly unrecognizable.
Bright white sheets had been placed over two still shapes on the sawdust floor. The spotlights that once illuminated daring performances now shone down on the covered forms in harsh silence.
Dick sat on a wooden bench near the edge of the ring.
Someone had given him a blanket, though he had not noticed when it happened. It hung loosely around his shoulders while he stared across the tent without really seeing anything. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, the knuckles pale against the fabric.
Police officers walked back and forth across the performance area, speaking in low voices while examining the broken rigging high above the ring. A ladder had been dragged into the center so one of the officers could inspect the snapped rope more closely.
Dick listened without meaning to.
âLooks like equipment failure.â
âProbably old wiring or a weak joint.â
âThese things happen.â
Their words drifted through the air like distant noise.
One of the officers eventually approached him.
The man crouched slightly, lowering himself to Dickâs level.
âSon,â he said gently, âweâre going to take you somewhere safe for the night. There are arrangements that need to be made.â
Dick barely reacted.
âMy brother is still here,â he said quietly.
The officer hesitated.
âWeâre looking,â the man replied after a moment. âBut right now you need to come with us.â
Dick shook his head immediately.
âIâm not leaving.â
The officer tried again, keeping his voice calm.
âYour parentsâŚâ
Dickâs hands tightened around the edge of the bench.
âMy brother is still here.â
The words came out firmer this time.
A second officer approached and spoke quietly with the first. Dick could hear them discussing procedures, paperwork, and arrangements for a minor with no remaining guardians present at the scene.
None of it seemed to matter.
All Dick could think about was the moment he had turned around and realized Benji was gone.
The police had asked him questions earlier.
Where had he last seen his brother?
What was the boy wearing?
Had he wandered off before?
Dick had answered everything as clearly as he could, though the memories still felt tangled in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same image of his parents falling from the trapeze, the ropes snapping above them before the crash against the circus floor.
But after that moment, everything blurred.
The crowd had surged forward. People had been shouting and pushing in every direction.
Benji had been right beside him.
Dick knew that much.
Then suddenly he was not.
Dick looked toward the entrance of the tent again.
Several circus performers were speaking with investigators near the opening, their voices tense and quiet. A few of them glanced toward Dick before quickly looking away again.
They had tried to comfort him earlier.
Several had even joined the search.
But hours had passed since the accident, and no one had found anything.
No sign of Benji.
Not his voice.
Not his toy.
Not even a clue.
Another officer approached the bench.
âKid,â he said gently, âwe need to move you somewhere warmer. Itâs getting late.â
Dick did not move.
âMy brother is still here.â
The officer exhaled slowly and glanced toward his partner, clearly unsure how to respond.
The search continued for another hour.
Flashlights moved through the darker areas of the circus grounds as workers checked behind equipment crates and inside storage tents. The police inspected every corner they could reasonably reach, though the effort had already begun to lose urgency.
To them, the case had been largely solved.
A tragic accident.
Two confirmed fatalities.
A missing child likely lost in the chaos of the crowd.
Dick sat in the same place the entire time.
He watched the search teams come and go.
He listened to the quiet conversations between officers as they packed away equipment and prepared to leave the scene.
Eventually the white sheets were lifted onto stretchers and carried toward waiting vehicles outside the tent.
Dick did not look away.
The blanket slipped from his shoulders and pooled around his feet.
âMy brother is still here,â he repeated softly.
No one answered him.
Outside the tent, the flashing lights of police cars reflected faintly against the canvas walls while the night grew colder.
And somewhere beyond the circus grounds, far from the voices and the searchlights, a small boy clutched a stuffed bird while unfamiliar hands carried him away into the dark.
Years passed after that night beneath the circus tent.
The investigation ended quickly. Equipment failure, the police called it. The ropes had been tampered with by Tony Zuccoâs men after the circus refused to pay protection money, but the authorities did not uncover that truth right away. For a long time the tragedy of the Flying Graysons remained nothing more than another accident filed away in a city that had seen far too many of them.
Dick did not remain at the circus. With both of his parents gone and no relatives able to take him in, he was placed into Gothamâs overburdened foster care system. There were not enough homes and too many children, which meant Dick spent most of that time in a juvenile facility instead of a real foster house. The building was loud, crowded, and unfamiliar. It smelled like disinfectant and old concrete instead of sawdust and canvas. Every night he lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the same memory in his mind while wondering if his brother was somewhere out there doing the same.
Eventually a man named Bruce Wayne arrived. The name alone was enough to make people take notice. Bruce Wayne was one of the wealthiest men in Gotham, a billionaire whose company towered over half the city skyline. When he announced that he intended to adopt the son of the Flying Graysons, the paperwork moved quickly.
Dick moved into Wayne Manor not long after. The mansion was enormous, filled with long halls and quiet rooms that seemed too large for the few people who actually lived there. Bruce Wayne tried to give Dick space at first. He offered him a room, food, and the freedom to settle into his new life however he wanted.
Dick did settle in, though not in the way Bruce probably expected.
After only a few nights in the manor, Dick began noticing things that did not quite make sense. Bruce Wayne had a habit of disappearing late at night. Sometimes he returned hours later looking exhausted, his clothes didn't do much to hide some of the ugly bruises he appeared with that he did not have the previous night.
Dick had spent his entire life around performers who trusted their instincts. He knew how to notice patterns, and the strange behavior of his new guardian quickly became impossible to ignore.
Eventually curiosity won.
Dick followed him.
The discovery that Bruce Wayne was actually Batman changed everything.
For the first time since the night of the circus accident, Dick found someone who understood the kind of pain that came from losing a family to violence. Bruce showed him the evidence he had been gathering about Zucco and the criminal network behind the protection scheme that had targeted the circus. The more Dick learned, the clearer it became that his parents had not died because of faulty equipment. They had been murdered.
Dick insisted on helping bring Zucco to justice. Bruce refused at first, believing the boy deserved a chance at a normal life away from danger. Dick would not accept that answer. The circus had taught him how to move, how to balance, and how to trust his instincts. More importantly, if Tony Zucco was the reason for his parents murder, he might also be the one behind Benji's disappearance.
Bruce eventually relented and training began soon after.
Time passed as Dick learned everything Bruce could teach him. He studied detective work, combat, acrobatics, and the discipline required to survive the violent underworld of Gotham. When he finally joined Bruce in the field, he did so under a new name.
Robin.
Together they hunted Tony Zucco until the criminal finally made a mistake. The evidence Bruce had gathered was enough to expose the entire operation, and Zucco was eventually brought to justice for the murders of John and Mary Grayson.
Dick felt satisfaction when the man was arrested.
It did not last very long.
Zucco had nothing to do with Benjiâs disappearance.
The investigation into that night ended where it had begun. No witnesses had seen the boy leave the circus grounds. No one remembered speaking to him after the fall. Even the toy he had carried everywhere had vanished without a trace.
But Dick refused to believe his brother had simply disappeared.
Bruce promised he would help keep searching, and he kept that promise. As Dick grew older, their small family began to grow as well. New allies joined their lives, and eventually new children found their way into the manor under Bruceâs care. The name Robin was passed from Dick to the younger ones who followed him while Dick became something new.
Nightwing.
Through every change in his life, the search for Benji never truly stopped. Dick checked every missing person report that matched the timeline. He followed every rumor that suggested a child had been taken or hidden away somewhere beyond the reach of the authorities. Even his friends and siblings knew the story by heart. Whenever they encountered a case that might connect to the past, they kept an eye out for anything that might lead back to the boy who had vanished from the circus that night.
Nothing ever did.
Nearly twenty years passed without a single answer.
Now Dick stood in front of a building that had nothing to do with circuses, acrobats, or missing children.
The abandoned Playtime Co. factory towered above him like a rusting monument to a forgotten era. Its walls were stained by decades of weather, and the massive sign above the entrance had long since faded under layers of peeling paint. Broken windows stared out into the darkness while the surrounding fences sagged where time had weakened the metal.
The place had been closed for years.
The investigation that brought him here was supposed to be simple. A missing person had last been seen near the factory grounds, and the local police believed the abandoned property might be worth checking before they closed the case completely.
It was the kind of routine search Dick had done dozens of times before.
Which was exactly why he had chosen to handle it alone.
Nightwing stepped through the broken entrance and disappeared into the dark interior of the factory.
Behind him, the wind pushed gently against the old doors until they creaked shut.
Hello, everyone!! Magic here!
Now this is a surprise huh? New story coming in!
Now I would like to first inform everyone that this will be a short story, most of the chapters will follow the game chapters, though they will have all the information necessary so you probably wonât need to know everything about Poppy Playtime canon
Also, Iâve already started the new semester in university, so chapters might not come as quickly as they did in my previous story, very rarely will there be more the one chapter a week, Iâll definitely work on the chapters every weekend though
I'm already making fanfiction of your fanfiction in my head.
Please help me.
Honestly? Completely valid.
I do the exact same thing sometimes. Iâll read a fic and suddenly my brain starts going âokay but what if THIS happened instead?â and next thing I know Iâve created an entire alternate plotline in my head.
Fanfiction of fanfiction is basically the natural evolution of fandom at this point đ
Shall I ready the medium-sized bucket or the bathtub to cry into?
I already have several scenes planned that are pure emotional damage, so I would recommend upgrading to at least a pool-sized bucket just to be safe đ
But donât worry, there will also be some comfort mixed in with the angst. I promise Iâm not only here to cause suffering⌠probably.
ngl, the first thing I thought of when I saw missing younger brother nightwing, was court of owls lol.
I don't know much about poppy playtime besides random things my friends might mention but I look forward to what you'll be doing with it :3
hope u have a good day!
Understandable, specially with Dickâs âconnectionâ to the Court of Owls.
But donât worry about not knowing the lore! Iâm writing the story in a way where the important parts of the gameâs canon will be explained as the story goes. You donât need to know anything beforehand to follow whatâs happening in the factory.
Basically the story will mostly follow as he adventures through the Playtime factory, he will be discovering things at the same time the readers are, so it should stay pretty clear even if this is your first time seeing anything related to the game.
And thank you!! I hope you have a good day too đ¤
The night the Flying Graysons fell, Dick Grayson lost his family.
Most people only remembered the tragedy above the circus ring â the broken ropes, the fall, the gasp of the crowd as two performers never reached the safety net.
But Dick remembered something else.
A small hand in his.
His little brotherâs voice somewhere in the chaos.
And the moment that hand slipped away.
The police searched the tents.
The performers searched the grounds.
No one ever found the boy.
Years passed.
Dick was taken in by a billionaire that dresses up as a bat during the night, became Robin, gained more family, and built a life in a city where crime never slept. Later, he went by a new name â Nightwing.
He solved murders.
Stopped criminals.
Found answers where no one else could.
Except for one.
The brother who vanished that night.
Now he stood in front of an abandoned toy factory, here for a simple investigation.
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