Chapter Text
Your consciousness does not return; it wavers.
It sways like a thread about to snap, vibrating between all-powerful nothingness and something that still has no defined shape. There are moments when you believe you’re floating in thick emptiness, no body, no weight. Then pain pulses. A physical, insistent memory pulling you back. Slits of faint light slice through the darkness like dull blades, filtered through dust hanging in the air.
They do not illuminate; they seep in. Stain the space with pale hues, revealing cold outlines and metal surfaces that gleam with false splendor. Like treacherous innards, these streaks of light coil around your inert body and touch your face like a hesitant invitation, slowly rekindling your senses.
You breathe carefully.
The air is dry. It smells of aged paper and oxidized metal.
Am I still alive? You think.
Your eyes open with difficulty. Your vision takes time to adjust, blurred by the colorless glow coming from a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. Cold seeps through your clothes and reaches your skin, drawing an involuntary shiver that rouses your nerves one by one. You remain still for a few seconds, studying the surroundings before even trusting your own muscles.
The ceiling above is high and darkened. Old water stains blend with cracks worn down by time. The walls close in around you, enclosing your frame, yet leave enough space for you to grasp the room’s scale.
You turn your head slowly.
There are marks on the floor. Deep grooves, as if something heavy had been dragged. Where am I? You don’t remember being here before. You don’t remember walking through a door. You don’t remember falling into a room. No memory builds the bridge between the tunnel and this chamber. The gap between one moment and the next is absolute.
And yet, you are here.
Who?
You dreaded this question more than the answer itself.
Your body rests on a hard surface. You slide your palm beside you and feel brushed metal beneath your fingers. It is not an ordinary table. There are small aligned perforations along the side, tiny grooves that suggest drainage. A gurney? An examination table? There were many unfortunate implications behind this, but you chose not to acknowledge any of them.
As an unforgiving reminder of the reality around you, your head throbs with a dull, constant violence. Pain pulses behind your eyes, making the simple act of keeping them open an almost heroic effort. Each limb is overtaken by a heavy, numb tingling, as if decades, not hours, had passed since you last managed to move them. Your own body feels like distant territory.
Lethargy is a double burden, a ballast pulling down both the prostrated body and the ebbing mind. Your consciousness has been fragmented by exhaustion, overtaken by a dense gray fog that clings to the corners of your mind, weaving greasy webs that insist on pulling you back into the darkness. You fought against it, determined to stay awake. Sleeping again sounds like surrender. And surrender, after what happened, tastes like death.
You don’t even know why you’re still alive.
It was strange. You felt strange. Faded fragments of the past unraveled in slow motion like an old videotape, each frame blurred: faceless people reaching their hands toward you, rooms painted in blue and yellow that seemed to glow from within. Then… children. Smiling, excited, their faces finally clear for a fleeting moment, full of life and hope for a future filled with love.
Toys.
You choke as everything hits you all at once.
It had been chasing you. Crawling above your head, throwing shadows across the trembling lights of a moving train. The heavy, metallic sound of those arachnid limbs, always a step behind you, still echoed in your ears like a trapped echo inside your skull. The smell of scorched rust clings to your clothes. Burnt metal. Overheated oil. Something organic mixed with smoke.
You could still see the light of the burning tunnel reflected in the uneven gleam of those claws. The metal bending like a trap, curling around your head. There was no hesitation. Nothing warned you but the clatter of your own feet against the iron bar jutting from the floor. Then came the deliberate advance, a dagger of claws striking down upon you. Tearing into you. Blinding you with pain and the heat of your own blood spilling as the cold of those blades invaded your entrails.
You died.
The moment returns like an electric surge ripping through your nerves. Your eyes snap open in alarm, and your head lightly bumps against the surface below. Air rushes into your lungs in a disordered gasp, burning in your throat. Your body strains against the resistance and instinctively curls to the side, seeking to protect your stomach.
You bring your hand to your abdomen with trembling urgency. You expect to find warm blood slipping between your fingers, exposed viscera, deep gashes left by the deadly claws of that thing.
Nothing.
Your fingers search with growing desperation. They tremble as they probe your own flesh, expecting the wet collapse, the grotesque opening, the undeniable proof that you were dying. But they find only the torn fabric of your shirt, stiff with grime and dried sweat. The skin beneath is rough, tender to the touch, as if it had been burned from the inside out.
Your breath wavers.
It makes no sense.
You press harder, almost as if hoping to force the wound open. The memory of pain is far too vivid to be mere hallucination. You remember the sound, that obscene noise of metal piercing flesh. You remember the crushing pressure, the iron taste spreading across your tongue, the sickening sensation of something moving inside you.
But there is nothing.
Only a deep throb in your belly, an echo of what might have been. The blood you’d expected to find is dry on your clothes, stiff against your skin. What the hell happened?
More than understanding the wound, you need to move. You need to get out of there. Where is Giblet? He was with you, wasn’t he? Who took you from the train station? Either way, it doesn’t matter, the only thing you’re certain of is that you definitely don’t want to stay there to find out.
The air around you is heavy. The metallic smell lingers, faint but persistent, as if it had seeped into your pores. You try to sit up, but the world tilts sideways. Dizziness hits you at once. Your body gives out and slumps back against the cold gurney, which creaks under your weight. A rough sound, almost a snarl, escapes your dry throat. You close your eyes for a moment, focus on the strong pulse in your neck, and prepare to try again.
The light above flickers, unsteady, casting long, distorted shadows across the surrounding walls.
Shadows that seem to have too many legs.
Your skin prickles from head to toe, the hairs rising like porcupine quills. Your body senses it before your mind can form a coherent thought.
Your heart hammers, a violent impact against your ribs that feels like it wants to burst out of your chest from the inside. The floor vibrates. Not hard enough to shake the walls or make objects sway, but enough to travel up the gurney’s frame and settle in your spine.
What the- him?!
The doubt doesn’t last a second. You recognize that vibration. It’s the same one you felt during the tea party, when the darkness began to move and the doors opened.
The sound of uneven footsteps echoes through the room, heavy, with a metallic groan mixed with a clicking-clacking of colliding components. Shadows stretch across the crooked blinds, broken up by slats of light and projected onto walls and ceiling like misshapen limbs twisting in a sinister dance.
You try to get up again, using every ounce of will you have to command your arms.
But they fail. They shake like frayed wires. Your muscles feel empty, drained. Your body gives way before it can even support its own weight. A strange sense of powerlessness poisons your senses, leaving you at the mercy of danger and refusing to listen to you.
Why… why am I so weak? The question echoes in your head, followed by others that pile up like stones in a well: What happened to me? What's wrong with my body? Where is the Grabpack?!
How long were you unconscious?
Anticipation burns beneath your skin like acid, a fire that consumes every inch of flesh and nerve. Your instincts scream, ready to run, to fight, anything. But your body does not obey. Your fingers can barely close. And the only tool that would have increased your chances of survival was no longer with you.
The two doors at the far end of the room open.
Metal groans in a low protest as they swing apart, revealing even thicker darkness beyond. Then something moves inside.
A claw emerges first. Long. Articulated. Made of metal segments that fit together like skeletal phalanges, connected by small ball joints. Its tip reflects the room’s light like a freshly sharpened blade, followed by many others almost as threatening.
The arachnid legs advance into the room, supported by reinforced hydraulic mounts. One by one, bending to find room. Each limb ends in a sharp black point that sinks millimeters into the floor with every step, leaving small radial cracks in the concrete. Light cuts through their outlines like pale slashes, revealing uneven plates.
The sound of mechanical friction echoes through the room. Gears turn beneath the chassis with slight irregularity, a rhythm that almost steadies. A piston misfires for half a second before falling in sync with the others. Cables tense and relax with tiny snaps, some with partially burned insulation. There is something slightly out of alignment there, but not enough to impair function.
Then the core advances into the light.
The central part is not a conventional torso, but a sturdy base of heavy metal, like a repurposed factory module. In the lower center, an amber circular lens remains lit, tracking you through the shadows.
Above this mechanical mass, held in place by metal supports, rises the displaced body of that damned thing.
Prototype.
The blue fabric of the coat is singed at the edges. You knew the explosion was to blame. The stiff lapel stays upright despite soot marks, and the red tie hangs crooked, one end blackened by heat. Small cracks run across the white face, almost invisible beneath the exaggerated, grotesque smile.
It was already staring at you.
A shiver runs through your entire body, an involuntary reflex your muscles can’t complete. The black eye sockets are deep voids, shadowy wells that seem to swallow the light around them. In one of them, a single orange point pulses with growing intensity, contracting and dilating as if responding to your racing heartbeat. It stays fixed on you with a curiosity that sends a chill through your stomach.
Its head tilts a few degrees. The gears in his neck turn with a discordant noise. The three-pointed hat follows the motion, tipping to the side. No sound comes from the golden bells at its ends.
You did not dare look away.
The room shrinks as it advances, filling every space with its massive frame. Shadow covers you completely. Its legs shift around the gurney, forming an arch that blocks any hint of escape. One of the rear joints drags with a delay, misaligned; metal cracks before locking into place. It adjusts like a machine that recognizes an error and corrects it.
The lower amber lens brightens for a second. The point in its eye socket thrums in response, leaning closer.
“Butcher.” It was the first thing you heard from him, in every tone imaginable. “I see you’re... awake now.”
The multiple voices do not come from a single place. They alternate. Overlap. Some deep, some high-pitched, all trying to fit into the same sentence like pieces of an imperfect mechanism.
Unpleasant.
You try to respond, to question, but all that comes out is a rough noise, a fragment of air caught between pain and rust. Your throat burns as if you’d swallowed embers. The simple effort of forcing your vocal cords sends a sharp jolt spreading to your ears.
The Prototype’s head tilts a few more degrees, studying the failure of your attempt with the same clinical interest that a scientist would observe an experiment reacting unexpectedly.
“I advise against doing that,” the voices say, adjusting against one another in their imitations. “The tissues are still… reorganizing.”
One of the mechanical legs moves. The sharp tip slides across the floor until it stops just a few centimeters from the gurney. It does not touch you (yet), but it defines space. Control. There is no haste in its movements. His does not need it.
“Temporary neurological damage was a concrete possibility... an insignificant side effect,” he says, voices alternating from feminine to masculine. “The Gel was not developed for human physiology.” The word 'human' carries particular weight. A distinction. “It is impressive that you... are still alive.”
As if you didn’t already know that.
One of the rear legs repositions itself. Metal settles into place, producing a sharp crack that reverberates through the empty room. You try to ignore the sound, frowning as you force your mind to follow his words. Gel.
The smell arrives before the memory can fully take shape; too sweet, almost floral, tainted by a chemical, rotten undertone. The viscous surface closing over your face. The liquid seeping into your mouth, your eyes, your nostrils. The impossible sensation of heat and cold burning at the same time.
So... all of that was the Poppy Gel.
Your stomach contracts violently, though there is nothing to vomit. Even so, your body reacts to the memory as if you were drowning all over again.
The Prototype watches. The orange point lodged within its socket pulses in a curious rhythm.
“You understand,” he concludes, multiple tones sliding over one another. “Good.”
Air feels thin in your lungs, mixed with indignation. Born of powerlessness. You try to draw a deeper breath and the movement comes out uneven. Try to force your throat to produce something, anything. An insult. A challenge. A simple no.
All that emerges is a broken hiss. Shit.
He gives no attention to your frustration. “I observed your deterioration,” it continued. “You were on the verge of systemic failure. Bleeding so much the floor looked painted... a few more seconds and your vital functions would have ceased.” His voice dropped, carrying a deep cadence. “Such an outcome would be a waste.”
Waste.
The word echoes differently across the multiple intonations. Your jaw trembles. You wanted to laugh and mock it, because he was the one who’d driven its claws into you in the first place.
“The Gel has regenerative properties when properly stabilized,” He explains, shifting from a childlike voice to a soft feminine tone and ending on a rough bass that vibrates through the floor. “It repairs the tissue, reconnects what is loose... and corrects what is wrong.”
The orange glow in its socket flickers, narrowing like a sight finding its mark.
“In toys.”
There were many implications behind those words. You know you liked none of them.
“You are not a toy,” a thinner tone declares, almost amused. The intonation carries something needlessly cheerful for the context. Dark spots dance at the edges of your vision. You blink hard. “Not like them. Your body should not withstand this. Your bones should not hold. Your skin should not heal. You should not be alive.”
Each sentence is spoken with methodical coldness. He seems to savor every discarded possibility.
And then:
“But… you are.”
The Prototype slides a claw through the air until it hovers over your abdomen, exactly where you remember the tearing pain. The rip. The open flesh. You can almost feel the thick, warm flow running down your sides again.
“Your body did not reject the component,” the deeper voice takes control, drawn-out. “It absorbed it.” The words sound almost reverent, vibrating across multiple layers of sound.
You try to scramble backward again, driven by a primal need to put distance between yourself and it. Your heels scrape against the metal. The friction travels up your legs like an electric current, not quite pain, but an invasive pulse through newly sensitive nerves. The sensation spreads across your thighs, hips, the base of your spine. An entire map lighting up at once.
The metal claw extends toward your leg, without touching it. Your muscles tense before you could even react.
What?
Your stomach clenches, or something close to it. A feeling of emptiness filled with compressed energy. Your heart beats, but the rhythm is perfectly steady, indifferent to the panic rising in your mind. You try to lift your torso.
Nothing.
Then, a second later, your back arches sharply, lifting your body a few centimeters off the gurney with enough force to strain every vertebra. Air bursts from your lungs in a broken sound as you collapse back against the metal. The impact reverberates through your skeleton, pain echoing in every bone.
You choke.
The orange point in the thing’s socket pulses with a different intensity. Not surprise. Validation.
“See,” the multifaceted voice whispers, seeming pleased. “It is progressing faster than… anticipated.”
One of the front legs rises slowly and lowers beside your head with a sharp click, establishing a new boundary. The circle around you tightens another degree.
You breathe deeply, reaching for the air that was stolen from you, trying desperately to swallow down terror before it turns into something worse. Micro-spasms race across your forearms where skin prickles, not from cold, but from internal activity. Your fingers curl against the metal surface. The pressure makes the metal squeal under strain.
This is not healing.
What the hell was that thing doing to you?
The Prototype leans slightly forward, internal gears shifting with an almost imperceptible mechanical purr. He continues speaking.
“From the start…” The sentence begins with a voice you vaguely recognize from some broken toy in the hallway. “…you have demonstrated adaptation beyond parameters.” The intonation slides into something colder. “Resilience beyond standard human design. Capacity for improvisation under… extreme pressure.”
Shadows from its legs spread across the walls like living webbing. It leans closer. You recoil instinctively until you feel the edge of the gurney pressing against your spine. Your chest rises and falls with deep, uneven breaths. You try to turn your face away from him.
The claw moves instantly, blocking your visual escape route. It was clear it would not grant you a single moment to recover.
“I needed to know,” He continues, in a slower cadence, “If the Gel could transcend its original purpose.” The voices align in perfect sync now, slightly liturgical. “The toys… synthetic polymers have their limits.” A childlike voice concludes, matter-of-factly. Another, deep, overlaps: “But the human body… ah, it changes, it adapts. There are so many different ways it can function...”
He tilts his head again.
“You were exactly what I needed to test that.”
The tiny pupil in that dark socket betrayed intentions that would never be spoken aloud.
“Butcher.”
The nickname is not said aloud. It was no accident. It runs through pipes with hot steam, vibrates in ducts above dark corridors, watches through plastic lenses behind broken display cases. And then, it rises in delirious murmurs as you move through decaying sectors in dying state.
The human who takes toys apart like they’re irreparable pieces. Who does not hesitate to destroy them with brutality, no matter the path taken.
A threat.
“They call you that,” the Prototype remarks, as if reading your thoughts. “For efficiency. For pragmatism. For understanding that dismantling is a necessary part of survival.” The voices align better now, forming an almost harmonious tone, seductive in its cold logic.
“You understand... the utility of fear.”
The Prototype moves around the gurney, circling you, legs shifting carelessly. Each sharp tip leaves small cracks in the concrete, marking territory. You are completely surrounded.
“I know what they think of you.” The intonation sharpens slightly, as if savoring the information before releasing it. “Of what she thinks.” The word 'she' is said in a pre-childlike voice, horribly familiar. “Concerning an... outsider.”
Its head tilts a few degrees.
“You are special... a unique resource, a beacon that will draw light into this factory. An angel.” One voice sounds reverent when it says angel. Another warps the word into a rough whisper. “That is what she said. That’s what they all say. Why?”
The question lingered in the air, heavy with meanings that intertwined and unraveled. None of them, however, held the answer he truly wanted. You could see that.
“I fail to comprehend the value she chose to place upon you. Upon you alone. An outsider. One who knows nothing... that enthralling confidence she insists upon investing in a… savior.” The sentence fractures between three furious timbres before recomposing itself. “In the distinction of how she sees me... the real one.”
Damn lunatic.
“However… it seems I have underestimated you.”
One of the rear legs shifts with an internal crack. The joint rotates a degree, then corrects itself with vexing precision. His entire body compensates for the micro-misalignment like a predator readjusting its weight before pouncing. He stops in front of you again. Closer than before.
You had not bothered thinking much about personal space. It would be ridiculous to do so now, when you could barely move.
Though it bothered you.
“I orchestrated circumstances,” the thing admits without any moral weight. “Guided variables. Redirected threats. Observed decision patterns…” he tilts its head again. “You never disappoint."
Cold creeps up your spine.
Then-
The claw descends.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
The metal tip touches your abdomen.
The contact is cold. Solid. Unyielding.
Your entire body reacts as if you were being pierced again. Nausea surges violently, burning your throat. Your breath catches. Your stomach tries to clench on instinct, but muscles do not obey with enough force. There is only a weak, humiliating tremor.
The claw remains there. Minimal pressure. Absolute control. Cold metal against newly restored skin. “Does this bother you, butcher? Does this hurt?” he asks, a tone of contemplative curiosity threading through the voices, like someone studying a new toy. “The body’s memory doesn’t fade easily. It never fades. A remarkable reaction. A true delight.”
Pressure increases a millimeter.
You choke on air you cannot voice.
“I will not hurt you,” a softer voice says, like someone trying to calm a frightened child. Then the deeper voice crawls in, completes: “...Unless it becomes necessary.”
Anger burns at the edges of your vision, intertwined with the fear that refuses to leave the pit of your chest. So this was it? Obedience through conditioning. Pain as a teaching tool. Is this his way of demanding your compliance? Damn bastard. You try to move your shoulders, try to tighten your abdomen with all your strength to pull away from the blade hovering over your skin. The effort is useless.
He ignores your attempt completely, and withdraws the claw as slowly as it had placed it.
You almost crumble with relief.
The sickening feeling of humiliation consumes you.
You hate this.
The Prototype tilts his head to the other side, internal joints shifting with annoying metal cracks. A gesture you’d come to recognize as curiosity.
“Do not misunderstand me…” The voices take time to align. He speaks slowly, as if savoring each word. “…I did not capture you to destroy you, butcher.”
The nickname is pronounced in three different intonations before stabilizing. A light tone. Then a childlike voice that warps the sound of the word. Finally, he settles into a deep, definitive bass.
“I captured you because you represent the only viable convergence… for me.”
Your stomach lurches. You hold its gaze now. Not out of courage, but out of a stubborn refusal to give in and reveal more vulnerability than you already feel. The metal composing its body reflects pale bands of light. There are no eyes in the conventional sense.
And yet, you feel his focus on you.
“You should be grateful.”
The statement is calm. Logical. Carried by overwhelming conviction that would leave no room for argument.
“This is a rare opportunity.”
One of the metal limbs adjusts its position beside the gurney. The sharp tip scrapes lightly against the floor, producing a thin, unpleasant sound that crawls up your spine like an insect.
“I show mercy.”
He face hovered mere centimeters from yours, too close, separated only by the thickness of a trembling finger. The proximity was suffocating. You could feel unusual heat radiating from that horrible mask, unnatural warmth that brushed your skin like the integrated breath of a furnace.
And he lingered there, invading your space, pressing in, before concluding:
“Especially for a dangerous intruder like you.”
Your jaw tightens until it aches. The taste of rust returns to your mouth, even without fresh blood.
Mercy? You almost wish you could laugh.
This was not mercy. It was control dressed in polished vocabulary. Its soft words scrape, reminding you of the sickeningly sweet tone of Playtime Co.’s therapists. That false welcoming cadence. You recognize the method, saw enough of it inside the factory’s doors.
This harmful attempt to shape your perception before shaping you.
Your head throbs with dull, persistent pain, as if a hammer were striking behind your eyes. But you refuse to look away. Rage. Contempt. All condensed in the way you stare at it. A silent promise that, if you could, you’d tear every exposed wire from that mechanical body and make it feel (somehow) what it called mercy.
Your gaze says: This is mercy to you?
He watches.
“You do not understand.”
There is no irritation in those alternating voices. No hint of offense. Only cold observation, as if correcting a basic mistake. As if you were a child stumbling over the alphabet’s first letters.
“Your emotions obscure what truly matters. That anger...” The Prototype recites slowly, seeming almost disappointed. “It is irrelevant.”
The claw retracts completely, drawing back to the rest of its metal body. He steps back. The sound of internal structures adjusting echoes, a metallic shift of weight. Space around you expands.
You realize you can breathe again.
“Eventually… you will understand.”
His segmented silhouette is cast against the stained wall. Unsteady light stretches the shadows, multiplying his legs and warping his form until he seems even larger than he already is.
“My plans for you are greater than any hatred you may harbor.” The phrase is not spoken as a threat. It is stated as fact. “What is being built will not depend on your approval.”
The claws lower a few centimeters, hovering above your face. They do not touch. They do not need to. Cold metal suspended over your skin is enough to keep your entire body tense.
“But will benefit from your participation.”
Participation.
As if you had a choice.
The Prototype begins to pull away from the gurney. One by one, his mechanical legs retract, releasing the circle that had trapped you. The sound of gears echoes through the room, a metallic drag. Joints rotate with contained cracks, pistons compressing and releasing pressure.
He stood up fully.
The movement is not abrupt, yet from your vantage point, it only makes clear just how large the thing truly is. The shadow he cast over you retreats a few centimeters, though it does not disappear. It warps, broken by the unsteady light pulsing from the ceiling.
"Rest."
The voices do not rush; they slide over one another with disturbing smoothness. The hovering claw lowers to your sternum line, hovering just millimeters away, measuring the rhythm of your breath.
“Your condition satisfies me.”
You don’t open your mouth. Your tongue feels stuck to the roof, but not that would be an excuse. Even if you could speak, you would never give him the privilege of your answer. Your eyes remain fixed on him, hard and watchful, clearly refusing to yield to whatever game he wants to play.
It seemed he didn’t care.
“Your body will be... fully functional again very soon.” One claw lifts and tilts slightly, gesturing toward your weakened limbs. "It should not take long. Rejoice.”
Hearing this, relief flooded your chest, though you didn’t let even an extra blink show, keeping your face firm and contorted by the pain. Fortunately, that meant you weren’t doomed to remain paralyzed beside that thing.
But why share that with me? It only gives you an opportunity, and you were certain he knew it too. Unless…
You wait. The silence between you stretches like a thread about to snap. He tilts his head slightly.
“I won’t bind you.”
As if to prove a point, his claws rest against the side of the gurney. Their tips pierce the metal lightly, driving in with a muffled sound. There is no direct threat, but an implicit challenge to dare defy him.
“Physical containment is… redundant.” A deeper tone overlaps the others. “You are smart enough to make a… wise decision, butcher.” The word slides through the room like a blade’s edge.
The claws withdraw slowly, sliding off the gurney and leaving narrow grooves in the metal surface.
He reaches the door. The blades of his rear legs dig lightly into the floor to support his body’s rotation. Then, over his shoulder, the dark socket turns to you one last time. The orange point pulses.
You do not react.
“I will return shortly.” Internal gears align with one final precise click. “I believe you will understand the logic of your position.”
A low sound precedes the door’s opening, metal scraping against metal. The corridor beyond is dark and deep, exuding a slow, shadowy chill.
"Until then, I trust you will remain… suitably settled."
The last word fragments into three distinct tones before merging again into a single steady sound. You narrow your eyes to deep slits. As if that were possible.
He crosses the threshold.
The misshapen form passes through the gap and disappears into the dark corridor. The sound of his metal legs fades gradually, each step reverberating through the factory’s framework until it dissolves into distance. The door closes. The prolonged groan lingers an uncomfortable second before ending in a decisive snap. The latch engages.
And then-
Silence.
You remain motionless on the cold gurney, your body still betraying your will. The metal beneath your back retains the room’s impersonal chill. Your fingers tingle with involuntary micro-spasms, and your muscles respond sluggishly to nerve impulses.
A residual warmth still clings to your skin, exactly where he had been.
+++
Drips echo from the corridor.
First one. Then another. A viscous rhythm that reverberates beyond the closed door. The pipes above must be saturated, slowly leaking their decay through the factory’s guts. A profanely gentle breeze snakes through the room’s cracks, slipping through fissures and caressing your ears like a feverish whisper.
Air moved with difficulty in there.
You took a deep breath.
The smell of rust flooded your nostrils with the unpleasant familiarity of an old scar. Oxidized iron, damp dust, stale oil, and something like a metallic tang that never quite left your tongue clean. You wrinkled your nose on reflex, though you knew you should have grown accustomed to it by now.
Your eyes drifted up to the ceiling. Cracks spread like dried veins across what was once a smooth surface. Irregular lines, some as fine as hair, others wide enough to reveal deep shadows between concrete slabs. The lamp hanging by a frayed wire flickered intermittently, making the fissures seem to shift with each pulse of light.
You studied those lines as if you might find some pattern, some structural logic to explain the place’s chaos.
One hour.
It had been an hour since he left.
You knew it was time to move.
Ever since the door had closed, you’d tested the limits of what your body could bear. Small impulses, frustrated contractions, attempts to lift your torso or legs only to collapse back onto the cold surface. At first, results were dismal: you tired faster than should have been possible, every movement draining your energy and only seeming to sink you deeper into the lethargy that held your body like a pile of bricks.
But none of it had been for nothing. With a determination that burned beneath your weary skin, you pressed your palms against the gurney’s.
The metal groaned as you forced your torso forward. Your abdominal muscles seared with effort wildly disproportionate to the seemingly simple movement. For a second, your vision darkened at the edges, but you did not fall. Shoulders forward. Spine curved.
You managed to sit up.
The gurney protested under your shifted weight, its joints letting out a metallic whine that echoed through the empty room. Your breathing was shallow, as if your lungs still doubted their own capacity. Even so, air flowed in. And out.
Your body was stabilizing.
Exactly as that thing had said.
The thought soured your tongue like rust dissolved in saliva. What was the purpose of it, after all? It made no sense anymore. When he stabbed you, with that twisted smile contorting his grotesque mask, and threw you headfirst into that Poppy Gel tank, it was to be expected that he would leave you there for your own sake as soon as he achieved his goal: to have Poppy.
Prototype already had her. He had gotten what he wanted. Your usefulness to that thing should have ended, reduced to nothing more than a disposable body on the floor of that train tunnel. So why insist on taking you too? What sick plan had that lunatic decided to orchestrate at your expense while you were agonizing?
You grit your teeth but swallowed the rage and bitterness hard. Whatever it was, there was no use thinking about it now. You had only survived thanks to the Gel; you couldn’t afford to waste this chance. There were more important things to occupy your mind at that moment.
Where was it?
With all the care your slow-moving body allowed, you slid your legs off the gurney. Your feet touched the freezing floor, and the roughness of the surface, covered in bumps and cracks, scraped against the sensitive skin of your heels and soles. You braced your hands on the gurney’s edge and stood up, slowly.
The world lurched violently to one side, as if the floor were tilted at forty-five degrees. Your balance swayed dangerously left; for an instant, the certainty that you’d tumble face-first was so strong you closed your eyes waiting for impact. But driven by a powerful reflex, one arm shot out instinctively to brace against the wall, your palms gripping a gap between the blocks.
You remain there, slumped against the wall, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps while you wait helplessly for the ringing in your ears to fade.
What the hell had he done to you?
The paranoia wasn’t unfounded. When it came to him, you would question even your own shadow. It couldn’t be just the poppy gel; the side effects were harmful but predictable. You discovered enough to partially understand how it works. Your mind was still lucid. It wouldn’t be surprising if the Prototype had done something to you while you were unconscious.
The thought sent a shiver racing through your body like icy water, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. No, he would never settle for something so trivial. Your body was still flesh and bone. You were sure of that. With visible effort, you discard the thought and avoid dwelling on it for long. Either way, your limbs were still where they should be.
Taking a deep breath and swallowing the knot in your throat, you turned your attention to what truly mattered. You slid your feet slowly across the floor, finding a steady rhythm, focusing on maintaining your balance before moving away from the cot.
The room came into view from a new angle. Stagnant cold hung in the air, weighing on your skin like a damp cloth. The floor bore circular marks, as if heavy equipment had been dragged countless times to find the exact right position. Darker stains had seeped into the concrete, impossible to remove, forming opaque halos that weak light couldn’t penetrate.
In one corner, an aged wooden table leaned against the wall, not far from where you’d been. Small metal trays sat beneath it, some holding dried, blackened residue you chose not to identify.
You made your way to the room’s perimeter, checking boxes stacked in various sizes around the space. They held rusted parts, warped gears, and joint segments that had once belonged to something larger. Some were partially disassembled, as if inspected before being discarded. Dust buildup wasn’t uniform; certain items looked to have been handled more recently. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were for.
You searched every available spot: behind stacked boxes, under the table where dust had accumulated in thick layers, even between rusted pieces scattered across the floor. Looking for those durable hoses, the articulated claws, the rig that used to strap to your torso with adjustable belts. But there was no trace of it at all.
A quick final sweep through the darkest corners of the room. Nothing. There was no need to look twice to understand that what you were searching for was no longer there.
A weary sigh escaped your lips, mixed with a bitter smile. How foolish to think he would have left it behind. The Prototype knew enough about you; he knew exactly what that tool represented, what you were capable of with it in your hands. Giving you your greatest advantage? That would have been far too generous.
You ran a hand across your forehead, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath your fingers, and leaned briefly against the wooden table, which groaned lightly under your weight. Even without the Grabpack, there was no time to waste. What would guarantee that you were still alive when that thing returned?
You needed to get out. Now.
With focused effort, you straightened up fully, feeling your muscles still tremble but grow firm beneath your skin. Your head still gave a slight lurch when you moved, but the ringing had faded. You glanced around the room one last time, making sure you hadn’t missed anything, before heading for the door.
Your steps drag across the floor, your eyes magnetically fixed on the only visible exit. Your hand finds the doorknob and grips it tightly enough to blanch your fingers. The crack between the door and the frame reveals the corridor beyond, swallowed in shadows.
It was open.
“You’re smart enough to make a… wise decision, butcher.”
You twist your face into a grimace, fists tightening until the knuckles snap. 'Wise', my ass. You weren't an idiot. None of the choices were right, there never had been one. Whatever he has in mind, whatever that twisted hand is pointing at, you know it would only end with your skin being torn piece by piece from your body.
Like all of them.
Without even hesitation, you shove the door open and plunge into the corridor.