myosotis

Here’s the base that was used!

Imagine the first time Doey sees you. He freezes dead in his tracks, a heavy mixture of surprise and concern settling over him. It's not a light-hearted pause, but one tainted with worry.

Doey tilts his head and removes his small hat, holding it tightly in his large hands. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then snaps it shut before a single sound can escape.

You’re much bigger than he remembers. The Bigger Bodies frame that houses you slumps in on itself, seams strained and stuffing threatening to spill out. Your plush fur is patchy where they opened you up again and again. The factory took its time with you. Years have passed, and yet he still recognises you almost instantly.

You’re Jack’s sibling, after all.

“…Is that you in there?” he asks softly, his voice wobbling like that of a frightened child. His bowler hat remains clenched in his hands as he crouches, red nub-legs folding beneath him. “Hey. Hey, don’t look so scared. It’s just me.”

A weak hum bubbles out of you, gargled and rough. You try to stand properly, you truly do, but your cotton-stuffed knees buckle. The world tilts, and warm, pliable dough catches you before you can hit the floor. His orange arm steadies your back, and his yellow one cups your shoulder with impossible gentleness for something capable of tearing through steel doors.

“Whoa there,” he murmurs automatically. Then, quieter, meant only for you, “I’ve got you…”

You can feel his voice vibrate through his clay body as he steadies you.

“They did this,” Doey says, and the air around him grows heavy. His mouth twitches and, for a heartbeat, sharp red teeth threaten to reveal themselves. You flinch, and immediately he recoils as though burned.

“Oh, no, no, no — hey, hey.” His voice rose, panicked. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s all okay… I’m not angry at you. Never you. I just…” He swallows. “I should have found you sooner.”

You shake your head weakly. It was never his fault. They moved you. Hid you. Used you. You had heard rumours of Safe Haven, of a doughman leader who protected his own, but you never thought you would make it there, no matter how hard you fought.

Doey presses his forehead gently to yours; cool clay against worn plush.

“Our Safe Haven is yours too,” he whispers, his voice soft and cracked at the edges. “You don’t have to be strong any more. I’ll be strong for you. That’s… that’s my job, right?”

Your stitches pull as you manage a small smile.

His arms wrap around you carefully, so carefully, as if he fears your threads might unravel in his grip.

“Hey,” Doey says again. This time, it is not theatrical. It is sincere, trembling. “Let’s get you somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.”

As he carries you towards Safe Haven, his grip never tightens enough to hurt, only enough to protect. For the first time in years, since before the experiments, you feel safe. Even in this underground hellhole, you’re together again, and perhaps that’s enough to survive.

Imagine thin specks of dust drifting from the old concept book as you opened it. Creases lined its spine, much like the wrinkles on an elderly person’s skin, worn, yet familiar.

You sat cross-legged on the cold factory floor, dirt and dust speckling the walls and tiled ground. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, humming in their usual tired way. It felt strange to sit here like this, not as an artist, not as a member of staff, but simply as yourself. After so many years, it was relieving to feel like a person again.

“I wasn’t always assigned to maintenance,” you said quietly, running your fingers over the first page. “I used to work in development.”

Bright splashes of watercolour and coloured pencil bloomed across the paper. Smudges of graphite followed your old sketches, soft shapes, round eyes, wide smiles. Before everything went wrong. Before there was even anything to go wrong.

Mommy Long Legs, who had been watching intently from behind you, leaned closer. You turned another yellowed, smudged page, and there she was, but bigger, more spider-like. Her limbs were longer, even more exaggerated. Her colour palette was warmer, pink bleeding sharply into strawberry reds, apple green, and golden yellow. Her eyes were sharp and pointed, like a prowling cat’s.

In the margins, your messy handwriting read:

Concept rejected for being too frightening.

Silence fell as Mommy Long Legs continued to stare. The air around her shifted. It wasn’t anger, not quite. Something thinner. Something edged with confusion and curiosity.

“…Strawberries?” she asked slowly.

You winced. “I know, I know. I’m not sure what I was thinking either.”

You turned another page and were greeted by a small sketch of her sitting at a child’s table, smiling too wide and holding a plastic teacup.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then one of her long limbs reached out, tapping the page carefully, as though afraid she might tear through the fragile paper.

“A spider?” she asked, her voice oddly measured.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “They changed you later. Marketing wanted something less… frightening.”

The silence thickened. You didn’t look at her straight away. You remembered those meetings with management, how their words felt more like demands than suggestions, how it always seemed as though they were diluting your creativity. You hated it. You hated them for it.

When your thoughts finally settled and you glanced up, Mommy was no longer smiling. Her usual grin had flattened into something unreadable, too neutral to call indifference, but close enough.

“Was Mommy supposed to smell like strawberries as well?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Well, I wanted you to. They ended up giving that idea to the Smiling Critters instead.”

“And have a leaf on my head?”

You nodded.

One of her limbs absently brushed the top of her head, where nothing sat except her signature swirl of hair.

“…Huh.”

Mommy Long Legs leaned back slowly, towering as she always did, taller than she had ever been meant to be. Her silhouette stretched long beneath the flickering lights. Spider-like, yes, but stripped of her original strawberry theme.

Then, suddenly, she let out a soft, amused laugh, and the tension dissolved.

“Why, oh my!” she chirped brightly. “Mommy loves how creative you are!”

You weren’t entirely sure whether she was joking, but you played along regardless. You closed the book gently, careful not to damage the ageing pages that held so much of your life’s work.

“I liked that version, you know,” you said after a moment. “She was cute.”

That made her pause. Her piercing green eyes shifted towards you, not sharp or predatory, but searching, as though trying to understand something just out of reach.

“You liked her?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you answered honestly, giving a small shrug. “But I think management was right for once. I like this version of you much better.”

Mommy smiled then, softer this time. One long limb curled loosely around you, not tight, not demanding, simply there. Gentle. Comforting.

“They should’ve kept the leaf,” she muttered.

The moment passed, and the factory continued its endless hum as though nothing had changed. Yet she remained close for the rest of the evening, as if she didn’t quite like the thought of sitting alone at that little table.