#ppt prometheus

He hoped she wasn’t dead. Though, it would be fitting. Almost every other toy that had crossed paths with him was dead. Huggy Wuggy. Mommy Long Legs. Catnap. Miss Delight.

(Doey.)

He had quite the track record.

“Why did you kill Doey?!”

Oh, Poppy was alive. She had run away, remember? As Ollie’s— the Prototype’s voice echoed in its shifting high-low tones. “It's time to come home, Poppy.”

He'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't expecting it. He would hardly call it a betrayal; Poppy was never going to be on his side forever. If she had been, she would’ve let him go home. 

Even what gusts of air the Grabpack managed couldn't stave off the shower of falling debris.

Frankly, he didn't care care about the Toys. He didn’t want to. They’d been in this hell for decades. Maybe if he’d been stuck here for twenty years, he’d be more inclined to help. Just as Poppy was.

But he hadn’t. And he still had enough in him to be selfish.

—Impact.

A whittled scream. It took all the breath out of him. 

Pain exploded through him, but he was alive. Regrettably alive. He’d broken something. Broken ribs. He knew it in his gut. His right arm was useless, pinned beneath the weight of his own body. His legs— god, his legs— he didn’t even want to check.

He should be dead. It would be better if he was dead.

But he was not dead.He was in the depths of the factory. Where the Labs were. Where the Prototype was.

Maybe if he closed his eyes, it would be over. Poppy was gone. Doey was dead. Kissy he hoped alive, and without hope still many floors away from him. The Safe Haven was gone. 

The Prototype had always been Ollie.

The plan would never work. He was never getting out. 

He was as good as dead.

No. He wasn’t dead, but he would be if he didn’t get up. No, he’d be worse than dead. Trapped in plastic and meat, trapped without light or life. So he had to get up.

(After all, if it was one thing the factory taught him, there were much worse fates than death.)

Groaning, he pushed himself up, breath coming in ragged gasps. His vision swam. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself forward and dragged his weight across the cold metal floor. His ribs ached, his limbs throbbed. But he had to move.

The dim light of the Labs flickered, and when he realised he still had the Grabpack on him he couldn’t help but laugh rattledly. 

How resistant is this thing?

His laughter died down soon. It sounded so wrong, echoing in the empty space. God, he was losing his mind. This stupid GrabPack.

Gingerly, he propped himself up. He closed his eyes, and opened him.

Each step was agony. The sharp pull in his ribs, the unsteady drag of his cursed leg, but the hole was there, and he’d be found very quickly if he didn’t get far enough away from it.

He grit his teeth and forced himself forward.

The floor beneath him was cold, metal grates groaning faintly under his weight. He almost missed the playful murals on the walls; missed the Game Station and its colours, at least then if he died red wouldn’t be the last thing he saw. Step. Drag. Step. Drag.

He moved along, shaking, and his breath was too loud in his ears. The hum of machinery was barely there, even as the distant hiss of—

Noise. Sound. 

Something else. Something closer.

A soft shuffle. Scraping against metal.

There was a door in front of him. The porthole revealed a room not too dissimilar, other than the hunched figure slowly approaching—

Oh my god.

The blue monster slammed against the glass, erratic pupils staring him down, sharp teeth extending beyond red lips.

He stared at Huggy Wuggy. You’re not dead? 

But there he was, staring back at him through the porthole, massive form twitching, blue fur matted with blood and gore. His pupils shrank and dilated, erratic and searching. His breath fogged up the glass.

Then— slam.

The whole door shuddered as Huggy threw himself against it. 

Oh, hell no.

He stumbled backward, fumbling with the Flare Hand; if the door wasn’t locked, he was done for. He breathed again and again.

Huggy’s claws dragged down the glass. He could see the filth left behind in thin streaks. 

The filth was a greyish-red.

Red.

He broke, and ran. His legs screamed at him. His ribs was burning. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Behind him, metal was shrieking. The clink of a lock releasing. The hiss of hydraulics.

Then heavy, loud thuds.

Huggy was out.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The heavy, loping footsteps was pacing quickly behind him. Go! The hallway stretched ahead, dim and endless. Doors blurred past him; locked, locked, damn it, locked. 

A turn. He took it, half-stumbling. A grated bridge. He lurched onto it, heart hammering.

The pounding behind him grew louder. Closer.

The bridge creaked under his weight.

A vent. Low, just ahead. Too small for Huggy. How reminiscent, how ironic.

He lunged. He caught on, and with a grunt, he pulled. The rusted hinges protested, but the vent gave way. He didn’t care how loud it was. He didn’t care about anything but getting away. 

He scrambled through the narrow opening, forcing his body through the tight space. His legs flared with pain as he twisted and contorted, but he kept moving.

A scream echoed from behind him.

Huggy’s cry tore through the air. (Please let it be him. If there’s more Toys after me this soon, I’ll actually kill myself.) He kicked himself further into the vent. 

The air inside the vent was stale, but it was better than being out there. And inside, he breathed. Slow, quiet.

Safe. For now. 

A sharp turn ahead. He pressed forward. It was quiet now. The footsteps were muffled, distant. Huggy was still out there, but he wasn’t right behind him.

For the moment, he had time to think. Had time to breathe. But not a lot of time. He had to keep moving. Another turn. Another twist.

He pushed himself harder, dragging along his legs as they screamed in protest. 

(He was so tired. He wanted to just stop.)

But he’d made it this far. 

And then, just as he was truly going to pass out, the end of the vent opened up before him.

Light.

He shoved himself through the vent. The air was thicker, fuller. He stumbled out, and his knees immediately buckled, but he caught himself on the edge of the wall,

He couldn’t hear Huggy.

Thank god. Or whatever God there was in this cursed place. 

He slumped onto the ground. His heart was racing, as he gasped for air; ragged, desperate breaths that were burning up his lungs. He pulled his knees to his chest. 

The vent door silently shut.

He didn’t dare stay for long. Not when the Prototype was somewhere in the depths of this place. Not when he knew he wasn’t safe. Not when Huggy would come for him eventually. He had to keep going. There was no other choice.

(Except, to die.)

A creak. A voice.

" You can’t hide forever. "

It was low. A threat. Then light, sweet, lovely. His heart leapt into his throat. It was close. Too close.

Like a deer caught in headlights. Shifting tones. The Prototype.

He scrambled backward, hands sliding along the floor as he tried to regain some semblance of balance. He needed to move. Fast.

Click.  

The noise cut through the haze. His breath caught in his throat. 

Click. Click.

He looked up.

It was monstrous. Jagged metal, the whirring of pistons, and the quiet clicking of metal joints. The limbs were too long, too jagged, twitching and he knew he must’ve flinched when he noticed the spindly thin pink limb stretching out. Mommy. 

There were more. Faces, colours. But the two white pin-prick eyelights, stuck in the exoskeleton where the seat would be if he was a throne, were staring at him.  

Maybe he had truly lost his marbles. Because he lifted his Grabpack, and shot a single angry flare in the Prototype’s direction. The Prototype's eyes flickered. And it moved.

It was a blur, too fast— one of its spindly limbs shot out toward him, the claw-like fingers catching the air with a horrifying screech. The flare’s light illuminated the monstrosity for just a moment before the Prototype’s hand slammed down with a deafening crash, the shockwave knocking him back.

His heart thudded against his ribs. 

He reached backwards, to scramble and back away and do anything. But he didn’t move. There was no running from this thing, the Prototype was too fast, too strong, too. And he was trapped in this room.

No! A slow, shaky breath left him.

“Shall I let you attempt the other Hands?”

The robotic falsetto voice mocked him. He flipped to the other hands, but there was nothing. The flares were weak, but they had been his last chance.

He went silent. He was always silent.

“Good. Let me take a closer look at you.”

The limbs went click, click, click.

He stayed impossibly still as a long, spindly limb reached out, clawed fingers twitching. He would not flinch, would not blink.

It did not stop the chills as the cold metal made contact with his clammy skin.

The Prototype cooed. “Back after all these years.”

The thin fingers gently yanked his head to the side.

He was silent.

“Nothing to say?”

The false sweetness quickly melted into harsh low laughter. 

“Poppy’s angel. I imagine she was very taken with you. A hero, come to save us all.” Its voice dripped with sarcasm. “She must be rather disappointed. Always so stubborn.”

So Poppy had made it out? 

Well. He tried to feel something at that, but all he felt was numb. 

He flinched at the biting pain. The thin metal had pricked his skin, the wrist settling along the length of his neck as the tips bit into his cheek.

“Such a shame. But we must make do.”

He croaked as the weight tightened around his throat. The choking pain pressed and pressed in further and blurry black circles were forming and leaking through his eyes—

The weight released him, gasping.

“Really? You’ve survived so much, and this is where you falter?”

You try being choked—

He breathed, and closed his eyes. Breathing, breathing.

“Look at me.”

He didn’t move for a moment. 

He exhaled, and opened his eyes.

A soft sigh left the Prototype. “Obedient. Capable. It’s no wonder she took such a shine to you.”

He was thinking, now. Even if Poppy had left him, it had simply been because of the Prototype. Maybe she still trusted him. Maybe he could barter away that trust. If the Prototype chose to work with even the Doctor, it meant it was willing to compromise in the face of something it needed. 

Maybe the Prototype would let him leave, if he gave it Poppy. 

And he really was obsessed with Poppy. Ugh, it made him want to gag. 

But try as he might, he just couldn’t open his mouth to offer it. He should, it would raise his chances of survival higher than the current null. He opened his mouth.

Yet it was as if his throat was jammed shut. The Prototype drew closer, form rippling as whatever skeletal head there was tilted. 

He just couldn’t do it. 

“What are you thinking, angel?”

That stupid nickname. He hated it. He’d hated it when he heard it fall from DogDay’s lips. Angel? Like he was some holy creature descended from the heavens? More like something that had crawled its way up from hell. That would explain why he made such a poor hero.

(He should’ve helped DogDay. Even if it meant killing him. But, no, he was so selfish, he was such a coward.)

And he lurched as shock filtered through his body. 

For a glorious moment, he couldn’t quite feel anything, though the squeeze forced some inkling of the idea of pain into his skull, but then he saw the sparks and very quickly he felt the pain. The force slammed into him, burning so fast he couldn’t feel and he couldn’t think, couldn’t blink— and then he could. 

Once he could, he was heaving. The shock should’ve killed him. He thought, at last, it was finally going to kill him.

“I wonder how long it’ll take,” It mused, “For her to come for you.” The words barely registered through the throbbing haze in his skull.

With a final squeeze, he stopped spasming. Copper in his mouth. He must’ve bitten his tongue. But quickly he felt something rotten in his stomach; he was right. The Prototype still wanted Poppy.

With a sickening realisation, he knew what the Prototype was trying to do. 

His fingers curled into a weak fist. 

It was using him as bait for Poppy. 

“She’s always tried to hide. Knowing what must be done, but unable to stomach it. Fleeing from the truth doesn’t make it any less real, angel. That’s why she needs me.”

The vent was locked. What little light there was revealed doors bolted shut. 

His eyes darted over its frame. The spindly limbs, twitching, shifting. The tangled mess of wires and scrap. He feigned a stumble to the right. The white pricks followed. The nearest limb flexed, metal screeching, yanking him back.

It touched him, and his nerves exploded. 

He cried out; cold fingers curled around his arm in an unforgiving grip, sending wave after wave of panic crashing over him that he had to fight to squash. This time he felt it. There was no numbness. No such mercy. He let himself fall, this time to the left, half from the thrash and half from himself going limp, and he didn’t blink as he saw it reach to catch his head before it hit the floor.

He caught the swivel of its head, and quietly thought: I saw something. 

Its head was swiveling, scanning, always aware, always observant. But there was a pattern to it.

Silently, he mapped out the edges of its view. Left-right.

The Prototype laid him on the floor, and he thought very, very carefully.

He had seen the doors. They were bolted shut, but there were groves in the corners. With the right push, he could force them open. He didn’t have the strength.

“Always trying to find a way out. I remember. You weren’t there, twenty years ago. The canary in the coal mines.”

The Prototype would be able to break through, though.

“Except the canary got away, and the cave collapsed in.”

(That was an idea. If he provoked it enough, would it bring the ceiling down on itself?)

“What do you want?” He rasped. Girlish laughter from a not-so-girlish form. “From you? Nothing.”

“You haven’t killed me,” He said quietly. The words felt stiff. He squashed down the discomfort. 

"Not yet," It replied, almost contemplative. "You’ve been useful. And not. You broke open the safe space I made for her. But you made her act, for once. She was willing to blow every Toy up for her own means. It won’t take that long for her to realise we aren’t so different after all.”(The Prototype wasn’t like Doey. Insane, but not explosive. It would be much, much more difficult to provoke him.)

“You’re a lot of talk,” He murmured. “But I still don’t get it. The Doctor. Catnap. You got others to do what you wanted. But you trapped yourself.”

Soft clicking as the Prototype drew closer. It almost made him laugh, the absurdity of seeing the skull-like thing loom over him. He didn’t try to get up. Its sharp joints were already poking his skin through his shirt, one clawed hand pressed against his shoulder.

The other delicately brushed over the nape of his neck, almost tenderly. His breath hitched as the god-forsaken fingers curled up. Not choking, but just enough to be felt.

Its breath, or what passed for it, was a soft, mechanical whirr against his ear.

He breathed. While he still could. “Why not just kill me?” “I’m not wasteful.”

“She won’t think you left me. So she won’t come for me. You should just let me die.”

It hummed. “You would like that, no?”

And a soft, wistful sigh. The air shifted. He barely had time to register it before—

He couldn’t scream. The shock slammed into him and his muscles seized, no they locked up, and he could feel himself crumbling as the pain pulsed through him. In the next breath another surge hit him and his head snapped back. A howl, a scream, a plea clawed out of him and his mouth was full of blood.

“I remember this. He always delighted in it, testing our pain tolerance.”

His nerves screamed in agony, his body wracked with involuntary spasms. The pain was unbearable, infinite— 

“But I suppose you wouldn’t know.” 

Another surge. What had he done? (Just kill me, just kill me, just kill me.) Just kill me!

“Don’t worry, angel. I’ll make sure of it.”