"Do I drink her?" is a WILD fucking line coming from the on-again off-again birdman the cosmic horror literally made a whole little coffeeshop au about just to watch him.
please “you know when i was little, i always thought my toys would come alive when i’m not around like they would in Toy Story. i still think they do.” but with howner lol
"You know, when I was little, I always thought my toys would come alive when I wasn't around like they do in Toy Story. Sometimes I still think they do."
"What?"
She's grinning at him. Blood trickles down from the gash in her skull to stain her teeth red. It's not a friendly smile. She's mocking him, speaking of things he doesn't understand. He grunts softly. "When were you ever little? You're not a guest. And I certainly can't imagine you playing with toys."
In the past he wouldn't have dared to be this blunt with her, for fear of her wrath. She just laughs at him, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, there's plenty you don't know about me, dear. And I still play with toys!" Her hands snake around his arm, her fingers long, nails like claws. Her voice deepens to a purr. "You and the others are like my little toys, of course."
There's no argument or rebuttal to be made, so he just grumbles. His heart still beats in his chest, fluttering like a caged bird, and he can feel his face flushing with heat. Usually he resents his decay, but he resents this even more. Especially since he knows she notices it.
"I suppose we're your toys come to life, then?"
"Oh darling, I wouldn't exactly call it life." She giggles. "And anyway, you can't really be anywhere where I'm not, where I can't see you, so it's not really an apt comparison... I wonder what would happen if I left you somewhere that I couldn't see..."
It's not a question, and certainly not one posed to him. The more he thinks about it, the more he's unsure that he can even comprehend being somewhere that she isn't. He has only ever existed under her gaze, inside of her. Part of her, yet separate, a cold reflection of her own vibrant deadly starlight.
"You know, I can't always keep track of myself. Perhaps somewhere there's a version of you I can't see, and maybe he does come to life outside of my gaze." Her voice is quiet. He wets his lips with his tongue, unsure how to respond, or if a response is even required of him. Her blood is soaking his suit, now. It's warm...
"... I'm just a toy, though. This version of me." He ventures.
"Perhaps. I think so, dear." Her eyes refocus on him and she pouts in faux sympathy, patting his arm. "Don't worry yourself too much about it, OK? I can't have you fretting yourself into an existential crisis."
She giggles again. Whatever strange thoughtful moment it was that had passed over her, it's gone again now. "You don't even know what Toy Story is, do you? Perhaps I should let you three watch a film or two sometime. It could be good for you. Give you something to relate to the guests over."
"I would rather not... Relate to the guests." His lip curls in disgust at the thought. "And where are the other two? Usually the Manager would be at her desk, but she's..." He looks around. He hadn't even thought about where he was before now, or the appearance of the lobby, but suddenly he's noticing it, like the world is coming into focus around him.
The lobby is a large wooden room tonight, with stone floors and a crackling hearth in a brick fireplace. The walls are lined with shelves. He can't see a desk, or a closet door. The realisation sends a cold shiver down his spine, one he can't fully explain. All along the shelves, dolls and toys stare down at him. They're completely still, and yet there is intent behind those beady eyes which twinkle in the firelight.
Her blood on his suit has gone cold.
She isn't beside him anymore. She's perched in a decadent armchair by the fireplace, her blood running down the armrests. Below her, on the stony floor, three dolls stand in a circle. He hates himself for it but he pads quietly to her side, like a loyal dog.
The dolls are nutcrackers, with staring eyes and huge teeth and fluffy beards glued to their wooden skin. As he watches, they shift and creak and begin to walk.
Soon they're stiffly marching up and down in bodies which were not made for movement, and yet move regardless. The wood of their bodies buckles and cracks, shedding splinters on the ground. Their jaws clack and judder with the movement.
"Why do you make them walk?" He says, suddenly, in a voice so quiet and distant it almost surprises him. "Why not let them just be toys?"
She turns to face him. She's rotting now. Her blood is coming in intermittent thick black spurts, and her lower jaw is slack, her blue dress slick with fluid and loose around her caving body. Dimly he is aware of his own decay setting in. His skin is shrivelling and pulling away from his teeth, his hair falling to his feet to expose the ivory of his skull. He can hear her speaking, but her jaw doesn't move.
"I think it's fun when they move, darling. It's entertaining."
The wooden legs of one of the nutcrackers snap under its unnatural movement, and it falls. It jitters and writhes on the ground, like a beetle stuck on its back.
"Can't you see it's hurting them, though?" He bristles. His own legs are beginning to crumble under his weight and he grips the armchair to stay upright. "Why would you give life to something that wasn't made for it, something that can't cope with it?"
Slowly she reaches over to him, stroking his cheek gently. "Oh, dear..."
Her face splits into a grin. His vision tunnels, fading into blackness. "Because it's ever so fun to watch them break, of course."
