A writing request, prototype and p.w interacting post-catbee (I hc that the prototype treats him well and keeps him around to keep himself sane)
Oh my GOD the amount of potential there is for these guys is insane I'm so happy you requested this
Preston Willard & The Prototype
Warning(s): (Be so fr right now if you clicked on this you already know the warnings—in case you don't though,) VERY disturbing topics, gore, body horror, and other stuff of that kind.
GIF source unknown
Now despite how it would look to a sane human being, the Prototype likes Preston.
Dr. Newman's swift death was not some sort of mercy killing—he simply wanted her out of the way. There were priorities during the Hour, and he couldn't let anyone insignificant get in the way or distract him.
That being said, it gave him a sick sense of amusement watching her try to escape. He enjoyed toying with his victims before he got bored and simply killed them.
Preston however. He liked Preston. Preston was nice to him. Preston helped him.
And the only thing worse than being disliked by the Prototype was being liked by him.
You've seen his father's actions, this is what he thinks showing affection is. This is his twisted version of care.
So, he turned his "good friend" into a Catbee toy. Not just a Catbee toy though, one he had specifically customized with other toy parts.
He quite literally put Preston on a pedestal. He got placed on a shelf in the Prototype's own room, accessible to the experiment whenever he wished to see his "friend."
Whenever the Prototype wanted to feel more sane, he'd ironically go to Preston, and tell him what—or who— was bothering him.
The room was suffocating. Dark. Desolate.
It reeked of gore, blood sticking to crevasses, bugs skittering around on the stained floor. The hybrid Catbee toy sat on a dirty, brown wooden shelf, the surface of the wood damaged and barely held together at this point.
The sounds of the factory were muffed, the machinery working hard somewhere deep underground.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The clacking and clicking was like a tornado siren. A signal to run, to flee. But Preston couldn't. He was about as mobile as a sack of potatoes.
The metal claws slammed against the wet stone of the floors, the whirring of artificial joints twisting filling the stagnant air. Metal plates brushed up against each other with a shrill shriek, and the faint jingle of bells was audible in the relative quiet.
"HELLO, Preston..."
The distorted voice spoke, voices overlapping as smoothly as waves, tone mixing between high and low with nearly no effort.
"How are we FAIRING today?"
The Prototype asked—as if Preston could respond—leaning in closer. He cocked his head to the side, the bells on his hat jingling. He lifted a single, clawed hand upwards, fixing the way Preston's plushie arm was positioned.
He plucked lightly at one of the tiny limbs, observing it with a keen eye. "Hm... You'll nEED some REPAIRS later. You look a little BROKEN."
He stood there silent for a long while, before continuing,
"I have to deal wiTH THE nuisance who aided in destroying SAfe Haven!" His voice pitched up at the end, mimicking the high-pitched tone of Lily Lovebraids. The Prototype knew that Player didn't mean to essentially hand over the explosives to him, but he rejoiced in making them feel guilty over it, even when they weren't there.
He stepped away from Preston, pacing for a moment.
The sound of him walking was deafening in the quiet room, each step like gunfire. He paused for a moment, his claws clicking as he thought.
As if the pieces finally clicked in his head, the Prototype turned around, his hulking form approaching the shelf, "I KNOW where they'll be. And WHEN I Find them..."
An eery giggle rumbled deep inside the Prototype's chest, his body shaking slightly with the movement. His rage was clearly much more deep-seated than he would show.
"YOU'll have a new frIEND, Preston!"
This time, his actions would not come from a twisted version of care.
This was pure hatred. Seething rage.
Preston had never met this "Player" person, but he knew one thing. If the Prototype would get his hands on them, they would wish Huggy had killed them the moment they showed up.
You should totally be so cool and let me request self insert fluff with Yarnaby (I don’t know anything else bro I just wanna be able to cuddle Yarnaby)
Plsplspslspslspslspslspslspslspslspslspslspslpslspls/nf but also pretty please
Dear LORD HOW DID YOU ASK SO QUICKLY 😭😭 Anywayanyway some of this is probably nonsensical to you without being in the fandom but I am delivering 🫡
So, after exploring the factory for about 3 days straight without water, food, sleep, anything to heal, and like a million toys trying to murder you, you end up pretty exhausted.
And now with this "Doctor" guy watching your every movement through his hundreds of monitors, you can't help but feel quite defeated.
And intimidated as well.
Every time one of those eyes appears on a screen, you dread hearing the low register, bone-chilling voice that follows, always either giving you a "challenge," or taunting you.
For fun, seemingly.
On one of the few instances that the Doctor (or as you now know, Harley Sawyer) isn't tormenting you, you find refuge in one of the huge storage spaces, the hulking crates feeling less frightening, and more like a shield.
Then, you hear it.
The scrabbling of claws, the odd, garbled roars.
Yarnaby.
He roots around the area, huffing and sniffing. Searching.
You watch him turn the corner, and you're met by two giant eyes and a colorful body, the yarn mussed from searching in the dirty factory.
He tilts his head, his face-mouth-thing opening just enough to show off sharp fangs.
You know you should run, logically, you should.
But exhaustion and fear keep you rooted to the ground.
As the huge toy stomps closer, you squeeze your eyes shut, your face scrunching up in fear, your body tense and coiled, prepared for something horrible. You prepare to be eaten, yup, this is it, the end, all for no—
He lays down.
Your eyes snap open in shock. You look down at your lap, and you see Yarnaby's front half on your lap, his giant paws pressed together. He's retracted his claws, and he simply stares at you curiously.
He's... Much softer than you had expected. Warm, fuzzy, and very cozy.
A few moments later, you find yourself relishing in the single moment of calm you've gotten here, your arms hugging the plush toy, your hands petting his yarn.
He purrs, having that usual vacant, single-digit-braincelled stare.
It's been a while since he's felt the warmth of another body, and your presence comforts the creature just as much as he comforts you.
He simply saw a cold, frightened, alone, and hungry human, and decided to give some much needed cuddles.
Your hand reaches down to scratch the underside of his chin, hearing his purrs get louder in response.
He leans against you more, his paws stretching out, claws flexing.
A TV monitor flickers to life above you, a familiar eye appearing on the screen.
"Ah... Let's see what remains Yarnaby left of the little ger—YARNABY WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE KILLING THEM?!?"
Ask and ye shall receive (this is super sad I'm sorry 🥹 take a cookie before you read 🍪)
Doey Headcanons
Warning(s): Angst, panic attacks, sad Doey :((
GIF found on Google
Back in Safe Haven, Doey used to get very overstimulated occasionally. Small things would give him panic episodes, reminding him of his parents, of his past lives.
Like heights, for instance. Sometimes he'd be okay with them. But other times, he'd act like a scared child. Particularly around railings and catwalks.
He'd go to a tent in Safe Haven and cry, not letting anyone near him, in fear of himself and his own actions.
After these panic episodes, he'd feel horribly guilty, feeling like he'd failed those in Safe Haven, failed at keeping it together, at being there for the other kids.
Doey gets treated like he's an adult, a big brother to the other toys. He loves them, they're his world, and he'd kill the Prototype himself if given the chance, just to save them.
But he's also a little kid. Three scared children who were chosen to defend an entire group against an undefeatable foe.
The first time those ice traps were set for Doey, he was alone.
He didn't know what was happening. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. It hurt.
Kissy eventually found and rescued him, but the damage was done, and he was already terrified and hurt.
She was there for him. Kissy was always the one who sat there and helped him. She couldn't speak, but she was comforting.
Doey had insomnia, due to nightmares, and due to how uncomfortable sleeping was in his body. The nightmares were the worst part though.
When it was too quiet, he could swear he heard the clicking sound of those heavy, robotic claws.
Or the familiar, British English tone of the scariest man in his world.
Lowk I kinda want ollie angst- like before he became a toy
Or when he did become a toy but before the hour of joy whatever is easier for u ^^
OLLIE REQUEST OMG I'm so happy you requested this oh my gosh take a cookie 🍪 (Thank you all SO much for the support on these fics, I really appreciate it, and your requests are AMAZING, thank you all ♥️♥️)
Beginning Of The End
Warning(s): Angst, body horror, parental abuse.
GIF by @/seashellisinmyheart
Ollie was an average child. He wasn't much different from the other kids when it came to what he liked and disliked—he liked toys, things like what Playtime CO. created. He liked chocolate chip mint ice cream, with chocolate drizzle over the top.
One thing he didn't like however, were his parents.
They were mean.
And frequently absent, which was something Ollie both loved and hated. When they were gone, they couldn't insult him, or hurt him. But they also couldn't do the bare minimum of feeding him or taking care of him.
He tried to cope, to tell himself he didn't care, that they didn't like him, so he shouldn't like them. But he did. And it was too much for a child to handle.
At a relatively young age, the two had put Oliver up for adoption, choosing a surprisingly good orphanage. He had never expected anything quality from them, so it was a decent surprise.
He felt... Conflicted.
He knew how parents didn't care, that they hated him, but at the same time, he didn't expect them to just throw him away like that.
He arrived at Playcare on one of those many trains that this factory had, alongside a few extra kids.
Oliver felt nervous. His hands were sweaty, he kept shifting his weight from left to right, and he kept tugging on the hem of his shirt.
Oliver really hoped he would act okay around everybody else in Playcare. He wasn't exactly known for his great social skills. He was polite, kind, but no one knew, because he was too afraid to speak up around anyone in fear of backlash. For what? He didn't know.
The train stopped, screeching to a halt.
The doors opened up with a menacing hiss, introducing the young boy to what appeared to be his new home. This was it.
It was huge. There were buildings for all sorts of children's needs, plants and flowers everywhere, benches in the shapes of classic Playtime CO. toys, and soft lighting and lamps to match.
It was... Much more comfortable than he would've thought.
It didn't look half bad. It was cozier than his house, that's for sure. But he was so busy looking at the scenery, that he didn't even notice a man walking up to the group of kids until he cleared his throat.
Oliver jumped in surprise, looking up at this person in front of him. It was a well-dressed man, with a pin-striped suit, a fancy blue tie, pristine navy blue pants, and some dress shoes.
His dark hair was greying at the edges, and he looked pretty friendly, his features relaxed. The man cleared his throat into his fist, and Oliver noted his very very fancy watch, "excuse me, young man, you're with the new group, correct?"
Oliver nodded nervously.
"Hm," he hummed in acknowledgement, crouching before the boy, "you look nervous. You don't have to be, you know. It may look frightening at first, but Playcare is an amazing place. A home for young boys and girls just like you. I may not know how you ended up here just yet, but rest assured, you'll be safe here."
Oliver's eyes widened with awe, his jaw dropping a tad. This man was so... Nice. He felt important, but he didn't act superior. He actually wanted to help. He swallowed hard, managing to stammer out a simple, "th-thank you..."
The man smiled gently, setting a hand on Oliver's shoulder, "no need to thank me, my boy. I'm Elliot Ludwig. Tell me, what's your name?"
"Oliver," he mumbled, his posture relaxing.
Elliot's smile widened, "well, Ollie, welcome to your new home."
***
****
***
Oliver sat there in that horrible box, arms that he didn't feel were his hugging his now deformed, jester-themed torso whilst he waited for his adoptive father to return from his stupid "Poppy project."
His hands—now donned with cartoonish gloves—covered his face, not daring to pull away. He couldn't bear to see the horror of his eerily smooth, toy-like body that he could barely feel. But at the same time, he could feel every single nerve-ending.
As he sat there, crying softly into his palms and struggling to reconcile with what his name was now, or what he was now, he had a realization.
He should have fled the moment Playcare picked him up.
First time requesting here! Can we have some Kissy Missy and Huggy Wuggy seeing the past Player as a somewhat parental-ish figure given that the player treated them both way better than the other caretakers did, how do you think they would act around the player after they came back?
Oooooooo I love this ideaaa!! And welcome to the blog, here's a cookie 🍪
Parental!Player & Kissy/Huggy
Huggy Wuggy & Kissy Missy & Player
Warning(s): Angst
GIFS from Tenor and @uranusgallery respectively
Pre-Hour Of Joy
Huggy and Kissy ADORED Player.
They were a caretaker for the toys, alongside a handful of other people. The caretakers were a position only created so the toys didn't go completely off the rails and murder somebody, and so someone would be there to feed them, and do bare bones physical examinations to check for any physical problems. Nothing more. Just enough to prevent a lawsuit.
It was nothing more than a paycheck for a lot of people, just a job without consequences. But not for Player.
Kissy and Huggy hated most of the caretakers—they were mean, brutish, and did the absolute bare minimum of their jobs. Kissy would always huddle sadly in a corner whilst Huggy stayed close to her, screeching at the caretakers when they approached.
It was different though, when Player showed up.
They never spoke. It didn't seem like they could, but neither could Huggy or Kissy. Their body language was warm and welcoming, and they were so kind.
They would give the duo extra blankets and food, always did thorough examinations of their health, and made sure every corner of their room was clean.
Kissy would walk over to them whenever they appeared in the doorway, sitting down and letting them do her physical.
She always got a snack and a hug at the end, and it made her feel infinitely cozy. Comfortable and loved.
Huggy was harder to win over, but Player got to a point with him where they'd clap their hands three times to let him know where they were, and he'd come out of whatever hiding spot he had, allowing them to do their routine.
Despite his namesake, he had a hard time with hugs, so Player simply held one of his large hands instead, giving it a comforting squeeze. It helped him. They cared, and he was eternally grateful for it.
Post-Hour Of Joy
Huggy wasn't the same. After thousands of Mrs. Gracie videos, him escaping the factory, and multiple instances of him attacking employees, he wasn't anything like he once was.
He was feral. Another lost soul of Playtime's projects.
He was part of the mindless slaughter, killing everyone he could see that was human and breathing.
After the Hour, he returned to his normal self by a little bit, always being around Kissy, and acting a little less violent.
Kissy was the first one to look for Player. She scoured every hall, searched every corpse, looked in every nook and cranny—nothing. She assumed that they had been eaten or something—either way, they were gone.
She was devastated.
So that's why when she pinned down what was seemingly a stranger and was stopped by Poppy, she froze.
Getting a better look at them, she knew them. She did. It was them. Poppy's angel was more important than the others knew.
She was ecstatic, giving them a big hug and lifting them up off their feet.
After that, she helped them every step of the way. Followed them everywhere, guided them, and gave them an affectionate headpat when she needed to leave with Poppy.
When Ollie turned out to be the Prototype, she hid behind Player like a scared child, feeling safe with them.
Huggy... He was different story.
He didn't recognize them at first, he was that far gone. He just saw someone with a Playtime. CO grabpack and went off of pure instinct. It broke their heart, when they thought they had killed him.
When he and Kissy saw each other again, Player was running from Huggy, desperately trying to reach where they knew Kissy was.
They were swiftly grabbed by him, and he screeched in their face, saliva flying.
The next few moments were a blur for Player, but the next thing they knew, Huggy was sitting them on their feet, his eyes soft and teeth not bared dangerously for once.
His head cocked to the side as he inspected them. He reached out with a soft paw, touching a wound on their side. He pulled back in horror, seeing what had happened to them.
He gazed fearfully at them, as if searching for trust, for answers, for comfort. Their trembling, injured hands slowly raised, and proceeded to clap softly three times.
And when Player opened their arms for a hug, for the first time, Huggy gladly took the offer.
Could you do one for Yarnaby? Like he gets his paw stuck in something or a sharp thing gets stuck in his paw and Player saves him. So Yarnaby associates Player as someone to trust and help? Bonus if Sawyer tries to order Yarnaby to eat the Player, Yarnaby eats one of the monitors.
This ask is so silly goofy ahhh I love it so much
Nom
Player & Yarnaby + Harley Sawyer
Warning(s): none
GIF by @/seashellisinmyheart
Player was running for their life as per usual. It seemed like an average Tuesday at this point to be fearing for their very existence. They panted and gasped as they fled, feet smacking against the hard ground, occasionally stomping through a puddle of water from leaky pipes or other sources.
The vicious growling behind them matched the racing of their heartbeat, claws scrabbling against the floor, paws thumping.
Yarnaby was one of the more unshakeable toys.
Player sucked in a sharp breath, their lungs burning and legs aching. Their very bones hurt, but they had to keep going. They needed to meet up with Poppy again. They needed to keep running.
But the grabpack was heavy, and it weighed them down significantly.
Just as their legs were about to give up, right before they fell, the running behind them stopped, and they heard a shrill shriek.
Player stopped dead in their tracks, dust kicking up with the movement. Their head whipped around, their chest heaving and palms sweaty. Yarnaby was tangled in a bunch of cords—ones they had barely noticed, but Yarnaby was large and covered in yarn, of course he'd get stuck.
He shrieked and kicked his feet, mouth opening and clamping down on the wires, pulling tight. But the action only got him more stuck.
Player knew they should continue running, should dart away and not look back. But the way he was whining and huffing, kicking rapidly and only getting more tangled, they knew they couldn't just leave him. He could choke himself on those cords, if he didn't starve to death instead.
So, with a deep breath, they grabbed a crowbar incase they needed to defend themselves, and they ran at Yarnaby, dodging his claws in the process. They reached forward and grabbed a wire, tugging at the knotted bundles as the toy screeched and swiped at them, missing them by a hair.
Finding the source of the stuck wires, Player grabbed it with the crowbar, and in one swift movement, ripped them clean off, stumbling back from the effort.
Yarnaby fell onto the ground with a thud, blinking in surprise. He shook his head as he stood up, cocking it to the side. He eyed Player curiously, sniffing the air around them.
They took a second step back, hands posed in the air. Yarnaby followed, his eyes focused on their hands, raised in a "please-don't-kill-me-I'm-nice" pose.
Raising his head, Yarnaby pressed his forehead against their palm, nuzzling it with a deep, rumbling purr.
After that, Yarnaby followed Player around like a lost puppy. Apparently, saving him had a huge effect on his brain, making him view them as an ally and trusted companion. Which, hey, they weren't complaining.
He snarled at any Nightmare Critters who dared approach the duo, sniffed out batteries when they were solving puzzles, and he alerted them to larger threats nearby.
It was very helpful to have a giant toy around, one who was dangerous yet didn't want to murder them.
Eventually, they had come in contact with the Doctor once again.
Player was at some old security area of sorts, surrounded with monitors, and a work chair set comfortably in the middle. Yarnaby was somewhere else, but they didn't mind, he'd be back soon.
They were working on somehow diverting power from the monitors to open a nearby door, when the screens flickered to life, a single, familiar eye appearing in the middle, followed by that menacing, booming voice, that gave off that energy of being smarter than you.
"Ah, I see. You're still intact. Well... Mostly intact. Good. I'll have more to work with," he chuckled, his eye curled up in amusement. Player took a step back, their fists clenching.
"Your effort is admirable. Your stubbornness, however... It's getting in my way. And I do not give out my mercy freely, little germ," as he spoke, his voice holding an underlying, simmering rage, a door opened in the distance. Player's eyes widened, and they gripped the handles of their grabpack, aiming it at the door.
Yarnaby's paw could be seen emerging from the darkness. Player's jaw tightened, their lower back hitting the desk when they tried to back up. Yarnaby wouldn't hurt them, not now.
...Right?
"Hm. Try to leave a few pieces of the germ, would you? I would like to give them a... Personalized form. Maybe one similar to a Smiling Critter? Or that cursed Doughman. And make sure they live, Yarnaby. I'd like to have my own fun."
He laughed darkly, obviously amused. Player's chest heaved as Yarnaby stalked closer, closer, until he was a few feet away. For a moment, they wondered if he would just attack them, turn them into another incapacitated body for Harley Sawyer to transform and mold into his own creation.
But then Yarnaby turned to the monitor, his head cocked to the side with a low chirp.
Harley's eye narrowed in annoyance, "no, don't look at me—go attack them." He said in frustration.
Yarnaby instead opened up his mouth, nomming on the side of the monitor. The Doctor groaned, "no, Yarnaby—attack THEM! THEM, the germ!"
Player giggled, an amused expression on their face. Harley glared at them, "laugh one more time and I'll bring one of my bodies down there and KILL YOU MYSELF!"
He didn't know what planet he was on exactly. All Maul knew was that his ship had crashed, and now he was here. Sand swirled around his feet, an endless trail of the particles stretching out into the horizon. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he hoped it would lead to a way off of this desert landscape.
Maybe it was Tatooine? That's a desert planet. Savareen, mayhaps? There were a few planets he could be on. He wished he knew—it could help him off that rock if he had a general idea of his location. But it was just… sand.
He held his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun. The heat didn't affect him too much, he was very resilient. Instead, the blinding light was what got him.
The wind was starting to pick up, sand flying every which way, stinging his eyes and dulling his senses. It left him vulnerable. He loathed that feeling.
Maul pressed the heel of his hand against his eye in an attempt to clear his vision. When he pulled it back, he spotted a figure in the distance. He couldn't make it out, but it appeared to be humanoid and unarmed.
He strode forward towards the figure, lips pressed into a thin line as the sand bit at his vision. A person meant there's civilization nearby, and he wasn't concerned about being attacked—his appearance usually frightened people, and if it didn't, he could easily fight off a deserter.
The sand whipped faster, catching the Dathomirian off guard. He stumbled, sand sticking uncomfortably to the inner mechanics of his legs. Maul caught himself, thudding his fist against the side of his knee to get it working correctly again.
He brought his vision back up to the figure ahead of him, and he noticed the figure’s hand, pale in color, pushing back the hem of a cloak.
The fingers curled around the handle of a weapon, pulling it from its hilt.
With a familiar snap and a flash of blinding blue, the weapon was ignited, color and light condensed into the blade that had forever changed Maul’s existence.
Maul jumped, his shoulders tense. The figure turned on its heel and broke into a run towards him. He was going off of pure instinct as his hand flew to his belt to grab his duel-bladed saber. But his hand instead met the empty space where it should be.
Maul’s eyes widened and he stared down at his belt, patting his sides in a panic.
It was the perfect moment of vulnerability. Maul looked up, and was met by the sight of those blue eyes and auburn hair that haunted his every thought and fueled each and every one of his battles.
He raised his arms in front of his eyes in a last ditch effort as the blinding blue took over his vision.
Maul gasped sharply, sitting up so quickly it gave him whiplash. His chest heaved, eyes darting. He reached at his side blindly and grabbed his lightsaber, gripping the handle with a white-knuckled intensity. His limbs felt numb, his head racing, sweat beading on his temple.
Maul took in his surroundings, the thin sheets around his waist, the hard mattress beneath his body, and the amulet sitting at his side.
His private quarters on Janix. The zabrak took a deep, trembling, heavy breath, sitting his lightsaber back down and holding his head in his hands. His fingers sat in the gaps between his horns, his hands slowly clenching into fists against his forehead.
Sitting here, in this dump, lower than he's been since Lotho Minor, especially after his reign was going perfectly according to plan… he didn't appreciate the reminder of who caused so much of his pain.
And yet he had it every time he looked down. Every time he took a step. The reminder of his weakness, caused by the Jedi whose blood he oh-so wished to spill.
Requested by: @megxolotl (I accidentally deleted the OG ask like a dummy I'm so sorry 😭)
YES I LOVE WRITING THEM SM YOU'RE SO COOL FOR ASKING FOR THIS
Propositions and Gambles
Warning(s): Canon typical gore
GIFS from Tenor/Google
Harley sat there.
It was all he could do, really. In this wretched TV form, he could only observe. Yes, he had access to all the security cameras and security functions, but that was different from actually doing anything. From moving. Besides, what could he do with that? After the Hour Of Joy, everyone he had quarrels with was already dead or missing. There was no one to taunt or gloat to.
No one to say "I was right by the way" to.
And bringing attention to himself could be dangerous. He was hated by the toys for obvious reasons, and they currently held all the cards. The moment they'd find him, he'd be a dead man. Harley attempted to escape his confinement using his bodies, but Leith had conveniently made the walls just high enough so people could look in, but Harley couldn't get out.
So, he sat there. He was in one of his bodies—why? Maybe because it felt normal, a familiar action amidst the chaos. His mechanical fingers idly flipped through camera footage of the factory, observing the carnage.
They really had killed everyone. The bodies which hadn't been devoured yet had been dragged underground days ago, leaving behind bloodied earth and red-stained wooden floors. A gruesome sight to many, but an average day for the Doctor.
As his single eye scanned the monitors before him, a clank could be heard in the distance. Not a unique noise in the old, rusting factory. Yet the screech of moving crates that followed it was.
Harley snapped his head over to the sound, his eye narrowing, the light of his screen illuminating the dark room. The gigantic door high-above his prison, up near the catwalk, creaked in protest as something pulled at it, intent on prying it open.
Harley's eye narrowed, and he rose from his chair, mechanical limbs whirring. He stepped forward hesitantly, squinting to see who—or what—was entering his own personal hell.
Clack. Clack. Clickclickclick.
The deep thumping and whirring of multiple, sharp, heavy legs walking on steel was deafening, the soft jingle of bells a haunting warning as opposed to a soft melody.
His hulking form stopped when he was standing above Harley on the catwalk, claws clicking together. His silhouette blocked out the only remaining, already dim light above the door, his head not tilted like usual. He wasn't curious. He was focused. He was here with a purpose.
The Doctor's eye squinted in amusement, "Well, well... 1006," he uttered each number with a taunting lilt in his voice, a low, rumbling chuckle reverberating in his speakers, "quite the revolt you've started, hm? I must admit, I'm impressed. For all of your nativity and frankly childish ideals, you're quite the little problem solver, aren't you? An excellent creator of a plan, and even more efficient in the execution of it. But... Not flawless."
He watched as the experiment's arachnid-like limbs twitched—a subtle sign of agitation.
"If you were... You wouldn't be down here, now would you?"
The slap of wet flesh and stuffing could be heard as something was dropped at his mechanical feet, a small, colorful plush toy having been thrown down at Harley from the Prototype. He stared down at the fluffy mass, eye narrowed as he noted the lack of life in it's body.
"... What's this?" Harley asked, eyeing the Prototype suspiciously, searching for his intent. The giant claws clicked, and he proceeded to slowly make his way closer to the Doctor, pausing on the wall just high enough above him to stare down at him.
"My proposition," he said, his booming voice echoing in the room, his speech an overlapping sea of voices that belonged to everyone else except him, "MY request is simple, REally. I give you the resources, and YOU teach me the proCESS."
Harley hummed in thought, staring down at the corpse, "hm. I'll need some context. Why? What use would my abilities be of to you, of all people?" The Prototype leaned in, the bells of his hat dangling above Harley, "discipline. FIXing. ImpROVEMENTS."
Harley crossed his arms, an action made a bit difficult in this form, yet he managed. He always does. "Alright. The next question would be, why should I do this? What is in this for me?"
The experiment leaned in, his face a mere foot or two from his screen, light reflecting on dirty porcelain, "YOUR LIFE. You have NOTHING ELSE, Doctor. It is in your BEST INTERest to comply!"
The way his voice fluctuated between deep, menacing tones and cheery, happy ones only made him more menacing. It somehow hid his feelings yet simultaneously highlighted them.
Harley stared Prototype down with an unmoving gaze, his pupil shrinking. He crouched down and picked up the lifeless toy, turning it in his hand. He lifted one of the small arms with his index finger and thumb, examining it. It seemed to be a Smiling Critter of some kind that had been operated on. Poorly.
"Hm. Well, for one, a corpse won't work. Especially not an old one. And the work you've attempted is sloppy and poorly executed—even with a proper subject, you would have failed," Harley spoke matter-of-factly, hearing the jingle of bells above his head as the Prototype shifted.
Sawyer sighed heavily, knowing there wasn't exactly another option but to side with the experiment, "Fine. I will help. But, I will need the right resourc—" "YOU WILL USE what I proVIDE."
This neurosurgeon glared at the Prototype, but didn't protest. He was defiant, sure, but he knew better. Besides, he would get his way eventually. He always did.
"Get me a live specimen, and I will show you whatever you wish to see. The work requires time and effort, however. I will not be rushed," he spoke firmly, his tone holding no room for arguement.
The Prototype went up the wall backwards, making his way back to the huge steel door wordlessly. He didn't need to speak, the thud of his limbs was menacing enough.
Harley watched the door shut with a deafening creak, his eye narrowing. Once it was shut, he moved back to the cameras, fingers pressing down on the keys to switch between the footage idly.
This wasn't the ideal way he wanted to spend his life, yet, at the very least, he was alive.
