Poppy Playtime: Oneshots/Short-stories

Unfinished Business.

Disclaimer: I don't own Poppy Playtime (Video Game). I don't own the picture (cover). Or the song if I put one in.

(qwertuno and SilentReadersMatter)

(I've been wanting to write about the Prototype for ages! Also, this was inspired by 'What a Waste' by Jack_OAT on ao3. Link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39562389 give it a read if you want!)

(Hope you enjoy.)

The reason he didn't kill the little human is simple.

They had so much potential. Defeating the bigger mascots even he had grown to fear and killing even for him opened an opportunity for his urges to be satisfied. If he was an ally or an enemy, he himself didn't know. Whatever the voices, whatever any of his protocols enforced in the heat of the moment guided his decision.

Look at them move!
All I wanna do is squeeze them!
Perhaps offer them a piece of Candy?

Three of the tens, maybe even hundreds of presences clashing for his attention. The ability he gained when experimenting tampering with her parts, attaching the arm and some of her hair strands. They officially had hair at the top of their amalgamated, metallic-like head. Combing his fingers through their hair, the yellow gloves proved off proved helpful when he needed relief from the stress.

Give 'em a squeeze.
We don't bite!
Have a look at their injuries.

Some retained their original personalities.

One on one ain't really fair?
Is it not? We take and take when they have nothing left to give.

Unfortunately true. He couldn't help himself if someone happened to give up on life and had nothing to provide in return. Outliving their usefulness, putting them out of their misery seemed the better option. To him, he was a guardian and a tormenter for all the doll. Most came to him with their problems. Managing to see past the amalgamation within and the person hidden beneath the mask.

" Shit. Shit. Shit ."

SWEAR WORD ALERT. SWEAR WORD ALERT.
Huh! They said a bad word!

If the prototype had the ability to roll its non-existent eyes, then trust him that he would. The whispers of the ghosts attacking him due to their literal limbs attached to him and preventing their souls from finding peace. It was an easy to understand philosophy.

If I can't find peace, nobody can.

A classic of 'I want, they can't have.' Scenario. Except the Prototype had some justification on their end. Tortured, beaten, abused to the brink of death. His heightened intelligence is what aided him in his escape of his cell and mass murder of every damn employee that he found.

Except the one that chose to quit. Someone the most involved in his experiment and left when they felt guilty about the horrors they committed.

HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-

What is guilt? Trust? Love? Attention?

He never experienced any of those.

We limit ourselves by resources.
Never had much to work with.

The little human paced around the corridors. Hands pressed on the buttons of those weak, ridiculous grabpacks that let the employees have access to rooms the prototype only dreamed of getting into. If they even so much as touched the prototype, then they'd simply repeat the process of what they did to their last victim. Rip the device off their shoulder and tear them apart piece by piece.