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The Prototype was contained in the deepest, most secure area of Playtime’s labs, under twenty-four-seven surveillance and with an entire team of armed guards assigned to him alone. Outside of routine check-ups and dissections, he was kept in complete isolation, only occasionally allowed to socialize with other toys—within strict limitations, of course—to prevent his mental state from degrading entirely.
His cell was an equally sorry sight. After the Prototype’s recently foiled escape attempt using a jury-rigged laser pointer, the entirety of the minimal furnishings and belongings afforded to him had been confiscated. If he could not be trusted with a mere digital alarm clock, then what could he be trusted with? Few other scientists were keen to find out.
Few other scientists were keen, too, to enter the Prototype’s guarded cell and face the creature himself, even with centimeters-thick reinforced safety glass to protect them. Harley Sawyer was not one of those scientists. He understood the necessity of taking risks and pushing boundaries to achieve results. That was why he’d agreed to work for Playtime to begin with: because it was a place where real, tangible progress was favored over flimsy principles.
The Prototype sat unmoving in his cell. Unlike the other toys, who retained all possible humane reactions to a lack of stimuli—pacing back and forth, shivering in the corner, humming to themselves, clawing the walls, and so on—the Prototype kept so still, one could be convinced he’d expired on the spot. Clawed hands rested on the worn, scratched floor; arachnid legs tucked into his abdomen; jester’s grin fixed permanently in place. Only the flicker of his single, glowing eye as he tracked the movement of people beyond the viewing window betrayed that he was, indeed, alive and aware of his surroundings.
At Harley’s request, one of the guards wheeled in a television on a stand, with its screen facing into the cell. Harley wasted no time inserting the tape he’d brought with him into the VHS player. He watched as the Prototype deigned to take its eye off him and observe what was being shown on the screen.
The tape displayed a compilation of footage taken from security cameras in Playcare. The main subject: experiment number 1188, or as he was colloquially named, CatNap. The compiled footage showed him interacting with the orphans in Home Sweet Home. Several weeks after his somewhat troubled introduction, CatNap had become a cherished mainstay. Many children now loved him; most were calmed, if not excited, by his presence. He tolerated them touching his fur or climbing onto his back, and he carefully guided them into their beds with almost timid nudges of his nose or paws, like a mother cat herding her kittens. Harley had to admit, he was fond of the creature, in a similar manner to Yarnaby. He just wished CatNap didn’t have such garishly bright purple fur, but that was out of his control.
The Prototype watched the footage in statuesque silence. Only the slight tapping of his long claws against the floor offered any insight to his mood.
Once the tape reached its end, Harley removed the VHS and turned off the television. “Impressive, don’t you think?” he said out loud, addressing the creature behind the viewing window. “1188, formerly one Theodore Grambell—” he said this while maintaining eye contact with the Prototype “—has been a rousing success despite his tumultous adjustment period. He’s very docile, now. Obedient. I would say he even challenges 1170 as the ideal outcome of our Bigger Bodies Initiative. And as you can see, he’s recovered splendidly from that terrible accident you’d caught him up in.”
“What,” said the Prototype, almost impatiently, in its mishmash of borrowed voices, “is the point of showing me this?”
Harley tucked his hands into his lab coat pockets and aimed a friendly smile through the glass. Direct and to the point, as always. He almost admired that. Almost.
“I thought it would be beneficial to remind you, 1006, there are rewards that come with cooperation. Of course, you’d never be allowed to integrate into Playtime in the same capacity as other experiments, but we’d gladly ease up if only you were a little less…obstinate.” Harley gestured with a hand to indicate the rest of the Prototype’s barren prison. “I’m sure even a creature like you would prefer something better than this cramped little holding cell. Am I wrong? Besides, I thought you would be interested to know what has become of your former ‘friend’.”
The Prototype scoffed. “I understand, Doctor,” he said, with faux politeness. “You mean to gloat. To mock me.”
Harley couldn’t dismiss the notion entirely. Still, he remained collected. He had to keep his guard up around this thing. “For as long as it takes to uncover the secret both you and 1007 hold,” he mused, “we’ll need to keep engaging with one another. Isn’t it better if we learned to tolerate the other, then, 1006?”
The Prototype was silent for several moments, flexing his claws. “I made a mistake,” he began, looking down at his hands, “when I killed my father. His death was too…clean. Merciful. Unsatisfying.”
Harley frowned. He didn’t interrupt, though, allowing the Prototype to continue monologuing.
“I should have drawn it out, first. Taken away everything else. The things he loved and cherished. The empire he’d built. The heaven he’d sought to create. And then, when there was nothing more left to take…his life.” The Prototype raised his head, again, and fixed Harley with his mono-eyed glare. “This is a promise, Doctor. Unlike you, I will not make the same mistake twice. And I will make sure to enjoy it very, very much.”
A tense silence fell both inside and outside of the cell. Harley sensed, rather than heard, the guards in the room and in the survelliance booth hold their breaths as he and the Prototype stared each other down. He balled a pocketed hand into a fist, reminding himself to keep calm. His face, neutral. He couldn’t give the Prototype anything else to weaponize. His skin crawled at the memory of when the Prototype had repeated his own words to him in his own voice, the tone and cadence more perfect than any recording.
Finally, Harley broke the tension—and released his own—with a sigh. “Childish sentiments from a creature of childish origin. I’m disappointed, 1006. I thought we were past this sort of pointless dialogue.”
The Prototype did not respond.
“Still, I understand. We’ll keep up the treatment, since you clearly prefer it over the alternative.” Harley gestured to the nearby guard to remove the television from the room, which they did without comment. “A shame, then, you won’t benefit the same as 1188 will.”
Again, no response. It was impossible to tell what the Prototype was thinking and feeling behind that frozen, grinning mask of his. However, Harley had little interest. He’d thought, with his intelligence, the Prototype could be reasoned with; but sadly, he, too, was prone to emotional weakness. Like father, like son. It was a lie to say Harley hadn’t expected this, though. Few others could match his level, after all, and he’d learned a long time ago disappointment was as frequent as it was inevitable.
“Your next dissection will be at the same time as always, next week,” Harley said in a final tone, clipped and curt, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “I expect to see good results from that body of yours, if not your mind.”
The Prototype finally moved something other than his claws. He tilted his head, owl-like, jester-hat bells jingling and his neck clicking with the motion. “Indeed. I look forward to learning more about you, too, Doctor.”
Harley refused to give the creature the reaction it was fishing for. He only turned and left the room, aware of the Prototype watching him all the while.
The living toys required regular socialization in order to be kept compliant. It was an expected downside of using human subjects—and children, at that—but Harley had long accepted it as necessary. It was a good opportunity, too, to observe the Bigger Bodies in a controlled environment and take note of how well their cognition had survived bodily transfer, an issue that’d frustratingly plagued initial specimens.
CatNap, following his successful integration into Playcare, was allowed to interact with the other experiments in the labs. From what Harley had gathered in counselling reports, Theodore had been something of a loner, and it appeared CatNap retained this trait of his former self. Though, it was likely exacerbated by the tailored conditioning he’d received, to act cat-like as well as obedient. While CatNap didn’t completely shy away from the other toys, he was neither eager to approach them without prodding from the handlers on the ground, nor invitation from the toys themselves.
Today, Harley and his team had gathered to once again observe not only the experiments’ socialization, but the socialization of the Prototype. Though he was a wildcard with staff, the Prototype treated other toys with what appeared to be more respect and care. Those other toys, though, seemed split down the middle between awe and fear of the monster in a jester’s cheerful clothes. Even Boxy Boo was cowed by his presence. Still, the toys accepted the Prototype as one of them, unlike how they’d rejected Thomas Clarke.
This was, additionally, the first time CatNap and the Prototype had been allowed in the same room together. Harley had been looking forward to seeing how they might interact.
He wasn’t disappointed. CatNap glued himself to the Prototype’s side as soon as he laid eyes on him. For the entire period of socialization, CatNap followed the Prototype like a second shadow. Harley had kept a pet cat, once—a beautiful creature whose company he admittedly missed—and he immediately recognized the attachment and comfort CatNap silently showed in the Prototype’s presence, even before CatNap worked up the courage to bunt and weave around the Prototype’s spider legs.
Clearly, the same affection Theodore had once held for his supposedly imaginary friend had carried over through his transformation, along with his personality and mental cognition. Harley noted this down with a smile.
It was fascinating. Had the brain damage Theodore suffered from his near-fatal electrocution—which had since rendered him unable to talk without difficulty, another trait CatNap had inherited—ironically contributed to the flawless transfer? Harley wished he could take the boy’s brain apart and study it in detail…but that would be a waste, of both a successful experiment as well as a life. A life he had given fresh purpose. A second chance. Harley wasn’t interested in tearing apart the finished specimens he’d so carefully stitched together, besides; unlike the colleagues with a bloodthirsty streak he was forced to keep in check.
That was one downside of how Playtime’s other heads ran things, jumping from toy to toy like a child with a short attention span. Harley didn’t miss the constraints nor repetition of common scientific practices, but he did miss some of the procedures that’d allowed him to previously control and refine his results.
Something else caught Harley’s eye as the hour of observation progressed. After seemingly ignoring CatNap for most of the socialization period, the Prototype finally returned his attention. With a careful, almost gentle hand, he curled his claws between CatNap’s ears and scritched his head. CatNap leaned up into the touch, kneading his paws against the floor. Harley didn’t need audio to know he would be purring.
This was less fascinating to observe, but it was information, nonetheless. Harley noted it down as usual. A good scientist always kept note of the small details.
“I don’t like it,” Leith declared, tossing Harley’s report onto his desk with an audible fwump of the pages. “1006 is too temperamental. Too difficult to control. And never mind their history, 1188 is highly suggestible. He’s already killed staff before. It’s just asking for more trouble.”
Harley resisted the urge to sigh deeply. Unfortunately, his boss wasn’t as appreciative of scientific progress as he was. Then again, that was why Harley was the head of special projects, and not Leith.
Instead, Harley adjusted his glasses with a finger. “We won’t get anywhere without taking risks, Mr. Pierre,” he reminded Leith carefully, folding his arms behind his back. Though it was tempting to use the word innovation, he stayed his hand. “Think of their periodic socialization as another way to keep 1006 leashed. We know he cares for the boy, after all. We can use 1188 as leverage against him to our advantage.”
Leith leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed as he tapped his fingers together. Then he sighed and dragged the report papers back across the desk. “I’ll have to discuss this with the other company heads. Though I will admit, it’s useful to know we might have another way to keep 1006 in check.”
Harley smiled.
“Just don’t forget, Dr. Sawyer,” Leith went on, favoring him with a stern gaze. “If any of this blows up, it’s on your head.”
“Yes, Mr. Pierre. I understand. I’ll take full responsibility in the event anything goes wrong.” Harley repeated the canned response as expected.
Leith, nodding, waved a hand almost derisively. “Alright, then. You’re dismissed.”
Harley left the office without further comment. Internally, he scoffed. Leith had spoken as if Harley wasn’t an invaluable asset to his corporation. While Leith frittered away time in his office drafting concepts for silly new toys and insulting his employees, Harley was the one truly driving Playtime forward. There would be no worse consequence for the company than removal from his position, and Harley couldn’t be replaced so easily. As long as he continued to produce results, he was above any imaginable punishment.
And with the success of CatNap, Harley was one step closer to achieving his golden path. It was only a matter of time, now, before he finally excised the secret of immortality from deep inside the Prototype’s biomechanical guts.