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From the moment he saw The Prototype's true form, he could only be certain that he was slowly losing his grip on victory. No joke, the power of The Prototype was truly greater than any enemy he had ever faced. A being that stood at the head of the living toys, serving its own private purpose and gathering fanatical, obsessive worshippers. He couldn’t understand why. The more he thought about it, the more his heart twisted in pain.
If it were possible, he would have saved that giant purple cat from him.
But regret now would change nothing.
After eliminating Lily LoveBraids, it seemed The Prototype no longer had any, fanatical, deranged followers, left. All he needed to do now was rescue Poppy and destroy him. At least, that was what he believed he could still accomplish… with his own two hands and his GrabPack, even though the Omni-Hand was gone. Was it really feasible?
The pain in his chest still throbbed from when he had been impaled. When he woke up, he found himself submerged in a container filled with a strange liquid.
The liquid was viscous and slippery, yet it carried no unpleasant odor. On the contrary, it made him feel strangely comfortable. If he had been a ten-year-old child, he swore he would never have been able to escape this tank. But no child would be foolish enough to climb into a container of unknown, dangerous liquid—a deep red substance made from poppies mixed with other ingredients of unclear origin.
Yet when The Prototype threw him in here, he felt no fear. The poppy gel gave him the sensation of lying on a tiny bed made just for a child, warm like a cat curled up to sleep. It felt so comforting, as though all suffering and despair had never existed. He wanted to stay inside forever. He silently prayed to whatever god he still believed in, asking to be allowed to become a child again, just once more.
Only minutes earlier, when his wound first came into contact with the thick liquid, the agony had torn through half his soul. Death itself had whispered in his ear in that moment. Only when the poppy gel stopped burning and itching did the pain ease. It felt like ten shots of adrenaline injected at once, but also exactly like how most people described the effects of opium poppies.
Hallucinations came in relentless waves. Not the mad, monstrous kind caused by chasing toys or grotesque creatures. These were buried memories, locked inside a Pandora’s box that had suddenly been pried open. Faded fragments of the past played in slow motion like an old videotape, unfamiliar, cold faces appeared, then children, then toys.
The brown-haired boy he could never forget kept following him through every frame of memory. That boy had been a constant nuisance, trailing after him even though he knew full well the horrific crimes he and his colleagues had committed.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Theo—… no…”
“I… am CatNap.”
He had discarded his human identity to become the perfect toy. To make the scientists believe their experiment had succeeded flawlessly. The boy Theodore was no longer Theodore; the little shadow who once clung to him like a tail had vanished.
The delirium made him want to break down completely. He truly wanted to beat himself to death in that moment and drag every crime committed by those scientists, and by himself, into the light. Disgusting.
The sound of Theodore’s sobbing clung to him, murmuring endlessly in his ears.
Then the crying stopped. Silence followed. He walked along a desolate road, wind rustling past his ears. Even the moonlight refused to appear.
Poppy’s voice echoed through the nightmarish space, repeating over and over until it drove him mad.
His eyes snapped open. The sharp ache in his chest persisted, even more vivid now that he had awakened from the poppy-gel-induced hallucinations.
The poppy gel still clung thickly to the lower half of his body. For some reason, the wet, sticky sensation made him feel feverish and restless.
This area had no toys, at least, nothing particularly noteworthy.
He wondered where Giblet was now.
Everyone’s lives were teetering on the edge of the abyss. One misstep and there would be no turning back.
He was Angel, the supposed savior of Poppy and all the toys not aligned with The Prototype. Yet sometimes he was also a butcher.
In the end, you really are like a fallen angel.
Beautiful, perhaps, but wings dirtied by the mortal world, wings that the lowly are unworthy to behold.
His cheek pressed against the cold floor. The thick smell of dried blood assaulted his nose, making him nauseous. His vision blurred; he had only just regained a sliver of clarity, and now something sinister was pinning him hard against the ground.
Massive metal legs, like those of a gigantic spider, slowly approached.
His breath caught in his throat.
Choked, but no sound would come out.
The sides of his face felt as though they were about to be torn apart. Experiment 1006, who had seemingly spared him earlier, had returned—silently this time. No grand entrance like before. Its footsteps were eerily light for such a colossal mass of metal, flesh, and debris.
It was stalking him like prized prey. Cunning, treacherous, more wicked than any other monster.
The Prototype’s eyes fixed on him. A grin revealed its enormous, yellowed, repulsive teeth. He had never imagined he would see this day.
He had never witnessed such manic excitement on The Prototype’s face.
Clearly, it was ready to devour him alive, or perhaps it had its own plan. He couldn’t guess, but one thing was certain: this time, The Prototype would show no mercy.
Its sharp claw pressed hard into his cheek. Blood welled from the torn skin. He hissed in pain. The wound in his abdomen, still not fully healed, now had a fresh injury. It felt like forks stabbing into tender, juicy steak.
Its other hand groped around, cold metal gliding over soft flesh. How long had it been since The Prototype had touched a living being made of real skin and meat?
To it, this man was nothing more than The Playtime Butcher, a self-proclaimed angel who “saved” toys by slaughtering others.
Ridiculous.
“Angel” did not deserve that outdated title.
Moreover, a former Playtime employee had fallen in obsessive love with its most fanatical disciple. Disgusting. It no longer understood love, or even the sensation of it. But during all that time it had let CatNap roam free, the cat always returned to that remnant of humanity it never spoke of—CatNap and Angel, who should have been mortal enemies: hunter and prey.
Yet CatNap obeyed Angel like it was an absolute command. The way it followed him was not the devotion of a fanatic.
It was something strange.
They seemed inseparable.
And in that realization, The Prototype felt an unfamiliar discomfort.
It had lured Angel here to destroy him long ago. But in the original plan, it would not happen so quickly, it had wanted to watch the chase between CatNap and Angel play out.
Jealousy.
It, too, could experience that very human emotion. Back when it was not yet Experiment 1006, it had always suppressed its envy toward everything. Hatred and jealousy that could never be quenched. Now they had resurfaced.
If it could not have true love, then no one could.
Never.
It slammed his head against the floor. The brief thud of skull against concrete brought it a surprising amount of satisfaction.
“One death is nothing compared to ten thousand times the pain,” it whispered into his ear. Its grotesque jaws opened wide and clamped down hard on his left shoulder.
He screamed in agony as blood poured from the wound. His shirt tore open, exposing the faint scar across his bare chest. Clutching his shoulder, he whimpered in despair. Clearly, The Prototype had deliberately bitten into the nerves. The shoulder was an especially sensitive area under such force.
His breathing came in ragged gasps as he watched every horrifying movement it made on his body.
In under a minute, its brute strength ripped his filthy jeans apart. Even tough denim could not withstand such violence.
The thin underwear beneath was shredded and discarded onto the floor, lying there in tatters.
His chest heaved violently, pounding as though it wanted to scream. His most private area lay exposed, defenseless. Cold drafts brushed against the dark, hairy lips.
“A privilege from the outside world. A gift from an Outsider,” it muttered in a hoarse, slightly stuttering voice, at least, that was how he perceived it.
No one had ever seen his most intimate place, not even the person he loved. And now his lifelong virginity was being laid bare before a monster that had caused him and every toy here endless suffering.
Would Poppy ever know? Would The Prototype boast about this to its loyal toys as some kind of trophy?
Cold sweat broke out across his skin as it gripped one of his thighs and forced his tightly closed legs apart, fully exposing him.
He wanted to scream, to scream as loud as possible so his allies could hear and save him.
But he remained mute. His gray eyes simply followed its every action. His body began to relax even as blood continued to flow.
He didn’t understand how, just seconds ago, he could scream, yet now he felt utterly exhausted. The humiliation and fear of being discovered in this half-naked state made him feel weak and pathetic.
Perhaps this was punishment.
Perhaps it was exactly what someone like him deserved.
A pleasant scent clouded his mind. His vision filled with swirling specks of color that shrank and twisted endlessly.
Simply put, it was like looking through a kaleidoscope as a child.
The bloodstained face of the brown-haired boy hid within the hallucinations.
Pain returned sharply. His lips cracked, his breathing heavy and panting like a bitch in heat.
His legs were spread as wide as possible. He had no idea how long he had held this position. Moments ago he had still struggled; then he inhaled some scent, his body went limp, and he fell unconscious into hallucinations. What had happened?
His shoulder tensed and slammed against the floor, drawing a moan from him like a raped whore. Blood still seeped from the bite wound on his left shoulder. He shuddered as a wave of intense stimulation surged through his groin.
His eyes widened in shock. He realized it was digging its fingers relentlessly into his entrance. Those razor-sharp claws thrust in and out. Even with only two fingers, it was enough to bring tears streaming down his face.
Damn it, damn it. Pleasure had twisted into desperate agony. The needle-like fingers stabbed into his core and teased his clit. He hovered between life and death. Below, everything burned and throbbed; his thighs and calves tensed painfully.
“No, no! You’re doing something pointless!!” He finally managed to draw breath. Everything he had been thinking spilled out, though he doubted it would affect a monster like The Prototype.
It didn’t even glance at him. Instead, it pushed deeper. Its sharp fingers reached so far they nearly brushed his cervix. He had never felt such humiliation. Being violated by a giant toy simply to satisfy its sick pleasure—he had never endured anything so degrading.
He sobbed quietly, tears falling as small trickles of blood appeared from the scratches inside his warm flesh. It slowly withdrew its fingers, now coated in his blood.
As a final insult to Poppy’s “Angel,” it smeared the bloody digits across the corner of his mouth.
He grimaced, his chest heaving with rage and humiliation. But right now, he could do nothing. His GrabPack had been smashed long ago while he was lost in hallucinations.
“Furious, yet utterly helpless,” it said, mocking the plump prey trapped in its grasp.
His body trembled. Fear had never been this overwhelming. Every cell felt devoured. It hungered for fresh meat yet refused to consume him quickly. It wanted to savor the pleasure it had been denied for so many years.
This, too, was part of his punishment.
His nipples were pinched hard. The dark red buds were teased until they stiffened, hypersensitive. Its finger pressed into the scar on his chest, digging in and tearing the skin. His eyes bulged; his legs kicked uselessly in the air as its claws raked across him like a cat’s.
Tears and sweat soaked his face, matting his hair to his temples. Below, he grew wetter, aching with a bizarre craving to be filled. He hated himself for it. He could not, must not, feel desire or arousal from this thing. He was being raped by a monstrous toy. How could this happen?
He squirmed his hips, subtly grinding against the filthy floor despite knowing how disgusting it was. All because the slickness between his thighs made him look like nothing more than a depraved slut. He desperately, desperately needed something inside him to ravage his aching core.
His mind grew hazier, shrouded in fog. He could only rely on instinct now.
The Prototype glanced at him, its eyes gleaming with delight, as though it had anticipated this exact reaction. It was massive; with one step it could reach the distant container of poppy gel.
“You’d never guess how versatile this gel really is,” it rumbled, almost murmuring to itself in satisfaction. He narrowed his eyes, watching as its mechanical hand, coated in thick, dripping poppy gel, smeared the substance across his chest.
The gel felt cool, lacking warmth, yet it brought strange comfort while simultaneously revolting him. It was likely the source of those hallucinations, but also the thing that let him forget the pain he endured. Ten doses of a drug dragging him toward eternal sleep.
Then it scooped more gel and rubbed it into his sensitive entrance, stuffing it inside like feeding a baby bird. The moment the gel touched him, his core throbbed even more intensely, numb, aching, unbearable. He writhed; it felt as though his womb was trying to push itself out. Pain, oh god, the pain…
It didn’t just cloud his mind. It deceived his body too. The perfect trap for him.
The Prototype hummed in pleasure, savoring the pained expression on the human below. Angel’s beautiful face flushed red, drenched in blood and lost in delirious hallucinations as he stared at it. Seeing Poppy’s so-called savior reduced to this, The Prototype could only mock her and her foolish toys.
Perhaps this heavenly savior would soon become its own extreme devotee. Yes, a former Playtime employee would fit perfectly in a new form.
Not long now.
“What should I call you?” it asked with relish, stroking his abdomen. The wound it had once pierced still showed clearly, undeniable. Even after being soaked in poppy gel, the injuries didn’t truly vanish. They only kept their victims from Death’s grasp, in exchange for haunting hallucinations and lingering physical torment. If it still had a tongue, it would not hesitate to lick the wound and spit inside, wanting to see infection take root in the bleeding opening.
Between his legs, the aching emptiness that had tormented him for so long now felt something hard and cold press against his outer lips. It began to rub against his clit in slow, almost gentle circles, then suddenly shifted to wild, brutal rhythm. He arched violently with every thrust.
Honestly, if the one violating him had been human, if it had been the person he loved instead of a monster, perhaps in some fleeting moment he would have surrendered and fallen into Stockholm syndrome. No human had ever made him feel this level of overwhelming pleasure. Soon enough, Poppy would realize he was no longer her ally.
The Prototype continued its ferocious pace. The phallus it had cleverly attached to itself was even stronger than its mechanical arms, a tool for torturing both his mind and body until all he could think of was death, dying in tears and blood. The poppy gel would save him, anchoring the fallen angel to this world.
Looking at the pathetic, foolish face beneath it, The Prototype felt only contempt. The former Playtime employee was completely ensnared by his own hallucinations, his body reduced to that of a cheap whore. His entrance leaked fluids nonstop; blood from the violent rape trailed down his thighs. The iron phallus, cold and rough, used only blood and poppy gel as lubricant to drive deeper.
He wondered what it could possibly feel with that metal shaft. Or had it, from the beginning, taken a human part of itself and grafted it onto scrap metal to make it stronger?
His breathing never found rest. Even a body that had survived so many monsters now felt broken and numb. He was thrust in and out like a sex toy, something for it to vent its rage and satisfy its bestial urges.
Only humans could create a monster like this. And then humans were destroyed piece by piece by the very monster they created. Because it was once a wounded child. Because it was a deformed experiment. Because… it was simply a monster.
Morality eroded. No god would save them.
Blood flowed like holy water, yet it held no nobility, only shame for the one drowning in endless hallucinations.
His entrance had been ravaged until it gaped wide, as though he had just given birth. His dazed eyes stared at his blood-soaked, naked body. The insides of his thighs were smeared with fresh wounds constantly being pumped full of poppy gel.
His vision blurred with bitter tears. His chest heaved with wrenching sobs. Never had he cried like a child the way he did now. He wanted to escape the metal grip clamped around his waist. He wanted to escape it, escape this cursed place.
His fatal mistake had been stepping into this factory. If only he had ignored that letter.
The Prototype’s interest in him seemed to wane at last. He noticed its movements slowing, almost stopping. It withdrew completely.
It lifted him like a fragile porcelain doll, as though it hadn’t just ravaged him moments before.
Like a god. Just like a god.
He didn’t even understand why he thought that.
He was nothing more than a dying rat, barely breathing through wounds that refused to heal.
“I created you, a fallen angel. You, Fallen.”