The Orientation
Lights flickered to life in agonizing pulses. Machinery groaned, stretched, remembered how to breathe. And then—movement. Not from the machines. From the shadows below. A long, thin shape uncurled from the darkness. Blue. Eight feet tall. Arms that dragged the floor. A face that smiled with too many teeth.
Your heart said turn back. Your feet said follow the conveyor.
Then you found the GrabPack.
You pressed it.
You crawled until your knees bled. Until the sounds of tearing metal faded to a whisper. You fell out into the lobby, gasping, alone.
And somewhere above you, in the dark of the vent system, you heard a low, rumbling purr. Poppy Playtime Chapter 1
The air in the Playtime Co. lobby tasted like old paper and powdered sugar. That was the first thing that hit you—not the dust, not the rust, but a faint, phantom sweetness, as if the walls had spent years sweating candy. You’d been gone a decade. Now, the “Welcome” banner sagged like a tired smile, and the only light came from a dying emergency strip along the floor.
The poster was the first to change.
You looked at the front doors. Locked. Of course they were. The Orientation Lights flickered to life in agonizing
The orientation was over.
It hung in the hallway leading to the Make-a-Friend workshop: Huggy Wuggy, your forever friend. His blue fur was still impossibly vibrant, his smile still stretched ear to ear. But the eyes. You could have sworn they were following you. A trick of the light, you told yourself. Just the flashlight’s beam.
It sat on a charging station that hadn't worked in years, its orange hands dangling like dead limbs. You strapped it on anyway. The harness felt wrong—too snug, too familiar. Two coils of blue and orange wire snaked up your arms. When you fired it for the first time, the mechanical hands twitched, then curled into a wave. Not yours. The pack’s. Like it remembered. Not from the machines