Chapter Text
The vents were coated with thick layers of visible dust as she ran, the stale, metallic air choking the narrow tunnels. Huggy Wuggy was hot on her figurative tail. Bloodlust hung heavy in the air as she brushed against the cold, grimy walls, the sound echoing like silverware clashing together in the tight space. Every movement sent small clouds of dust spiraling into the dim, flickering light of the vents. She could hear Huggy’s steps growing closer and closer, each metallic thud ringing like a death knell behind her. She was sure she would be hyperventilating by now if she breathed like a normal person. Serafima could hear him screeching—the sound ricocheting through the maze of vents, bouncing off rusted metal and turning the tunnels into a screaming echo chamber.
Emerging from the vents, she realized she was on a walkway—a very shaky one at that. The metal grating beneath her feet rattled slightly with each step, rust flakes shedding from the corroded railings and drifting down into the darkness below. Searching for any way out, her eyes caught another walkway below, half-hidden in shadow and dust.
Using her nimble doll joints, she flipped off the walkway and twisted to land on the one beneath. She touched down like a cat, the metal beneath her feet giving a dull clang. Instantly, she stilled, unnervingly motionless, directly beneath the shadow of the previous walkway. Dim overhead lights flickered weakly, casting fractured strips of yellow across the factory’s corroded structures.
The overgrown blue toy’s presence grew louder until she could hear the creaks of the old walkways above, the metal groaning under his weight. Rust flakes drifted downward like slow-falling snow.
It was silent for a few moments.
She could feel the tension of the moment pressing against her, and Serafima prayed she could keep her laughter contained.
Then the sound of retreating, thumping footsteps echoed through the hollow factory, pulling her back to reality. She was safe—at least for now.
Looking around, something caught her eye.
The Poppy mural—and the door it concealed.
The paint had faded with time, once-vivid colors dulled by dust and neglect. Long cracks spiderwebbed across the wall, and the edges of the paint curled and peeled.
As she stepped forward, her footsteps ringing softly on the metal grating, she noticed something resting in the corner of the platform.
A VHS tape.
“Yay,” she deadpanned. Did she ever mention how much she hated these things?
It was black—far better than the decorated ones. She shuddered to imagine almost dying, only to see a hot pink glittery tape. No.
Slotting it into the conveniently nearby VHS player, she waited as it booted up. The old television was coated in dust, spiderwebs stretched taut between its corners and nearby pipes. Dust bunnies had gathered along the edges of the rusted screen, and the machine hummed weakly, struggling to start.
These things must be ancient at this point.
Then she felt it—those damn eyes.
Mustering the creepiest expression she could on a doll’s face, she twisted her head to the side without moving her body. The movement was unnatural, almost mechanical.
The other presence froze—clearly not expecting that.
Hah—loser.
The tape droned on about some prototype—probably Oliver, if she had to guess.
Ignoring it, she returned to the mural and opened the door, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The concrete steps were cracked and dusty, the air below colder, heavier.
…
With a bone-deep sigh—though did she even have bones? Serafima didn’t think so—she descended the slightly creaky stairs. Each step groaned faintly under her weight, the sound echoing in the narrow, oppressive space. At the bottom, she found a bedroom-esque passageway. The walls were decorated like some strange imitation of comfort—faded wallpaper, dulled pastels, and dim lights flickering weakly overhead.
Opening the door to the final room, she found a glass display.
Inside was Poppy.
Oh.
It had been awhile since she’d seen the smaller doll, outside of commercials. The little figure sat perfectly still, framed by soft lighting, surrounded by the artificial neatness of the display. It resembled a toy store exhibit frozen in time.
Distrustful of the setup, she used the GrabPack to open the case.
The glass door creaked open—
—and everything turned to static.
…
У лукоморья дуб зелёный;
Златая цепь на дубе том:
И днём и ночью кот учёный
Всё ходит по цепи кругом;
Идёт направо — песнь заводит,
Налево — сказку говорит.
…
In a field of poppies and grass stood a figure in white. The flowy dress shimmered in the light. A boy stood beside her, slightly taller, their hands locked in a tight embrace—a promise never to be forgotten.
By the time the memories started slipping away, one forgot, but the other remembered. One left while the other stayed.
Broken by fate’s cruel hands, their story now lay within a factory steeped in bloodshed and malevolence.
An immortal creature—one that defies the very foundations of the eternal world—stood before fate, ready to be tested, to be broken. Hardened by rot and decay, the creature refused to be torn apart like its former body.
No.
This is not a story about second chances or hope.
This is a story of how strong a being with nothing left to lose can be—the one made of porcelain and broken dreams.
<>
Serafima felt at peace. Was this how death felt? She wanted to feel this forever—if she even could.
With a content sigh, she rose, finding the glass display empty and herself sprawled on the floor, hair splayed around her.
Shit—her hood must have come off when the blast of white gas hit her.
With a creak underfoot, she stood, disoriented. That had been one of the best naps she’d taken in years.
Walking out, she saw one way completely blocked, and near it, a dark mahogany door. Great. Going the only way possible, she was greeted by peeling murals of Bron and Huggy Wuggy. Ahead, two doors were locked. As the albino continued forward, a wave of nostalgia hit at the sight of Elliot Ludwig’s door.
Looking around, she saw the other two pathways destroyed and impassable.
Now don’t get her wrong—she didn’t specifically hate Ludwig, she just strongly disliked him.
She understood his motives to an extent. The reason she and Oliver were created was all for his daughter—Poppy. She was a child then—probably still was. No child should bear the sins of a parent. Not unless the child was truly evil.
Ludwig and she had a complicated relationship. She had been Oliver’s best friend—his adopted child, whom he used to find a way to save Poppy—and Ludwig was her “creator,” responsible for the body she now inhabited.
But she had asked for it.
She had been afraid—not for herself, but for Oliver. She didn’t want him to be alone. Never.
So she begged.
Ludwig must have seen her desperation, or maybe he was beginning to regret his actions. She didn’t know.
The memories were hazy, but she remembered the relief on Ludwig’s face as she took her first breath on the operating table. She remembered him helping her learn to walk again, taking time off just for her.
It was the closest thing to parental love she’d ever felt.
He was there for every milestone as she adapted to her new body.
That’s why she could never hate him.
She remembered the agony of every trial, the screams that tore from her throat, all while he stood with an unreadable expression.
Yet she also remembered the hours he spent with her as she cried, never regretting her choice.
How could she?
It was all for one person.
Oliver.
The one who forgot.
The one who didn’t remember.
The one who left her in the field of poppies.