Work Text:
The March morning sun of 2005 shouldn’t have been so blindingly bright, considering that Elijah Reeves had just spent the last thirty days inside a toy factory that defied all laws of nature, physics, and probably reality itself. He squinted against the light, feeling the weight of three colorful children clinging to his legs, a talking red-haired doll on his left shoulder, and a vague sense that his sanity had decided to take a permanent vacation sometime between the derailment of that train and the moment he discovered he could, somehow, “save” people by giving them new bodies.
“Daddy Elijah?” Jack Ayers’s high-pitched, cheerful voice came from somewhere below his waist. “Are we safe now?”
Elijah looked back. The dilapidated facade of Playtime Co. loomed like a monument to childhood nightmares, its broken windows reflecting the sunlight in an almost ironic way. He could feel the eyes of more than two dozen “children”—some in plastic and plush bodies, others now in forms for which he had absolutely no scientific explanation—fixed on him, waiting for an answer.
"Safe?" he repeated, adjusting the backpack where Poppy Playtime—or Poppy Ludwig, as she insisted he call her now that "all that factory mess was over"—was sitting, swinging her legs with a nonchalance that seemed out of place for someone who’d just escaped a cult led by a psychotic purple cat. "Let’s define ‘safe.’ You’re no longer being chased by a metallic court jester obsessed with collecting body parts. Is that safe enough?”
“Bravo!” whispered Harley Sawyer from somewhere to Elijah’s right.
Elijah didn’t look. Not looking at Harley Sawyer was a skill he’d been actively cultivating ever since… well, ever since that thing had happened in the lab. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. He remembered wires, light, something that looked like it had come straight out of a B-grade sci-fi movie, and suddenly Harley—Dr. Harley Sawyer, the monster who had created all that atrocity, the man who deserved a thousand times worse than death—was there, in a body that looked human. A body that breathed, that blinked, that had eyes far too bright for a sarcastic sociopath and far too confused.
"What happened in that lab stays in the lab," Elijah muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
"You said that out loud again," observed Kevin Barnes, the red version of the Doey trio, in that voice Elijah already recognized as the harbinger of future behavioral problems. "You always do that when you're nervous."
“I’m not nervous. I’m… processing.”
“Processing is what computers do,” said Matthew Hallard, the orange one, the natural leader, the fifteen-year-old who now looked like he was eight and was undeniably the most mature of the entire group. “You’re having a nervous breakdown disguised as an existential crisis.”
Elijah sighed. He’d been sighing a lot lately.
Behind him, the chaotic mass of former experiments was reorganizing itself. Kissy Missy—Emilly Rodrigues; he needed to remember to use their real names now—it was important, it was humanizing, it was the only thing that kept them from being considered mere “toys”—was helping Huggy Wuggy (Harry Borelli) keep the three Mini Huggies (Lily, Grace, and Sunny, the triplets who never stopped moving) in some sort of order. CatNap, or Theodore Grambell, was sitting on the floor, staring at the sky with an expression Elijah couldn’t decipher: was it longing? Relief? The trauma of having been manipulated by a metallic court jester for fifteen years?
“Hey, Elijah?” The voice came from below, from a Mini Kissy Missy holding hands with a blue Mini Huggie. Annie Reyes and Alex Poatan. The miniature couple. Elijah felt something strange in his chest, something that wasn’t exactly pain and wasn’t exactly hope. “Can we eat something? We’ve been hungry since… since forever, I think.”
“Eat,” Elijah repeated. Eat. Yes. They needed to eat. They needed clothes. They needed baths. They needed therapy. They needed a life that didn’t involve trying to kill people or running from people trying to kill them.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. It was an old model, from 2002, but it worked. And it had credit. And battery. Miracles did happen.
His finger hovered over the speed dial button number 1.
"Are you going to call him?" Poppy asked, her voice small and somehow old-fashioned, despite her childlike, porcelain-like appearance. "The General?"
"James," Elijah corrected automatically. "And yes. I need to."
He pressed the button. The phone rang once. Twice.
“Elijah?” The voice on the other end was deep, military, and somehow exhausted even before he said a word. “Elijah, my God, where are you? It’s been almost a month. A month, Elijah. I reported you missing. I have helicopters searching for you in three states. I—”
"James," Elijah interrupted, and his voice sounded strange even to himself. Broken, perhaps. Or relieved. Or both. "James, I need help. And..." he looked back at the crowd of eyes—some plastic, some flesh, all hopeful and frightened and alive—"I brought some people with me."
Silence on the other end.
“How many?” James asked finally, and Elijah could hear the sound of him sitting down in a chair, probably in his office at the Pentagon, probably surrounded by maps and search reports.
Elijah counted. Quickly, silently.
"Twenty-seven?" he ventured. "Give or take. Some are small. Some are... complicated. One of them is Dr. Harley Sawyer, but it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s hard to explain."
Another silence, a longer one.
“Elijah,” James said, and there was something in his voice now, something Elijah recognized from back when they were just two college kids in Boston, before the wars, before the promotions, before Playtime Co., before everything. “Elijah, are you okay?”
Elijah looked at the colorful children still clinging to his legs. At Poppy, who was now resting her head on his shoulder. At Kissy Missy, who was waving at him with a pink plush hand. At CatNap, who had finally closed his eyes and seemed to be sleeping sitting up, like a real cat.
"No," he admitted. "But I’m staying. And so are they. We’re staying. I just… need you to come get us. And maybe bring some friends. Doctors. Psychologists. People who understand childhood trauma. And maybe some who understand… alternate bodies."
"Alternate bodies," James repeated flatly.
"You’ll understand when you get here."
“Where is ‘here’?”
Elijah looked at the faded Playtime Co. sign, at the number on the street sign, at the nothingness surrounding them.
“I have no idea,” he said honestly. “But there’s an abandoned toy factory and a lot of open fields around it. You can’t miss it.”
He hung up before James could ask any more questions. He needed to breathe. He needed to sit down. He needed to process the fact that he, Elijah Reeves, former employee of a toy factory, husband of a four-star general, and apparently now adoptive father of twenty-seven bioengineering experiments, had just taken the most irrational and most certain step of his entire life.
“Is he coming?” asked DogDay, Danny Boyle, the leader of the Smiling Critters, who until then had kept a respectful distance, perhaps still processing the fact that his former tormentor CatNap was now in the same group as him.
“He’s coming,” Elijah confirmed. “And he’s bringing reinforcements. And food. And…” he hesitated, glancing at Harley Sawyer, who was sitting on a rock, staring at his own hands with an expression of fascination and horror, “…and people who’ll help figure out what to do with us.”
"We don't need help," declared Quinn Navidson, the boy who had once been Yarnaby, and who, Elijah noticed, still had a habit of purring softly when he was anxious. "We have you."
Elijah felt something tighten in his chest. It wasn't pain. It was something more dangerous. It was hope.
“You have me,” he agreed. “But I’m just one person. And you are… many. And complicated. And—”
“And family,” interrupted Scarlett Rosewood, Miss Delight, who until then had remained silent, clutching her “Barb”—now just a piece of wood and string and colored pencils, no longer a weapon—tightly. She didn’t look at the others, not directly. Elijah knew she carried guilt. Cannibalism, even in desperate circumstances, left its mark. “You said we’re family. At the factory. When you were leading us out. You said… you said no one would be left behind.”
Elijah nodded. He had said that. And he kept his promises, even when they were impossible, even when they were irrational, even when they involved explaining to a U.S. Army general exactly why he now had three children made of colored modeling clay, a murderous doll with parental guilt, and a mad former scientist in a body that shouldn’t exist.
The sound of helicopters came first. Distant, but growing louder.
“He got here fast,” observed Mommy Long Legs, Marie Payne, stretching out her arms—one of which was now made of flesh, thanks to whatever miracle Elijah had performed in the lab—to shield her eyes from the sun.
“He’s efficient,” Elijah agreed. “That’s why he’s a General.”
The Mini Huggies started screaming—screams of excitement, not fear, Elijah realized, relieved. They were jumping up and down, pointing at the sky, and Lily, the red one, was trying to climb onto Huggy Wuggy’s shoulder to get a better view.
When the first helicopter appeared on the horizon, Elijah raised his hand. He didn’t wave. He just... raised it. A gesture of “I’m here.” A gesture of “we’re all here.” A gesture of “please don’t shoot any of us, they’ve already been through too much.”
The helicopter landed fifty meters away, kicking up dust. The door opened.
James Morrison stepped out first. His uniform was immaculate, his hair graying at the temples, his eyes meeting Elijah’s immediately and never looking away. He began to walk, quickly, almost running, and Elijah did the same, and they met halfway, and James embraced him with the strength of a man who had spent five days believing his husband was dead.
"You're alive," James whispered, his voice cracking just a little, just enough for Elijah to hear. "You're alive, you're here, you're—"
"I am," Elijah confirmed, and as he stepped back, he saw that James was already looking past him, at the group cautiously approaching. "James, I need you to listen to me. They aren’t what they seem. Some of them look like children, but they have stories. Traumas. And some of them…” he pointed at Huggy Wuggy, who waved a giant blue stuffed paw, “…don’t look like children, but they are. They’re all children. They need help. And love. And—”
“And you,” James finished, and his gaze returned to Elijah, and there was something there that Elijah couldn’t name. It wasn’t shock. It was… acceptance? “They need you. And you need them. I can see that.”
"I brought Dr. Sawyer," Elijah said quietly, almost sheepishly. "I know I shouldn't have. I know he's a monster. But... something happened. And he's different now. Or at least, he has a chance to be. And I couldn't just... leave him there. Not after..."
James looked at Harley, who hadn’t budged from her spot. The General’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re going to talk about this,” he said, and it was an order, not a suggestion. But then he nodded. “But later. First, let’s take care of the kids.”
Elijah smiled. A small, tired smile, but a real one.
"All twenty-seven of them," he confirmed.
"All twenty-seven," James agreed, and then did something Elijah hadn’t expected. He knelt down. On the floor. In the dust. And he reached out his hand to the three Mini Huggies approaching him, curious and shy. “Hi,” he said, and his military voice softened into something gentle, something Elijah only heard on very rare occasions, during his quietest nights. “I’m James. I’m… I’m a friend of Elijah’s. And yours too, if you want me to be.”
Lily, the red Mini Huggie, looked at him. At Elijah. At James again.
“You have stars on your shoulder,” she observed.
“I do,” James agreed.
“Does that mean you’re important?”
“It means I can help,” James said. “And I want to help. All of you.”
Grace, the green one, walked over and touched one of the stars with a fluffy paw.
"It's soft," she declared.
“It’s metal,” James corrected gently. “But thanks.”
Sunny, the yellow one, said nothing. He just walked over and let James pick him up, and Elijah saw James’s face transform into something he rarely saw: pure, unguarded, unconditional fatherhood.
More helicopters arrived. Doctors. Psychologists. Soldiers watching the scene with expressions ranging from shock to curiosity to something Elijah recognized—the beginning of an unlikely love, the kind of love that grows in unexpected places, between people who shouldn’t have met.
A young doctor with brown hair and tired eyes approached Yarnaby—Quinn—and knelt down to his level.
“Hi,” the doctor said. “I’m Dr. Chen. I’m a doctor. Are you hurt?”
Quinn looked at Elijah, asking for permission. Elijah nodded.
“No,” Quinn said, and his voice was small but clear. “But I was… I was hungry. For a long time. And now I’m not. And that’s strange.”
“Strange how?” Dr. Chen asked, pulling out a notebook.
“Strange because…” Quinn hesitated, and his eyes met Elijah’s, and there was gratitude there, and something else, something Elijah was beginning to recognize in all of them. “…because I’ve never had anyone ask me that before. Someone who cared.”
Dr. Chen wrote something down. And then he did something no scientist at Playtime Co. had ever done before. He gently touched Quinn’s shoulder and said:
“I care. And I’ll keep caring. That’s a promise.”
Elijah felt James approach him; he felt the General’s arm around his shoulders.
“You brought an army home,” James murmured.
“I brought home a family,” Elijah corrected him.
“It’s the same thing,” James said, and kissed Elijah’s temple—careless, public, military, and husband—everything Elijah needed in that moment. “And I can already see who’s going to adopt whom. Look.”
Elijah looked. And he saw.
A soldier—a big man with visible tattoos on his arms—sat on the floor with CatNap—Theodore—who had finally allowed someone to approach him. The soldier was speaking softly, and Theodore was listening, and there was something in the eyes of the purple cat—no, the brown-eyed boy—that Elijah hadn’t seen in a long time: peace.
A nurse, with graying hair and a gentle smile, holding the hands of Annie and Alex, Mini Kissy Missy and Mini Huggie, listening intently as they explained—with the peculiar logic of children who had once been toys—how they “had known each other forever” and “were made for each other.”
Two paramedics, twins, apparently, competing to see who could make Jack, Kevin, and Matthew laugh first, while the three colorful children—separate, individual, free—exchanged glances that said “they’re ours now.”
And Poppy, perched on the shoulder of a psychologist who looked to be about a hundred years old and had the patience of a saint, calmly explaining that “yes, she was technically a doll from the 1950s, but no, she didn’t need therapy for that, thank you very much—she’d already worked through her existential trauma.”
“They’ll be fine,” James said, and it wasn’t a question.
“They will,” Elijah agreed. “We’ll make sure they do.”
Harley Sawyer was still sitting on his rock. Watching. Waiting. Elijah knew he would have to deal with him. That he would have to explain. That he would have to face the fact that, somehow, at some point, he had decided that even monsters deserved a second chance, as long as they were willing to become something more.
But that was for later. For now, there were children to feed. And stories to listen to. And a future to build, one day at a time, somewhere safe, far from Playtime Co., far from the Prototype, far from the horror.
Elijah looked up at the sky. The sun was still shining brightly. Still blindingly, wonderfully bright.
“Let’s go home,” he said, and he didn’t know yet where “home” was, but he knew it would be wherever these people—his family, his unlikely, impossible, wonderful family—were together.
James squeezed his hand.
“Let’s go,” he agreed.
And behind them, twenty-seven voices—some human, some synthetic, all real—rose in a chorus of excitement, fear, hope, and chaos.
The first day of the rest of their lives had begun.