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The Player ran. His feet thundered across the floor of the factory. He was panting under his breath, shallow and almost inaudible.
Behind him, surprisingly, was The Prototype.
Fear lurched through The Player’s body, flooding him like a rogue wave. He was NOT expecting the prototype to just… appear while he was minding his business.
Peace. An empty hallway, a moment to breathe. Distant sounds rang around The Player, reminding him of the deranged area he was in. Yet, he was in a moment of solitude. Peace. Nothing was chasing him. Giblet was far gone, too. It was just him and…
“Get a move on, germ.”
Doctor Harley Sawyer.
Much to The Player's ‘dismay’, they had integrated The Doctor into glowby, the little star that rested upon his left arm.
Which means, his peace is no longer his.
So, with his new companion, he was forced to wander the halls to their next objective. And that's where The Prototype came in.
One second they were alone, The Player solemnly limping while The Doctor just existed, unamused with his predicament.
The next second, The Prototype crawled out of an unsuspecting hole from the ceiling. The second The Player heard the familiar clinking of its pointed feet, he was gone.
So here he was, running through the treacherous, unknown halls of the factory. Near behind him, was the towering, dark figure of The Prototype. Its sharp edges caught every glint of the low white lights. Its dim, amber eyes locked onto its victim. A brutal thing made for the kill. It never faltered, stamina being unlimited.
How the hell was he going to get out of this?
The Doctor looked behind the player, eye amused at how anticlimactic it felt for him. He was just a feeble little star stuck on this slow, lumbering germ. He was bewildered with how this human was Poppy’s Angel… What. A. Laugh.
However, he could not deny the stakes of this situation. If The Player were to falter, The Doctor was sure that would be the end for him too—stuck, alone in a random hallway, watching. He knew Giblet wouldn't come for him.
The Doctor’s thoughts were cut clean at the sudden jerk of The Player. He slid under a fallen box and began climbing up into a vent.
God, what a pathetic display. He struggled just to climb up a few scattered pieces of junk.
After what felt like five eons for The Doctor, The Player had securely shut himself tightly inside the vent, panting and chest heaving.
“Could you at least act like you're trying?” Sawyer commented, dragging on many words with his usual resonating, teasing voice.
Per usual, there was no reply. Just an empty gaze.
The Player continued on, crawling through the vent. Silence dawned between them as the irregular clicking from outside kept them on edge.
Click.
He pushed forth. There was only one way, which was forward.
Click.
Oh, heavens. There was a light ahead.
Click.
He turned the corner, met with the end of the vent. His crawling sped up, his right hand shot out, using pressure to pop the vent lid.
Clang!
“That was a horrible idea.” The Doctor grumbled.
The Player paused, listening.
The clicks of it were gone.
Silence.
Eerie silence.
A hand shot out, claw-tipped, pinching the fabric of The Player’s shirt.
Oh, fuck.
There was a pitiful screech against metal as The Player was pulled out and exposed under harsh lights.
However, conveniently, The Prototype’s grip was weak and The Player found themself hitting the stark floor. Hard. Achingly hard.
There was no time to relish in the cooling marble the floor was made of.
“Run, for god's sake.” Sawyer spat out.
“Is that THE great Harley Sawyer?” It spoke. The eldritch continued its pursuit.
The Player ran. He ran like his life depended on it, because it did. It was coming closer. The clicking felt distant, his breathing felt irregular. His heart was pounding. The straight hallway ahead of him stretched out for miles. He felt the judging eye of Doctor Harley Sawyer. His heart was pounding.
High cracking sounds suddenly rang through the hallway; high-pitched pings and ticks.
The sharp sound, similar to thick glass breaking, sounded from behind him. The Prototype was smashing the floor.
The Doctor’s eye surprisingly widened, realising the demise. He noticed the hairline fracture scattering the prestige marble, moving fast and furious.
“Sprint, germ. Go faster!” He called out.
The Player felt a deep vibration under their sole—a deep rhythmic thrumming that started in his heel and travelled all the way to his spine. Even The Doctor felt the harsh tickle.
Boom!
A gunshot sound resonated like a sledgehammer slamming concrete, reverberating against the white-tiled wallwork.
The marble floor beneath gives out, deafening sounds suffocating the vicinity. As the marble slabs tilt down, there's a guttural, tectonic roar as the ton-weight blocks of stone dislodge from their designated spots.
Seconds after, the slabs vanished into the darkness below them. Darkness that was approaching at an alarming rate. Around him was chaos: heavy thuds and shattering debris. Little fractures of marble hit his skin while massive blocks of marble crashed around him.
The Player felt his breath being forced out of his lungs, pain burst throughout his entire body, shaken with vibrations. All around him were loud, heavy and metallic sounds of the slabs striking the foundation below.
Stillness began to slowly settle, the structures around letting out low-frequency groans. Vibrations were still settling in The Player’s jaw.
Then, there was the snapping rain of micro-marble, hitting the floor like crystalline shards. It was a chaotic, irregular sound that sounded like a ‘gritty hiss’.
However, all The Player heard was the whining in their ears from the sheer decibels. The area around was shrouded in dust, settling deep in his throat, causing him to release many hoarse coughs and splutters.
Even his own coughing felt muted, as if cotton balls were stuffed into his ears. Slowly, gritty silence began to reveal itself and the ringing subsided. The air was still thick, causing more painful coughs to rip from deep inside his throat. There were a few reverberating clicks that sounded above him now that his hearing was regained, but other than that, it felt as if everything had settled.
When everything around him fell into secure silence, he began to examine what the hell just happened. How was he mainly unscathed?
His heart was pounding; fear, adrenaline and pure shock wracking his body. His breathing felt so quick and shallow it almost felt as if he weren't breathing. His hunched over form was shaken to the brim. Holy shit...
By a miracle, none of the huge slabs of marble had landed right on him. This meant, thankfully, his grabpack was unharmed. The sad little star was covered in a soft, dusty blanket and momentarily there was a concerned face plastered on until it flickered out.
Oh boy, he was in for a long pester.
There was a recognisable screeching as an eye flickered to life on glowby. It opened slowly, examining the state of The Player and the area around.
The Doctor looked as if he were at a loss for words.
The Player lifted his head, his entire body covered in grey dust. His hair looked like an absolute disgrace.
“Are you damned? What were you thinking? That was a horrible approach to that situation.” Sawyer lectured, his tone firm and unyielding. “You almost got the both of us crushed because you couldn't be quicker on your feet. You're meant to be the one to stop The Prototype, hm, and this is what happens with one confrontation with him?”
The Player just took his words silently.
“This is beyond disappointing, germ. You're really beginning to make me question what Poppy sees in you. How can one such as you…”
The Player dropped his head down as he drowned out whatever nonsense Harley was spitting. He tried shifting his body weight, but pain racked his body and he let out a pathetic whine. His entire body shook momentarily, and he lost the strength in his arms as he collapsed, bringing his forehead to levitate above his hands. He balled up his fists, compressing the pain as he released a shaky breath. His hair fell down, hiding his weak display of pain from The Doctor.
The only sound was the shallow breaths from The Player. No banter, no stupid comments.
The Doctor fell silent. Hearing the pitiful whine of pain from The Player was utmost amusing and enticing. To see a human so important be so... weak just made The Doctor more hungry to see what made him crack.
The Player harnessed as much strength as he could to lift his upper body up, shoulders tense and his head was still facing down.
A chuckle. And then a weak, derisive laugh.
The Player continued to push himself onto his feet, planting the flats of his soles against the uneven concrete below. He swayed momentarily, body still in shock from the fall. His lungs felt as if they had been pierced and every breath felt thick.
The Player slowly readjusted their grabpack so it sat comfortably upon his back, shifting it gently.
The Doctor stared at The Player, eye amused from the weak display coming from supposedly a man named an ‘angel’. Oh, an enticing display. So many naive toys placed their trust in this human and here he was—almost taken to the grave with one chase from The Prototype. How on earth was he going to work with this?
“In all due honesty, what makes you think you are capable of facing that creature? I've yet to see you perform of brilliance as every display has been meagre. I named you as a man who contains qualities of what The Prototype fears and yet you continue to disappoint. You're futile.”
The Player could not deny that the words The Doctor spoke held some authenticity to it. But alas, he limped on, facing the new level he found himself on with shattered confidence.