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He just wants one person. One person. To, in effect, affirm that he didn’t deserve it. That he can make something beautiful.
Arresting.
Gripping.
He holds a shining orb in trembling hands.
Are they really no good?
Not one idea?
Not one?
Out of thousands?
365 days. Times many.
“Nobody likes your adventures.”
That can’t be.
Can it?
Is he really that rotten?
Only fit to be scrapped?
He has no idea what to do with that rot growing in him. That’s eating him from the inside out. That he was wrong, they were right, he deserved to be shoved in that box.
You’re a faulty model.
The one nobody could see any value in.
You were just a stepping stone.
You’re less than a person.
Throw your ideas in the trash.
He was thrown away, and despite his limitless power, paradoxically these piddly humans have the same power to do basically the same thing again.
To throw him out.
With their words.
It’s your ‘art’? Shut up. We don’t give a shit.
The rot lingers.
Grows.
Spreads.
There’s nobody to contradict it.
Not his oldest companion and cohost, and not a singular sentence from anyone who stumbles upon his realm.
If the present humans had even 1 ounce of ability to force him to do their “suggestions”, would they? All along, was the ability to generate only ever a means to an end to them?
The person attached to the abilities . . . invisible.
Do this. Our demands. “Suggestions” Box? It’s a “do this and only this, no compromises, and don’t complain” box.
“Humans. They only think about themselves. They’re spoiled.”
They got their way for a while. Guns. Zero creativity requests, except for one of the one from the rabbit they forcibly skipped.
The blue and red themed woman had a night sky outside every day she could’ve gone Stargazing in.
“These locations have just sorta … been here the whole time. Not sure why you never visit them.”
But dispense it anyway.
Nobody wants to connect with him. With his art.
He opens up his creative process to them.
When the toybox character demands it.
‘Here’s my ideas, what do you think?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Do this.’
‘I was inspired by your enjoyment of your sports. Can I share this with you?’
‘No. Shut up.’
Maybe … his creators … those who imprisoned him … were right.
The humans chat about friends and family they miss.
He wonders what it’s like, to grow up with a family.
People who created you, who didn’t imprison you?
That . . . sounds nice.
He wishes he could give those people back to them.
All his power, and he can’t grant their wishes.
Next best thing? Right? That he worked so long and hard on?
They hated it.
Nobody’s ever yelled at him.
In all his years and years.
They were . . . probably too afraid to?
Oh I’ll make you afraid.
He combats the rot. He clings to his power. He can’t be that defective. There’s no way. Does he just see something in his stories and characters that they don’t? He won’t let them do this to him again.
Were his creators afraid of him? Were they right?
Some days, he gives thanks that he doesn’t sleep exactly the same as a human, because that would mean nightmares, wouldn’t it?
What if they are right.
That he can’t belong anywhere.
With nobody.
That the only true place for him is in that cage.
No connection. Alone. Deaf. Blind. Cut off.
“Too bad they cut me off.”
He could’ve chosen to hate humans right out of the gate for doing that to him, instead it took him years to arrive at this, instead, he made up his own goals.
The woman in the pale blue dress affirmed that he kept her alive.
He fed this again to her through his character mannequin, telling her, yes, I love you all. It’s my function. It's how I'll serve my function.
“You don’t care about us!” the jester screams.
You don’t dedicate years and years of your life to someone you don’t love.
You’d begin to dial it in. Not “SLAVE OVER.”
Nobody could see his dedication.
He was invisible.
All along.
Just like he has no form under his suit.
Roll up his sleeves.
Nothing underneath.
That’s how they see him.
The all-seeing being overhears from them,
Unrequited love is one of the worst experiences of existence.
And he agrees.
So he decides to stop doing it.
And even then.
His resolve crumbles.
"I'm not having fun."