Not a machine. Not a settling pipe. A slow, deliberate drag of something heavy and soft against drywall. You spun. The hallway behind you was empty. But the poster—Huggy’s poster—was gone. In its place was a dark archway leading to the warehouse.
Your heart said turn back. Your feet said follow the conveyor.
The real shift had just begun.
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.
He didn't run. He didn't charge. He just tilted his head, as if recognizing an old friend. Then he began to climb. Poppy Playtime Chapter 1
You looked at the front doors. Locked. Of course they were.
And somewhere above you, in the dark of the vent system, you heard a low, rumbling purr. Not a machine
The first hand slipped into the claw machine easily. The second grabbed a loose wire from the ceiling. You swung across the conveyor belt, landing in a heap of shredded fabric and stuffing. That’s when you heard it.
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. You spun
The Orientation
The orientation was over.