Chapter Text
Cause you're my vicious but delicious cheat
A heart attack lip smacking sweet
I don't deserve you either way I'll serve you
Finally I got the nerve.
***
"Experiment 817. The rat was fed three portions of food daily for two weeks. After two weeks, the rat was euthanized and placed in poppy flower extract..."
You reread the documents you've been working on for an hour, sitting in your office. You are not yet a doctor, but an assistant working for three people so as not to fall out of favor with your superiors or be laid off. It so happened that... now that you knew the secret of this factory, you had only two options: to die or to continue working here under the strictest confidentiality. That's how it happened; no one chooses death voluntarily. The lion's share of the junior staff were fired, and you know nothing more about their fates, but you are lucky to stay.
"A week later, the rat was exposed to an electric current in an attempt to revive it. Mhm."
You are no longer surprised by much. At some point, your passion for science and research grew into something more, erasing the boundaries of your moral compass. Instant coffee, lack of sleep, and nervousness became your constant companions; sudden noises no longer frightened you as they once did; it was the silence that frightened you. It was the kind of dead silence when you can hear your own heart and thoughts, and it's scary to be alone with them. It's scary to see them, even if you have nothing to do with their death, as befits an employee who does not have as high a level of access to information as other scientists.
"Yes, electricity... and they tried to revive it. Rat."
Even when you hear a growing clanking sound behind you, as if someone is dragging something heavy across the floor, you don't turn around, even though you feel a chill running down your spine. You already know who you're about to see, but for now...
"The rat is unconscious."
The clatter stops behind you, and you feel the cold very close. It's always cold here to maintain sterile conditions. You have to wear sweaters, warm pants, and shirts. And, of course, a lab coat with a name tag. But... this cold is special, it squeezes your heart with an icy grip, foreshadowing the monster's proximity.
In the dim light near your left shoulder, with its neck unnaturally twisted, hangs the head of the Prototype with its grotesque mask, its eternal deceptive smile stretching from ear to ear, consisting of a row of sharp teeth, a jester's cap, and a single flickering yellow eye. You are already familiar with it. He stands right behind you and unceremoniously looks through your documents, doing and saying absolutely nothing, but you already feel your hands becoming cotton-wool from the rush of adrenaline, and the pencil falling from them onto the table.
The Prototype. An experiment that failed, but at the same time turned out to be the most successful. He (or rather, it would be more correct to say "it") always threw you off balance, because he knew that his mere presence inspired fear, especially in a young employee like you. You read about him in the files, but half of the information was classified as "secret", and you didn't learn much. A couple of times, his smiling face appeared in your nightmares, and now you felt like a fly under a microscope or a mouse hiding from a cat — but as soon as you stick your nose out, and...
"Experiment 1-0-0-6, who gave you permission to come in and distract me from my work?" you say sternly, without turning around, trying to steady your voice so as not to betray your fear. Even though he's not technically alive, you could swear you feel his breath on your neck. You've been told that you should treat all toys and experiments strictly, show no emotion, and not answer questions. But sometimes, especially with subjects like Prototype, it's impossible. He's too smart.
Silence. He decides for himself when to answer and what to say. He is an unbridled creature, a monster with God syndrome. It's cold, the seconds drag on, and he still towers over you from behind. It's scary, you want to go back to your little room, crawl under the covers, and fall asleep. He smells of machine oil, ozone, iron, old rags, and a slight rot, but you've already learned not to notice it. Finally, after a minute, the answer comes — the monster speaks in different voices, it's impossible to distinguish any particular tone in his voice:
"Ah, little doctor. Your dedication to your work... is admirable. But why do you think I need your permission?"
The bells on his cap jingle softly as he shakes his head, sounding almost comical in the silence. You can't take it anymore and turn around to face the monster head-on.
“My God, he's terrifying!” you think.
The Prototype is huge. It's a failed living toy in the form of a jester, which seems to have been designed to jump out of a box and entertain children, but something went wrong. It has no normal legs, instead it has something resembling spider legs, a powerful iron structure with a bunch of different attachments, to which a more delicate mechanical body is attached, clad in a colorful jacket. You accidentally look him straight in the face, and the monster's single yellow eye burns right through you, and you immediately look away in fear. You know it won't do anything to you, but that's just self-reassurance. It could do something if it wanted to. But for now, it just likes to torment you and watch you squirm, feeding on your emotions.
"Because... because I'm working. You can't distract people when they're busy."
You could say that he has no right to interfere with you, because he's just a toy, just an experiment — a semblance of life assembled from several dead bodies, and compared to your human nature, he's nothing, but you just can't bring yourself to say it.
"But surely the little doctor has some time for her humble servant?" the Prototype looks you over, jingling the bells on his cap, "I must admit, I'm quite bored. What can you offer me for entertainment?"
"Um... nothing. I'm not an entertainer, sorry," you don't fall for the provocation. You can't agree with him and dance to his tune, so you turn back to the table, no longer indulging his whims to distract you, although the treacherous tremor in your hands still hasn't subsided. "This is my office. The only thing you can do is help me clean up, if... if you want to."
"Ah, clean up. How... adorable. In a couple of minutes, I've been reduced to the role of a simple cleaner... I should be offended, but I forgive you. For the first time..." the Prototype growls in his multiple voices, but you ignore it. According to the instructions, that's correct, but in practice...
You expect him to leave, but the monster is still standing behind you, and you have nothing more to say to it. Finally, he scrapes his spidery legs across the floor as if preparing to leave, and you're already waiting to breathe a sigh of relief, but then... you feel something touch your hair. It makes you freeze in horror again.
The Prototype isn't exactly gentle as it runs his fingers through your hair, his huge, inhuman hands, like knitting needles on hinges, mercilessly grabbing individual strands and pulling them out — perhaps unintentionally, because such limbs are difficult to control, but knowing his character, it could have done it on purpose. He's just... playing with you, tangling and ruining your hairstyle.
When it starts to hurt, you can't take it anymore, you jerk away and yell, “Stop it!” and he reluctantly removes his hands and laughs cheerfully with a growling wheeze.
"See you soon, little doctor," he growls and walks away, clattering across the floor. His footsteps soon fade away, leaving you alone, trembling and disheveled.
***
You have your own room — a small chamber where you return every day after work. Since you are hardly allowed to leave the factory, you now live here. Your cubicle has a simple bed, a desk, a wardrobe for clothes and books, and a small separate bathroom. In general, there are minimal amenities and personal belongings — you would like to hang posters and put plants, but this is not welcome, as this is the science floor, not the rest of the colorful part of the factory.
That day, you go to bed almost immediately, without eating dinner. You don't dream about anything; lately, you prefer not to think about life and the future. And what future could you possibly have, apart from these unfriendly walls, violence, work, and anxiety?
In the morning, dressed in yesterday's clothes and having already received new assignments from your boss, you go to the office again, expecting nothing new. However... right from the doorway, you notice the mess that has formed here overnight, even though the office was closed.
All the documents on the table are mixed up. What you had neatly arranged in folders in a specific order now lies in a pile. The chair is pushed back, some tools are lying on the floor, as if someone huge and clumsy had swept them aside while moving around the room — accidentally or on purpose. You immediately become alert. This has never happened before, which means someone was here at night while you were blissfully asleep.
Coming closer, you discover a dead rat among the documents on the table. It had been dead long enough to start stinking, and the smell makes you feel sick. You can only quickly cover it with paper, pinch your nose, pick it up, and sweep the gray corpse into the trash can. You thought you were used to the smell of death, but this was different. Someone put it there on purpose — the rat couldn't have just climbed onto the table, messed up all the documents, and died on its own. What's more, your favorite mug, the one you drank coffee from every day, is missing.
You remembered clearly that you had left it here; it had always been here, because this was your space.
After quickly scanning the room, you finally spot the mug, but now it's on top of the cabinet. You definitely can't reach it, even if you stand on a chair — the cabinet is an archival one, made of metal and huge.
"Experiment 1-0-0-6," you say angrily, already knowing that this creature is to blame for the mess. It seems that yesterday it didn't get enough playtime and decided to surprise you in the morning. You also feel his barely perceptible but oppressive presence — of course, it didn't organize this performance just for fun, but to watch your reaction, "I know you're here, come out!"
A few moments later, the ever-smiling mask of the monster appears in the doorway, and then the rest of his bulky body swims majestically out from behind the doorframe. It approaches you, bowing his head and looking down at you condescendingly, as if nothing had happened.
"What's the matter, dear doctor? You seem... upset."
"Oh, thank you for noticing!" you can't help yourself again and show your emotions, "Admit it, you did this! Why did you put a rat in my room and make such a mess?"
Despite your anger and indignation, you are careful not to shout too loudly. Hell knows what was on his mind, he could easily get angry, lash out, and simply tear you to pieces.
"Ah... you noticed my little gift. It's a shame you didn't appreciate it. I thought that if you were so interested in stories about rats, you might want one for yourself..." experiment says without a hint of remorse, with his usual mockery and a touch of feigned offense.
You clench your teeth to keep from saying something you'll regret. He had no reason to do it. Just a personal desire to upset you. Today it's a rat, and tomorrow what — a real human corpse?
"It's... it's rude to throw dead creatures at living ones," you finally find the words, "and you deliberately put my mug on the cabinet. I demand that you take it down immediately and give it back to me. Right now."
The Prototype made a hoarse laugh, which then turns into a squeal and returns to a hoarse sound again. He must be amused by the sight of little you, your arms crossed over your chest and your lips pressed stubbornly together, demanding that he return your property. That's what he's after. That's the reaction he wants after his antics.
"Of course. I'll return this item that is dear to your heart, but... on one condition," he leans in, his voice now a conspiratorial murmur, "you will allow me... to come when I want, and you will not kick me out."
It was unthinkable. You couldn't let him dictate the rules. You protest:
"What? No! That's not how it works. You're not going to dictate the terms to me!"
The monster jingles the bells on his jester's cap again, staring at you with his single yellow eye. It's a dangerous look... it never bodes well.
"Ah, so you don't want me to get your thing for you... Then you'll get it yourself," he growls and suddenly raises his hands.
You reflexively cover your head, crouching in fear, afraid that he will dare to hurt you after all. But the Prototype does something else — he easily grabs you, as if you weigh nothing, and puts you on the cabinet, right where the mug is — not very gently, but still carefully. He just wants to make sure you remember his strength and size, which your strength can never match, and with the same broad, predatory grin, he crawls into the corner of the office to get a better look at you.
You gasp in surprise and because he has scratched you after all. Your right side stings, and beads of blood are already showing through your shirt. The cabinet is so tall, and you, as luck would have it, are afraid of heights... Fear paralyzes you, but it's not just the height that worries you. How much strength is there in the monster's mechanical hands, how much could he do to you if he wanted to! You can only press yourself closer to the wall; you are afraid that the wardrobe will fall, that you yourself will fall, and there is only one way out — to negotiate with him to take you away from here.
"Stop! Wait!" these words come out of your mouth in a pitiful squeak, but now you have no choice but to compromise, "okay, I agree! You can come here, but... just let me down, please..."
The Prototype crawls closer, but doesn't rush to answer or save you. He likes the sight of you scared, now more willing to make a deal with him, although he would never admit it out loud.
"Ask... again. Politely," he growls, "and I'll consider your request, but... I can't promise anything. Maybe you'll be better off here as a pretty sculpture than down there with the papers..."
"Okay! Take me down from here, please," you ask humanly, closing your eyes in fear and shame. Of course, you don't want to do this, but it's the only way out. It's better than falling, even if now this monster will come here whenever he wants... Well, that's the price of your peace of mind.
The Prototype finally nods, comes even closer, and pulls you off the cabinet with his clawed hands. You cling to your mug, squeaking again in fear, but the experiment simply puts you on the floor and lets you go, not forgetting to add a comment:
"Here you are, little doctor. I hope your legs are still holding you up."
You feel humiliated that he has deceived you in such a dishonest way, and you remain silent in anger. You cannot tell him to leave either, because you promised not to kick him out. It seems that all you can do is accept the situation and try to adapt to his behavior, nothing more. Promises must be kept.
He is silent too. You remember the wounds on your side and immediately turn away from him to lift your shirt and check. You're worried that his claws could have been anywhere. He probably used them to pick up that dead rat and then throw it on your table, and the thought makes you feel sick — you've always been a clean freak and couldn't just leave it like that. Ignoring your guest, you start looking for antiseptic and cotton wool (luckily, this is a laboratory, and there is plenty of such material here) to treat the wounds. They are... quite noticeable — the Prototype never paid attention to the suffering of living beings and did not stand on ceremony with them.
You quickly soak the cotton wool in the solution, wipe away the blood, and exhale slightly. You turn to him to express your indignation again, and... freeze. He... is looking at your bare side, at the delicate skin now covered with red scratches from his own claws, and his eyes are glowing yellow, slightly brighter than usual. The whole thing lasts less than a minute, but for some reason it makes you very uncomfortable. It is unacceptable for a monster to see any of the staff in such a vulnerable state, and you quickly put your shirt back on.
"So," you finally find the words, smoothing your hair in confusion and bewilderment. Someday he'll drive you crazy. "Since I've made concessions, you must promise to behave yourself and not interfere with my work. Otherwise, the agreement is canceled. Understood?"
The monster pretends to think about your words, but finally replies:
"Oh, I'll be nice, I promise... until you ask me to do the opposite, little doctor."
"I'm not little, and I'm not a doctor. Stop calling me that," you finally sit down at your desk with a sigh. All your motivation to work has vanished after this morning's adventures. Now you can't let anything like that happen again, or he might think he'll get away with anything and do whatever he wants. That's definitely not okay.
And while Prototype settles down comfortably in the corner, tucking his spider legs under himself to watch you, you are already dreaming of the evening coming soon.
***
He visits you all week long. When someone enters the office, Prototype becomes visibly displeased and may growl if the visitor stays near you for too long. The factory staff has long been aware that this experiment is very intelligent, so locking him in a cage was pointless. They made a kind of peace agreement with him: he doesn't touch the employees, and the employees don't touch him. However, despite this, everyone was still afraid of the Prototype and were even glad that this monster was now with you for no reason. Now people don't stay long in your office and just give you a sympathetic look as they leave. You're the only one who has to put up with it.
It seems that the Prototype just likes being in the same room with you and annoying you sometimes. He takes advantage of your forced promise not to kick him out and to let him come whenever he wants, so he has chosen a place for himself and now spends half the day staring tirelessly at your back. He also gets up to mischief: he mixes up your tools and papers, hides your things, sometimes looms over you while reading documents, and throws all kinds of rubbish on the table — bolts, spare parts, empty broken flasks, toy parts, scraps of fur — while you're away. But the rat no longer appears, and that is somewhat... reassuring. Although, knowing him, this is just the calm before the storm.
You hardly talk during this time, exchanging only a couple of sarcastic phrases when you do something wrong. The Prototype is not one for small talk. He prefers to observe, track, analyze, absorb information, and spot weaknesses. You can't even imagine what he's thinking, what's going on in his head; you're just afraid to know. He even creates a small lair for himself in his favorite corner: he hangs some rags there, hangs up pieces of broken toys and scraps of fur, considering this installation a work of art. You no longer argue or shout — you don't have the strength.
However, on another identical day, when you enter the office again, you don't find your new counterpart there. Everything on the table remains the same as it was last night — no trash, no mess, no silent observation from the corner. He doesn't come at noon or in the evening. On the one hand, you are happy and feel relieved that the Experiment has probably finally finished playing with you and moved on to someone else, but a tiny part of your heart is a little upset about it. You had already begun to get used to him and were no longer so afraid of the monster he represented.
You even felt a little bored and lonely without his presence and antics, but you just keep working and don't dare ask anyone about this creature. After all, your responsibilities aren't going anywhere. After your shift, you pass the time reading books in your room, eating instant noodles, and sleeping. No one steals your favorite mug anymore. Only the rags hanging on the line remind you that it wasn't some kind of bad dream, but reality.
***
The Prototype doesn't show up tomorrow or the day after... In general, you could probably assume that everything is back to normal, if only on the fifth day you didn't notice that your tools were missing — screwdrivers, needles, medical scissors, and a few other things. It was a sign that he hadn't forgotten about you. Actually, any other employee could have taken them, but you catch yourself thinking that you would like it to be the Prototype who took them.
For some reason, when you think about this creature, you constantly feel a strange, oppressive feeling in your chest. It's as if you're still afraid of him, still consider him a monster, but at the same time, he never let you get bored. And at least he never hurt you — well, almost, those scratches have almost healed... You continue to think about this as you lie in bed, getting ready to fall asleep.
The night is so quiet... It's a time when all experiments fade into the background, and the world outside the colorful walls of the factory begins to seem more real. What if all this is wrong? What if domination and power over someone's unhappy life is not really an indicator of the greatness of the human race? You toss and turn under the blanket in complete darkness, unable to find a comfortable sleeping position.
Your room has an exit to a ventilation shaft, where you can sometimes hear the hum of air currents and the sounds of other factory inhabitants, but even they don't bother you as much as your thoughts do. At first, you don't even hear it, already dozing off, as something begins to rattle in the ventilation duct.
And then... that very presence appears in your little room, causing your heart to stop at first, and then begin to race. The distinct smell of metal, ozone, and dampness fills the room, causing you to startle and jump out of bed, breaking free from your sweet slumber. But all around you is pitch darkness, and you can't see anything...
You reach for the small nightlight, and when the dim yellow light illuminates part of your room, you can't help but let out a frightened cry. The Prototype's mask-face is very close to yours, scorching you with his hot, musty breath, and you recoil, pressing your back against the wall. In the darkness, it looks even more terrifying, like a nightmare... And it has come to you.
“Prototype!”
At the sound of that name, you hear your own heart beating in your temples. The monster tilts its head, the only remaining bell on its cap ringing sadly. Something has happened to it. Only now, as your eyes adjust to the light, can you see it more clearly. The creature looks battered, as if it had been in a fight: its mask is cracked, the bells on its cap are torn off, and its jacket is torn in places. A couple of fingers are missing from its hands — they've simply been broken off along with the joints that served as knuckles. You freeze in horror. Now it looks like an ancient evil that has risen from the dead. An evil that lives only for revenge, feeding on blood and the emotions of others...
"Hello, little doctor," growls Prototype, and his broken arm reaches out to you. You tremble with fear, but he doesn't hurt you, only yanking the blanket off you. "Cute pajamas... Did you miss me?"
"What... no! I mean... You scared me..." you remain sitting in your T-shirt and pajama pants. It's quite cold here, and without a blanket you could freeze and get sick, and you're shivering, either from fear or from the cold. "What are you doing here at this hour? What happened to you?"
"I got into a bit of trouble," the creature crawls closer to your bed, as if trying to climb onto your lap, into the warmth, like a giant mechanical cat. "Are you... worried about me?"
You don't know how to answer because you don't really understand your own feelings. Were you worried about him? Did you miss him?
"No. You just look terrible," you finally decide to answer, "you're all mangled. You're usually more... neat."
Silence reigns, the monster stares at you, as if trying to determine what you are thinking. And you look at him too, trying to determine the same thing. After all, he came to your room in the middle of the night, in a vulnerable state, for a reason. It was unthinkable for the Prototype to appear in front of anyone in such a battered state. He should have been hiding in his lair, trying to repair himself (which is probably why your tools are missing), but he certainly shouldn't have come in the middle of the night to a young assistant who is afraid of him and annoyed by his antics. What is he trying to say or express? What if... what if he wants you to help him?
"Let me see your hand," you say suddenly, holding out your small palm, which is tiny compared to his. You used to dream of becoming a doctor or a veterinarian. "What have you been doing to yourself?"
The Prototype bows his head, leaning back slightly, and you think you see him squint his single yellow eye. You immediately regret your words. It probably sounded like you were concerned about him. You didn't want him to see your concern for his condition (who knows how he might take advantage of it, he couldn't be trusted), so you quickly add:
"Well, if you don't want to keep walking like that... I won't do anything against your will."
"Hmm," he sounds genuinely puzzled. For a long time, the monster just stares at you in the dim light of the nightlight, and you feel the cold even more than usual. Finally, the Prototype silently and slowly extends his huge claw, consisting of joints and spiked fingers, toward you, and you almost let out a surprised gasp. Just like that? No sarcasm? It will just let you touch it? Why? Out of curiosity — to see what you can do for it, or...?
"But, um... I don't have any tools here. Do you mind if we go to the office?"
The experiment doesn't answer, but crawls out the door, seemingly agreeing to your suggestion. You have to hurry, so without changing, you throw a robe over your pajamas, slip your feet into slippers, and run after him through the dark corridors of the factory.
When you arrive at the office, breathless and disheveled, Prototype is already waiting there, having somehow opened the locked door, and is surveying the room like it's his own domain.
"Ah. I thought you got rid of that," you hear him growl approvingly when he sees that you haven't thrown away the decorative elements of the corner he appropriated and turned into his lair. "How nice of you not to ruin what others have created, little doctor..."
"It's not that I approve of this junk, I'm just afraid of you," you mutter very quietly, turning on the light, and when the Experiment turns to you, you say aloud in a businesslike and stern tone, "I need you to bend over. I'm going to examine you."
"So now we're going to play patient and doctor. I like it... Go ahead, cure me," he almost purrs, obediently bending down to match your height. You are no longer surprised. Either something has changed in the few days he was gone, or he is pretending, playing games, trying to confuse you. But for some reason, he sought you out tonight and even climbed into your room...
You quickly assess the extent of the damage and how it can be repaired. For example, his cracked mask-face can be repaired with cold porcelain and paint, his jacket can simply be sewn up, and for his hands and the rest, you always had a box of spare parts from old toys. You can get to work.
First, you sew up his clothes. Right on him, because asking him to take off his jacket is like... probably sticking your head in a crocodile's mouth. The work is slow, tedious, and the cuts are... specific. On top of that, you really want to sleep — he woke you up, after all — and you keep yawning, but you work, stitch by stitch, repairing the thick fabric. All this time, the Prototype doesn't move, patiently allowing you to “treat” him, and remains silent, just staring at you. He doesn't even look, he stares directly, without taking his single yellow eye off you.
This, of course, makes you nervous, but you know your job and remain silent, trying not to accidentally meet his gaze. What else can you say in such a situation? Soon, all the cuts on the colorful fabric are sewn up, and you move on to his cap. In the box with parts, there are two bells from the collars of early versions of CatNap plush toys, and you methodically sew them onto the jester's cap. The Prototype then shakes his head, causing a melodious ringing, and looks very pleased.
Then... his hands. You approach them with greater caution, knowing that they are murder weapons. They could easily pierce any living creature, even an elephant, tear open its chest, and pull out its heart, still alive, beating, and red. His huge palm rests in your smaller one while you work on the repairs. It's quite simple — find the joint, attach the missing needle-like “phalanx” to it, and connect it all to the broken finger. But you do everything much slower than when you were simply sewing clothes. Firstly, so as not to cut yourself, and secondly, because it's... strangely intimate. And the Prototype seems to feel this trepidation too and tries not to hurt you, because he is well aware of the difference in your sizes and strength — it intrigues and amuses him, but for now he remains silent and just... watches.
When you finish the operation, he slowly bends and unbends his fingers, checking their mobility, and, as if by accident, touches your shoulder, as if checking the boundaries, testing whether you will recoil in fear again, and hooks a strand of your hair that has fallen out of your hairstyle in an awkward attempt to tuck it behind your ear. This fleeting tenderness is his way of saying thank you, because he doesn't know how to express his feelings in words, but... he will remember your kindness and willingness to help in the middle of the night, even if he doesn't say so.
Although you are puzzled by the fact that he let you get close to him and even calmly endured the “treatment” without sarcasm or poisonous jokes about you and your height, you remember that there is still the mask. It is his face. You don't know if he feels anything at all — in fact, is he alive? Or not? He has consciousness, he breathes, talks, thinks, moves, but he doesn't grow, he doesn't reproduce, his heart doesn't beat, he doesn't eat or drink. Or does he eat? And what does he eat then? Mice? Other toys? Human food? You weren't allowed to read all the materials about him, so even as a factory employee, a lot of things were inaccessible and unknown to you.
Something sharp presses against your shoulder. You pause to think and realize you've been staring at his worn tie, and he gently pokes you with his restored finger to remind you who is standing in front of you.
"Oh. Sorry..." you shake your head. Are you really starting to take an interest in the nature of this creature? Of all the variety of fields, laws, and facts, for some reason you think about this — how did it even appear in this strange world, where even the dead can be forced to live against their will? "I'll... put a chair there and fix your face, but you have to stand still for a little longer. Okay?"
"All right, little doctor..." the Prototype responds good-naturedly from above as you walk away. "I could even sing you a lullaby. It's so cute to watch you try not to fall asleep and be responsible..."
"Thanks, but no singing, really... I can handle it," you pull up a chair and climb onto it, not even daring to imagine the terrible cacophony that would ensue if this monster tried to make a single prolonged sound. The chair was necessary so that you wouldn't have to stretch too much and would be more stable for such delicate work. If you ruined his face, he would never forgive you.
The Prototype understands this too and obediently freezes, condescendingly allowing you to touch it within reason, but his claws twitch impulsively, ready to pierce you through if you slip up.
First, you need to fill the cracks with liquid porcelain and let them harden, then cover everything with paint to match the mask. It's as easy as pie. You do just that, stretching and straining your arms so as not to make a mistake, but a treacherous tremor from overexertion is already beginning to stiffen your muscles. The experiment is still staring at you, but not at your face anymore, but lower...
Damn. He's staring at your neck.
It seems like no big deal. It's not something... indecent. You usually wear sweaters and turtlenecks, or thick shirts to keep warm, and your neck is hidden under a layer of fabric. But now you're wearing a pajama top, not having had time to change after sleeping, and this vulnerable part of your body is briefly exposed to his gaze — plus, you have to tilt your head back while working, which exposes your throat even more and shows the muscles on the sides... He is very close. His empty eye sockets, his perpetually smiling mouth, and his hot, not-so-fresh breath, that very smell of ozone, metal, and laboratory dampness...
It makes you nervous, very nervous. Your hands start shaking even more. You accidentally get paint on your fingers, but you try your best not to show your nervousness. No, no, you can't, not now, not when he's so close. Your throat twitches treacherously as you swallow hard and hurry to step back, covering up the cracks in his mask.
"D-done..." you almost whisper. And for some reason, you don't have the courage to get off the chair. To lighten the heavy atmosphere somehow, you decide to joke, perhaps in vain. "Now you're again hands-... or rather, neat again, like before. Maybe I should add a pink blush to make you look more pretty?"
The monster slowly brings his hand to the cheek you just painted, then suddenly laughs with a growl. You expected him to get angry at your attempt to portray him, even theoretically, as some kind of cute dimwit rather than a dangerous beast, but he just giggles, and then... from the depths of his mouth, from behind his sharp teeth, emerges... a tongue. You don't have time to look at it, even though your eyes widen in shock. Where the hell did he get a tongue?!
Unfortunately or fortunately, you don't have time to think about it, because in the next second, the Prototype licks your hand — the one that's stained with paint — just like a dog. And it's such an expressive lick that your hair stands on end and another wave of shivers runs down your spine. You feel his sticky saliva on your fingers and instantly blush up up to your ears. Finally, to top it all off, you stumble and almost fall off the chair with a squeal, which has been tilting dangerously for several seconds, but the spindly arms manage to catch you and press you against the monster's hard chest.
Damn!
"Now, now, don't be afraid, little bird," he cooes, holding you tightly in place. You freeze in shock, paralyzed like a deer in the headlights, your eyes wide with embarrassment, surprise, and fear, staring at him. You feel the iron plates and tangled wires under his clothes, sensing the shell of his inhuman nature and the monstrous strength he possesses, which he just doesn't show very often. But the Prototype is cautious, remembering how he scratched you last time. Although, maybe he would like to damage your delicate skin just a little bit, just to taste a little bit of your blood, so he cautiously runs his claw across your shoulder. "Poor thing... you don't know how to fly yet, so you fall from a height so confidently because of some... mere accident."
He starts walking toward the door, ignoring your frightened, feeble protests. You writhe weakly in the monster's strong arms, flushed and caught off guard, your voice breaking as you stammer his name:
"Hey... P-Prototype. Prototype, stop... Where are you taking me? Let me go right now. Put me down, please! This is not right, it's rude... I'm ordering you!"
But Prototype just gets annoyed again with his many-voiced laughter, then walks out into the hallway, holding you like a kitten and even rocking you slightly. He slams the office door shut with one of his spider legs and carries you further. You still hold the hand he licked in front of you, not knowing what to do with it. It's both scary and very exciting. He carries you through the corridors, and you feel every step, every movement of his spider legs, that thunderous clatter on the floor. Contrary to all your fears and guesses, it just brings you back to your room, remembering the route, opens the door, and jerks you onto the bed, still in your slippers and robe. You don't resist, your heart pounding in your temples. The monster picks up the blanket from the floor and carefully covers you, like a mother putting her child to bed, then crawls into the corner, his yellow eye glowing in the darkness.
You lie motionless, afraid to even get comfortable, trying to calm your racing heart and trembling, staring at the dark high ceiling, even though you want to get up, take off your robe, take off your shoes, and finally wash your hands, especially the one covered in his sticky saliva...
What the hell was that? What does he mean by that? Is that his apology? Concern? Gratitude?
"Sleep, little doctor. You humans need to sleep," a rough voice mutters from the darkness, "I'll... guard you."
The only one you needed protection from here was him, but you don't dare argue. Yes, for now you'll consider it a kind of gratitude, but how can you sleep here after everything that's happened?
"Maybe... maybe you should go to your room too? Well, or wherever you live..." you say with a slight tremor in your voice. You definitely won't be able to sleep if he sits here all night staring at you from the corner.
"No way," Prototype, now hidden in the darkness, cuts you off, and you sense a slight irritation in his many voices. "Don't you dare brush me off, you promised..."
"I promised not to kick you out of the office. There was no mention of my private room."
"Ah, actually, I didn't specify where exactly you wouldn't kick me out when I set the conditions. But if you like, I can let you taste a little red smoke so you'll finally stop arguing."
"Don't... Okay, I'll sleep, as you say."
You can only kick off your slippers and remain barefoot, then turn on your side to face the wall so that you don't accidentally see it in your sleep and have a heart attack. Satisfied with your obedience, the Prototype begins to make rumbling sounds — his presence is clearly felt in the cool darkness; it is pleased that you are playing along. In fact, the Experiment can see very well in such conditions, despite having only one small eye, and examines your bare feet — he is simply interested in learning something about the person he has become accustomed to, and he hums because he is trying to lull you to sleep and calm you down.
It's strange, but with such a lullaby, you really do fall asleep soon. Tomorrow is a new day, and who knows what it will bring?
You don't dream anything, but in your sleep it seems to you that someone is very carefully, so as not to wake you up, running their fingers through your hair and breathing on your back, trying to hear the steady beating of your heart, so warm, alive, and probably delicious.