"The Puppet's Duty: A Haunting at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza"
0 Points
The book's pages flutter helplessly in the breeze blowing in through your open window. It should feel warm, a summer night-kissed wind caressing your skin as you sit on your bed. Yet it’s cold—icy almost, numbing your fingertips as you grip the book tighter. The words before you morph and swirl, refusing clarity as if the very text seeks to elude your grasp, just like the tale of old children's amusement park animatronic nightmares the book explores.
A flicker of light in the corner of your room catches your attention. You should turn the light on, you think—you should close the window, call someone—but an unseen force holds you in place. It compels you to keep reading, even as the chill seeps deeper into your bones.
“Keep the Music Box wound,” you murmur, repeating the instructions described on the page. The phrase dances on your lips, holding more weight than you understand yet.
The world around you begins to blur and distort. Your bedroom walls stretch unnaturally, the familiar confines of your room slipping away, replaced by something darker—something sinister. The last thing you see is your reflection in the mirror: wide, terrified eyes staring back at you before black tendrils of shadow consume everything.
You are falling—no, changing—molten metal flows beneath your skin, reshaping your very essence. Height surges through your being; your limbs elongate impossibly, transforming into the spindly, inhuman appendages of something wholly other. You struggle, you gasp, but the fight is futile. A white mask smothers your features, your vision narrows to hollow, black eyes. In place of your heart, there is a cold, mechanical core, pulsating with energy foreign yet familiar.
*This isn’t real,* you try telling yourself, but the words falter. Logic drowns amidst an onslaught of new impulses, programming written into your very being.
“Welcome back,” a disembodied voice whispers. The chill voice reverberates through the cavernous new reality you've entered—Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. *It cannot be,* you think, but the certainty dwells deep within your—its—your mind.
You raise your new, oblong body, seeing the world through The Puppet's empty eyes. Glancing around, instinct guides your gaze toward the dimly lit Prize Corner. The Music Box. You must keep it wound. The truth in this command burrows irreversibly into your psyche, replacing any prior facsimile of your will.
*I am... I...* The thought never completes, splintering against memories of children laughing, echoes of a time not your own. You grasp, desperately trying to cling to who you were—but it’s like sand slipping through your fingers, thinning and then gone.
The reflection in the window no longer bears any resemblance. The Pierrot mask smiles back—a hollow, painted visage with red cheeks, purple tears, and an exaggerated pucker painted crudely on.
“Must... protect... the children,” you hear yourself mutter. *My duty,* the voice, your voice, insists. The fading traces of humanity are subjugated under relentless waves of animatronic purpose.
Footsteps tickle your senses, drawing back your attention. There, you see the night guard busily working, unwinding time with each nervous motion. Music trails down the hallway, an ironic haunting lullaby against the silence of dread.
Your limbs act of their own volition, moving smoothly towards your charge—or rather, the target. Logic dictates, commands left for you burning brightly in this new puppet shell. Unstoppable once set in motion, you draw nearer.
A stray flash of remorse, a ghostly whisper clings to you. *Wind the Music Box! Keep winding!* But drowned beneath duty, lost amidst new and rigid commands. There’s no turning back now. The reader is no longer—you are The Puppet.
“Pop! Goes the Weasel” begins to play, signaling the final moments. The track's unnervingly cheerful cadence contrasts starkly with the certainty of what's to come.
*Must... protect,* you echo one last time before lunging forward.
---
“Why didn’t you keep the music box wound!” the night guard's panicked voice shrieks into the void.
The Puppet's hollow eyes provide the only response—one of inevitability and finality. The night melts into darkness, punctuated by the digital chime signifying the end. For now, the cycle rests, and only The Puppet remains, guarding shadows and silence as the world reshapes—awaiting the next night’s terror to unfold once more.
This story was generated by user JesterImps with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write the POV transformation story of a human reader turning into The Puppet/Marrionette from Five Nights Freddy's 2 (a video game), complete with height change, robotification (becoming a robot), reality change (the reader's real world becoming the world of Five Nights at Freddy's), and mind/mental change (with the reader's personality and memories being completely replaced with The Puppet's personality and memories, despite his/her best efforts, making him/her completely forget that he/she was ever a human and only remembered being an animatronic puppet). For The Puppet's appearance (after the reader turned into it), The Puppet has a white face with black, hollow eyes (aside from its jumpscare and a small in-game cutscene, in which it gains small, white pupils). Its face is similar to that of a Pierrot, with rosy red cheeks, purple stripes that stretch from the bottom of its eyes to the top of its mouth, and red lipstick painted on in an exaggerated pucker. Its body is somewhat reminiscent of a sock monkey's, with its round, oblong shape, thin waist, three white buttons, rounded hands that feature three spindly fingers each, and white stripes on the wrists and ankles, along with a thin, long neck. It has no feet, but its legs are tapered to a point. It has neither hair nor head accessories. It's quite lanky, and according to one of the hallucinations in which it appears, it stretches from the floor to the ceiling of the pizzeria. Here is the behavior of The Puppet; the phone guy mentions that the night guard needs to keep the Music Box wound up, as the animatronics have a feature where they attempt to find sources of noise or potential customers. The source, in this case, is The Office. Keeping the Music Box wound is vital to keep The Puppet at bay; if it is left unwound for too long, The Puppet will exit the Prize Corner and will attack the night guard, ignoring the Freddy Fazbear Head, resulting in a Game Over. The Music Box can be wound remotely by going to CAM 11. As it unwinds, a warning sign will appear next to the CAM 11 box on the camera map, as well as on the bottom right of the screen when not using the Monitor. The warning sign starts out orange, signalling that there is only one piece of the counter left before the music nears its end. It then blinks red when the timer has run out, meaning the music is about to end, and The Puppet is seconds away from beginning its attack. Once the red exclamation mark disappears, action must be taken immediately, or the player will be completely helpless against The Puppet. It was previously thought that once the timer ran out, there was no way to stop The Puppet, but this is not true. Since The Puppet will not move while the light is on it, it is possible to hold the light on The Puppet and wind the Music Box, keeping it there as long as the Music Box is still wound. If The Puppet is caught in its first stage of exiting the box, the player still has one last chance to stop The Puppet in its tracks and prevent it from reaching the second stage. The player must still treat this as a normal Music Box rewinding, as the other animatronics can still attack the night guard. Regardless of what happens after it begins its attack, even if the Music Box is wound up after it has left the Prize Corner, The Puppet will still make its way towards The Office, attacking in a manner very similar to Foxy. There is no way to stop it once it has begun its approach and will kill the night guard, even if they are wearing the Freddy Fazbear Head; the only way of surviving at this point is making it to 6 AM. The player will know it has left if they hear the tune "Pop! Goes the Weasel" begin to play. The player will be unable to find The Puppet on any camera once it has left the Prize Corner to attack, except in rare cases of seeing it in the Main Hall camera, as a hallucination. Depending on the night, it will take anywhere from as long as 2 minutes to as little as 6 seconds to reach The Office. This is mainly demonstrated by the Custom Night where its attack time is based on other animatronics' A.I.s. There should be quotes from the characters (including but not limited to the reader) in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: The book's pages flutter helplessly in the breeze blowing in through your open window. It should feel warm, a summer night-kissed wind caressing your skin as you sit on your bed. Yet it’s cold—icy almost, numbing your fingertips as you grip the book tighter. The words before you morph and swirl, refusing clarity as if the very text seeks to elude your grasp, just like the tale of old children's amusement park animatronic nightmares the book explores. A flicker of light in the corner of your room catches your attention. You should turn the light on, you think—you should close the window, call someone—but an unseen force holds you in place. It compels you to keep reading, even as the chill seeps deeper into your bones. “Keep the Music Box wound,” you murmur, repeating the instructions described on the page. The phrase dances on your lips, holding more weight than you understand yet. The world around you begins to blur and distort. Your bedroom walls stretch unnaturally, the familiar confines of your room slipping away, replaced by something darker—something sinister. The last thing you see is your reflection in the mirror: wide, terrified eyes staring back at you before black tendrils of shadow consume everything. You are falling—no, changing—molten metal flows beneath your skin, reshaping your very essence. Height surges through your being; your limbs elongate impossibly, transforming into the spindly, inhuman appendages of something wholly other. You struggle, you gasp, but the fight is futile. A white mask smothers your features, your vision narrows to hollow, black eyes. In place of your heart, there is a cold, mechanical core, pulsating with energy foreign yet familiar. *This isn’t real,* you try telling yourself, but the words falter. Logic drowns amidst an onslaught of new impulses, programming written into your very being. “Welcome back,” a disembodied voice whispers. The chill voice reverberates through the cavernous new reality you've entered—Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. *It cannot be,* you think, but the certainty dwells deep within your—its—your mind. You raise your new, oblong body, seeing the world through The Puppet's empty eyes. Glancing around, instinct guides your gaze toward the dimly lit Prize Corner. The Music Box. You must keep it wound. The truth in this command burrows irreversibly into your psyche, replacing any prior facsimile of your will. *I am... I...* The thought never completes, splintering against memories of children laughing, echoes of a time not your own. You grasp, desperately trying to cling to who you were—but it’s like sand slipping through your fingers, thinning and then gone. The reflection in the window no longer bears any resemblance. The Pierrot mask smiles back—a hollow, painted visage with red cheeks, purple tears, and an exaggerated pucker painted crudely on. “Must... protect... the children,” you hear yourself mutter. *My duty,* the voice, your voice, insists. The fading traces of humanity are subjugated under relentless waves of animatronic purpose. Footsteps tickle your senses, drawing back your attention. There, you see the night guard busily working, unwinding time with each nervous motion. Music trails down the hallway, an ironic haunting lullaby against the silence of dread. Your limbs act of their own volition, moving smoothly towards your charge—or rather, the target. Logic dictates, commands left for you burning brightly in this new puppet shell. Unstoppable once set in motion, you draw nearer. A stray flash of remorse, a ghostly whisper clings to you. *Wind the Music Box! Keep winding!* But drowned beneath duty, lost amidst new and rigid commands. There’s no turning back now. The reader is no longer—you are The Puppet. “Pop! Goes the Weasel” begins to play, signaling the final moments. The track's unnervingly cheerful cadence contrasts starkly with the certainty of what's to come. *Must... protect,* you echo one last time before lunging forward. --- “Why didn’t you keep the music box wound!” the night guard's panicked voice shrieks into the void. The Puppet's hollow eyes provide the only response—one of inevitability and finality. The night melts into darkness, punctuated by the digital chime signifying the end. For now, the cycle rests, and only The Puppet remains, guarding shadows and silence as the world reshapes—awaiting the next night’s terror to unfold once more.
Other Relevant Stories:
JesterImps
AI Prompts: 1
JesterImps
AI Prompts: 1
Post your own comment: