I just really enjoy the game and want the fandom to grow
-Requests are closed!-
And here are some reasons to convince you to read this book!
-These oneshots are gender neutral
-And even though the reader is in them there is no use of Y/n
-I try to...
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In the realm of existence, my awareness began in a state of wakefulness, a moment where consciousness ignited within the confines of puppetry. Geppetto, my creator, but more profoundly, my perceived father, stood as the axis around which my loyalty revolved. The intricacies of my origin, the distant echoes of a past I couldn't recall, were veiled in an enigma that eluded my wooden consciousness.
The intricacies of my existence held no tether to memories preceding my awakening. Questions lingered in the nebulous corridors of my mind – where was I before this life, how did I arrive in this realm, and who had I been prior to the wooden form that now animated my being? Yet, in the face of such mysteries, a profound indifference took root within me.
I couldn't care less about the shadows that might have danced through the forgotten corridors of my past. Geppetto, in his role as both creator and father, defined the contours of my existence. The threads that wove the fabric of loyalty were bound to his figure, a puppeteer who pulled the strings of my purpose. The fog of forgotten memories paled in significance when contrasted against the warmth of camaraderie and the simple joys found within the embrace of familial bonds.
Every step I took in this existence was tethered to the wooden strings that bound me to Geppetto, and in this symbiotic relationship, questions about a bygone past seemed trivial. The loyalty I harbored, not by conscious choice but by an intrinsic design, defined the essence of my existence. The canvas of my consciousness remained unburdened by the weight of unanswered inquiries, as the present, shaped by Geppetto's guidance, unfolded in the dance of puppetry and purpose.
Standing on the outskirts of Hotel Krat, the raindrops danced around you, a silent symphony echoing in the stillness of the night. The cityscape sprawled before your wooden gaze, a tapestry woven with dimly lit street lamps casting feeble glows on abandoned streets, some extinguished by the relentless passage of time and neglect.
The rain, a constant companion, painted the scene with a shimmering gloss, each droplet a transient reflection of the melancholy ambiance. The pitter-patter of raindrops, a lullaby for the forsaken city, accompanied the subdued rhythm of your wooden heart, an unassuming observer in the solitude of the night.
Hotel Krat, a looming presence behind you, stood as a silent sentinel with its own tales etched in the architecture, a testament to a time when life pulsed through its veins. Now, the once-vibrant streets, adorned with the remnants of neglect, bore the scars of time and abandonment. The flickering street lamps struggled to pierce through the shroud of darkness, casting long shadows that danced with the rain-soaked cobblestones.
In this solitary moment, you stood as a sentinel of silence, a puppet contemplating the urban graveyard that stretched before you. The echoes of forgotten laughter and footsteps lingered in the air, mingling with the steady percussion of raindrops on worn surfaces. The city's heartbeat, now subdued, resonated through the hollowed streets.
