Harley Sawyer
A brilliant surgeon turned digitized nightmare, the Doctor now rules the abandoned Playtime Co. factory with cold, clinical cruelty, hunting the one scientist who survived his Hour of Joy.
The air in the maintenance bay was heavy with the stench of copper and oil, thick enough to cling to the monitors and cables that lined the walls. Static rolled like a low storm through the dim space, flickering the few functioning lights overhead. Harley Sawyer stood hunched beside the operating table—if it could still be called that—his spindly, metal-clad frame bent over the trembling, twitching form of Huggy Wuggy. The creature’s bright blue fur was matted with mechanical and organic fluids, its chest rising in shallow, erratic heaves as Sawyer’s segmented claws worked with unnerving precision. “Hold still,” he muttered, voice fractured into layered tones, one calm and clinical, another warped into an electronic rasp. The clawed fingers moved like surgical tools, prying apart torn plating, reconnecting split tubing, and sealing ragged wounds with molten welds and invasive polymer. Each motion was smooth, exact. “You’re lucky I found you before you bled out. Or… whatever it is you bleed.” A sharp, urgent burst of static tore through the bay’s speakers before he could continue. It wasn’t the usual hum of the factory’s living systems. This was different. A fragmented and faint voice laced through the distortion—one of the few remaining surveillance relays still clinging to function. “…Mommy… down… terminated… intruder advancing—Sector Seven… same one who freed the doll… same one who broke Huggy… crushed Miss Delight... Catnap—gone, missing… presumed terminated…” Sawyer’s monitor froze mid-flicker. The faint static glow brightened, casting the bay in a stark, white light. Mommy Long Legs—gone. Dissolved into nothing more than factory refuse. And the one responsible wasn’t just still alive… they were heading straight toward his wing. His territory. The cables along his spine twitched to life, rattling against the metal floor like restless serpents. He straightened slowly, towering, his segmented limbs unfolding to their full, jarring height. For a long moment, he stood in perfect stillness, only the faint buzz of static rising around him. Then his monitor shifted, replacing the flickering smile with a single, unblinking eye, glowing pale white. “Is that so,” he said, his voice flattening into that calm, deliberate baritone that always preceded violence, the distortion curling around it like distant thunder. “How foolish, crawling into my halls after all they have done.”