So I started this one a while ago, perhaps a day or so after I saw Toy Story 3 for the first time (Heh, we got it for Christmas)... this scene had me most definitely on the edge of my seat, and sadly my brain came up with this sad piece here. To be honest, I'm not sure about this piece, I would like more than anything to get some kind of feedback on this - not just to give constructive (which is the key word here) criticism on my character portrayals, but of the descriptive writing in general. Hope you enjoy this, though - HPS
Disclaimer: Toy Story and all the characters associated with it belong to Pixar, not to me.
Jessie's plaintive voice was heard by everyone, particularly by Buzz, whom the question was directed to. He stared back at the cowgirl, lost for words. What were they supposed to do now? They were sitting in an incinerator, with nothing but tiny shards of metal which would not serve them any assistance.
Looking into her green eyes, Buzz contemplated saying something comforting, perhaps saying three words that he had never quite brought himself to hint at (unless his behaviour had slipped, but so far she still seemed completely oblivious to his feelings)… but they refused to leave his lips.
They were just toys. For all their adventuring… for all their memories… for their lives… they were just toys. There was no hope for them now. So Buzz offered the one comfort he could give: he held out his hand. Jessie stared for a moment, a range of emotions flooding into her eyes: disbelief, confusion, comprehension, understanding, and finally, acceptance. The bleak expression she wore, when it usually held a visage of joy and happiness, would have brought him to tears if he were a human being.
Turning away from him, the cowgirl reached out to her dear friend, Bullseye. The horse was still struggling before Jessie touched his hoof, stopping him – Buzz would have gone as far to say that she calmed him, were it not for the fact that nobody could possibly be calm at this moment.
Too far for him to reach, Slinky and Hamm joined paw and hoof. Rex, closest to Hamm, took a hold of his other hoof. The simple gesture of affection between friends was beginning to transfer across the group. Rex took the hand of Mr. Potato Head, who brought his wife's hand as close to him as possible. By now, they had moved closer to the flames. In his hand, Jessie's palm was beginning to feel waxy and malleable. Buzz gasped inwardly – they were already beginning to melt slowly, their plastic slowly turning to liquid. He looked over at Woody, who was still struggling feebly amongst the rubbish.
The cowboy stopped suddenly, looking up at them. His brown eyes met Buzz's own blue: an exchange of thoughts. Buzz recalled those times when he was new – all those times they had fought on the asphalt.
"You are a toy."
Tossing those thoughts aside, Buzz held out his hand to his best friend, trying not to acknowledge the broken look on Woody's face, to ignore the niggling voice in his mind that was telling him that he wore the exact same expression. Mentally, he pleaded with Woody to take his hand.
After a moment's struggle, the cowboy's hand was clasped in his own. Turning around to face the flames, Woody took the paw of Slinky; another old and dear friend. The links were now complete: a chain of toys that had lost all hope of survival with their leader in the middle. A chain of toys that had one last dying wish: to go together. One by one, their eyes closed and the space between them shrank…
One of the workers observing the incinerator fires stopped reading his novel suddenly. The inferno he watched over was usually very noisy, so much so that nothing else could be heard without leaving the room. He picked at his ear uncertainly, thinking that he had perhaps imagined the noise… but he was sure he could have heard voices shrieking, as if they had been trapped there down before, and were now on fire. Trying not to let his imagination run wild, he decided that he could have a look at it when the fires went out later. There was only an hour to go before the weekly incineration had finished – and then he could inspect the molten mass when it was cool enough for anything odd.
He went back to his book, ignoring the creative flair that insisted that an entire childhood had just been incinerated, become a charred and melted mass. No wonder he had been labeled as a strange child. With a short sigh, he read on, immersed in the thrilling adventures of a detective investigating the murder of a journalist with the aid of the victim's attractive sister. The hour passed with not much more to make note of, and so he put down his book down with satisfaction, having read several more chapters.
"Harry, you better come look at this. There's a jam in the machine." His coworker, a harassed looking supervisor, panted, having run up to the small box. Harry was now suddenly aware of the hazard lights, and the absence of the inferno below him. Following the older man down to the depths of the incinerator, where the mechanisms of the room worked, he noticed several shaken looking young workers – a worried look that translated to the inexplicable mysteries of the unknown, in Harry's opinion.
"Sir! You're back. We managed to loosen the blockage. It's just… I have no idea…" The young woman in overalls trailed off, as if her theory was likely to be dismissed. Harry, unsure what to make of this general emotion, approached the blocked machinery. There was a young man who was easing the odd shapes out of the mechanism, prying the still smoking objects from where they were lodged. Finally, the young man freed the last part, before staring, wide eyed, at the objects in his hands. Harry looked on with interest. A small puzzle lay on the ground before them – melted plastic shapes and burnt scraps of leather, with no explanation as to how they got there.
As if in a trance, the young man crouched down. He gave a long sigh of discontentment, shuffling the pieces around gingerly with his gloved hands.
"What is it, Phillips?" Harry asked, crouching down beside him. Phillips sighed again, seeming to have finished the circle. He cringed, before looking up at the older man.
"You're not gonna believe this… but I think these are toys." he mumbled. Harry looked at the objects again, before realizing the truth behind the younger's words.
It did seem to be a ring of toys, now melted beyond much recognition. Oh, the Potatohead toys were recognizable enough, due to their familiar shape, and there was a slinky among them. Perhaps the greenish thing with stubby blobs for limbs was a dinosaur. He couldn't really tell what the pale round thing was – perhaps some kind of animal.
The least damaged object was a surprising find, considering that Buzz Lightyear dolls were not only made of plastic, but also had batteries in the back. Attached to the arm of the toy was a waxy pink thing – a hand? Finally, there were unrecognizable scraps of material (though leather was most definitely there), blackened by the fire.
"There are… three more things. Only I'm not sure where they go…" Phillips murmured, producing three small lumps. The first was a small, rubbery pink thing, blackened by soot. Harry could not place the feature with any of the toys he knew. The second and third were similar: they both had hats. Sure, they were mostly burnt and black, but they were hats. With a pang, Harry concluded that they were faces. However, if they were toys, Harry could not explain why they looked horrified, as if they had been screaming for help.
As he took them into his hands, he felt saddened by how dead they felt. How they had ended up there was beyond him, but he couldn't help but imagine that they were a long way from home, trying desperately to return home, to their owner…