Yeah, first Toy Story fic I've ever written. I hope it doesn't suck.
Also, I do know surrealness isn't a word, but I think that it would work in a teenage mind. Most Buffy Speak words that end in '-ness' work in a teenage mind, in fact…
I don't own Toy Story. Not even any toys of the toys in Toy Story. Sadly.
Mend
to make (something broken, worn, torn, or otherwise damaged) whole, sound, or usable by repairing: to mend old clothes; to mend a broken toy.
to remove or correct defects or errors in.
to set right; make better; improve: to mend matters.
chapter one: tremor
Sid Phillips was 15 years old.
Two years before, he had been attacked by his toys.
Two years of therapy.
Two years of nightmares.
He was wearing ragged blue pajama pants along with one of his many skull shirts, colored dark red. His feet were bare, and he shivered. Not due to the cold; it was a warm summer; the air was balmy, even near midnight.
It was the first time since…since that day, that Sid had dared to step into the back yard. The light of the moon made everything look icy and dead.
(We toys can see everything)
He padded from the back porch to the garage, overgrown grass and bare patches where nothing could grow anymore stinging his feet. He leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments. He mentally hissed to himself: You're crazy, don't do this, it's not real. It's not—(staring with dawning horror, holding the cloth-and-plastic sheriff writhing in his hands "So play nice!") it's real - don't do it you can't but you have to.
He opened his eyes.
I have to.
Sid realized he was squeezing the thing in his hand tightly. He took a deep breath and carefully lifted it to eye level.
"I'm sorry," he told the toy in shaking tones. "I'm sorry for holding you so tight, I'm sorry for—for dissecting you-" he stared at the single-eyed and hairless doll he'd been trying to repair for the last night and a half "-and I know I've said stuff like this before!" he tacked on hastily, staring at the eye with his two desperate ones.
"I've said it a lot a-and I'll probably say it more. I don't know if you've forgiven me yet. Or if any of you," he flailed his unoccupied hand as if encompassing the entire yard, with the remains of broken toys scattered and buried in the ground (maybe), "if any of you have even thought about it. But I need to know."
Sid's voice lowered, and he dropped his gaze to his feet. "I need to know," he said softly, "that…that I'm not crazy."
Long shadows shifted across the patchy lawn as wind blew branches against each other. Sid slid down until he was sitting in the dirt, carefully setting Baby-Face beside him.
Silence slid its way from the shadows, twisted and stalked through the yard, stopping the intruding wind, circling the boy with mute appraisal.
It was obliterated with a scratchy whisper: "Please."
Please.
And he heard a soft rattle by his side.
He flinched and stiffened. Don't scream. Don't scream. Do not scream.
Something gently touched his knee. A tiny whimper slid out of his mouth before he could clamp his hands over it. Don't scream don't scream don't-
"Sid."
"Oh god."
His eyes slid from a stray tire down to his leg.
The doll he'd dubbed Baby-Face was standing shakily, using his knee to keep from toppling over. It—her eye seemed to look into both of his, holding him paralyzed.
"Oh god," he choked out again. A flash of memory - multiple metal limbs holding the sides of his head tightly – shook him from his petrifaction, and he shifted away before he could help himself.
The doll overbalanced and tottered, fell. Reflexively, Sid reached out and caught her.
Feeling the plastic on his skin, his mind and body came to a dead stop.
She slowly sat up, turning her head towards him in an inhuman but oddly natural-looking way.
You wanted this, a corner of his mind whispered. You wanted it, now do something about it.
Slightly panicked and affected by the surrealness he pulled the first inane thing that came to his mind out into the air. "You know, I was going to make you a blonde, you know, a wig, but now I'm thinking brunette. 'Cause you seem kind of…you seem not like a blonde, I guess."
Beat.
"…I think I need a larger body, first," she replied.
She sounded awkward, and Sid realized that she probably hadn't expected to actually go though with this. No more than he had, at any rate. He wasn't sure if that really made him feel better or not.
He lifted her a bit. "I'll get one as soon as I can!" he assured quickly. "I've been mowing peoples' lawns and I'll get paid soon." His mind, hazy from worry, lack of sleep, and the aftermath of a fear-fueled adrenaline rush, shoved a pressing matter to the forefront. "Could you…um," he faltered. "The others…are they—how are they?"
In the days after his meltdown, his parents had told him that his old toys had been thrown out. Nervously, he'd checked all the trash bags until his mother said that they'd dumped them far away.
However, a few days before, the toaster had broken and his father had to dig out some old parts that had been stored in the attic. He ordered Sid to drag some of the larger boxes out of the way, and when he complied, he spotted a familiar visage: the Baby-Face. Impulsively he picked her up by the head—which popped off. After a moment of horror, he slipped it into this pocket and went on his way. Since, he'd bought some parts to fix her up, praying that she'd forgive him.
He'd tried to get into the attic a few times, but it had a padlock. Even though he was considered a punk, he didn't actually know how to pick locks, and no amount of tugging would get him through.
Ever since, he kept dwelling over whether the toys he couldn't snatch would go after him again.
Baby Face, either ignoring or not noticing his flinch, slid from his hand to his knee. "They're doing alright. The attic is better than…" she hesitated long enough for Sid to fill the blank: Better than being your experiments. "It's fine. Although none of us really talked. Most of us forgot how."
At Sid's inquiring look, she cautiously said "If you can fix them, they might be able to. I don't know why, but after we were changed, we couldn't talk. This is the first time I've heard my voice in-in I don't even know how long."
Sid was struck with a mix of horror and bewilderment. Horror, because he just realized that he had torn apart almost people and left them in an isolated state, which he knew from experience was horrible even if one could talk. Bewilderment, because this doll had every right to loathe him, but was acting perfectly pleasant.
She must be terrified too, he thought. The doll was probably acting civil because she was broken and could barely walk. Maybe she'd leave when she was fixed. Or when he fixed her friends.
Okay.
Okay, I can do that.