He first woke up in the night and couldn't see a thing, and it terrifies him.
But he's okay, for there are two..humans, and they seem to know what's wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be out there, somewhere but here, fighting something…
But he can't remember, and it only feels like a dream.
He wakes up in dusk, just when the sun is just rising and sending its first ray of life across the lawn, and he doesn't know where he is.
He always woke at the time. He knew that, or better; his own body remembered better than he did. He sees those two humans, again, and a strange sense of relief washed over him. But something is wrong, something he can't quite get. There was someone…
But it only feels like a dream.
He woke up the second time in the day, this time being the middle of day.
He waddles out of the short cube, and the two comforting humans has a flash of surprise on their face.
Maybe they knew him.
But then he isn't supposed to know them. It seemed factual but at the same time, nonsense.
And it only feels like a dream.
He lost count of those days, and day and night mingled into nothing at all.
The humans were so busy every day, and he enjoyed, for some particular reason, watching them. He knew, in some kind of non-physical way, this wasn't the way it was meant to be.
But he didn't know anything, ever since that fitful night he'd woke in the pitch of night…
And it only feels like a dream.
He began to count, for the numbers just came to his head like pulling it out of a vault. It's been thirty-three days since he began to count, and he still couldn't remember.
He tries to keep the panic out of mind, keeping his mind clear enough for the panic to stop creeping on him, devouring him. The two humans-or Phineas and Ferb, as they were called-still stole surprised glances at him.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He needed to fight something, but he didn't know what...
And it only feels like a dream.
At the hundredth day, he remembers a name:Doofenshmirtz. He listened to everyone, anyone that might trigger that memory, but no one did.
He knows that this man is waiting for him in a sense, but he doesn't know.
After three hundred days, he stopped counting. There was nothing to wait for, nothing to remember, nothing to hope for.
He frets about the dreams, those dreams that kept him up-but they were pleasant, as if he slipped into a schedule he'd always missed.
But he'll never know.
Because it's all a dream, and nothing more.
Yeah. it was my what-if-perry-got-amnesia-and-forgot-everything-including-doof-and-monogram thingie. just whipped it out in about ten minuets or so, so the quality is pretty low. im gonna re-make it someday.