Project:Imagine

Maxwell stood on the creaking stage, his wings fanned out behind him, their soft glow casting an eerie light across the torn set pieces. The replica doll stood opposite him, a twisted reflection of himself, mimicking his every movement with cold precision. The resemblance was uncanny—down to the streaks of orange in the hair, the sharp angles of the face, and even the expressionless eyes. But where Maxwell’s features held life, the dolls were hollow, its glassy eyes vacant, yet filled with malice.

The doll’s wings were a perverse imitation of his own, formed from broken fragments of the fallen mannequins, jagged and cruel, whereas Maxwell’s were smooth and angelic. Its halo, crafted from spinning bullets, hovered mockingly above its head, a dark parody of divinity. Each bullet shimmered with deadly intent, ready to rain destruction at the Toymaker’s whim.

Maxwell could feel the weight of the moment, the strange sense of facing himself, but in a form twisted and corrupted. Every detail of the doll was designed to provoke, to reflect his image back at him in the most grotesque way possible. This thing was the embodiment of Toymaker’s madness, an angelic figure perverted by cruelty and violence.

For a moment, neither moved, as if the stage itself had frozen in anticipation. The contrast between them hung in the air, the line between light and dark blurring as Maxwell sized up his twisted counterpart. Something was unsettling about seeing yourself like this—an emotionless killer, a machine bent on destruction, with no hint of the life that burned within Maxwell’s own chest.

But as Maxwell’s wings pulsed with radiant energy, he knew that whatever this thing was, it was not him. It was a puppet. A mockery. And he would destroy it.

The replica doll's glassy eyes focused on Maxwell, its movements jerky but precise as it raised its twin pistols. With a swift motion, it leveled the guns directly at him, the barrels glowing with a dark energy that mirrored Maxwell’s own radiant feathers. The doll’s wings shifted, readying for battle, their twisted limbs creaking like a house made of bones.

Maxwell’s heart pounded, but his mind remained calm, his hypercognition kicking in. He could see it all, the trajectory of each bullet before it was fired, the way the doll’s body moved with unnatural grace, and the tiny moments of weakness in its movements. He was about to face the darkest version of himself, and he knew only one of them would walk away from this stage.

As Toymaker’s voice cut through the silence, the stage lights flickered above them.

“Show me, Maxwell,” it purred through the doll's lips. “Show me what it means to be you.”

And with that, the halo of bullets spun faster, and the final act began.

The fight began with a crack of gunfire, a cacophony of sound as the replica Maxwell fired its pistols in unison, each bullet spinning from the halo above its head. In response, Maxwell’s wings exploded with light as he launched his feathers like arrows, each one meeting the bullets midair. The stage lit up in bursts of radiant energy and dark shadow, the clash of their powers creating a spectacle of light and darkness intertwined.

Every movement of the twisted doll seemed to mirror Maxwell’s own. When Maxwell dodged, the doll dodged too, its wings shifting at the same angle, its bullets finding their mark with unsettling precision. The doll's motions were fluid, yet mechanical—an eerie parody of Maxwell’s grace. Every strike, every counter, every step mirrored in perfect sync.

Maxwell’s feathers sliced through the air, transforming into blades of light as they homed in on the doll. The replica countered with bursts of gunfire from the various guns embedded in its wings, each projectile infused with dark energy that crackled ominously through the air. The bullets and feathers collided in mid-flight, creating brief flashes of light and shadow that illuminated the ruined auditorium.

For a moment, it was like fighting his own reflection—a deadly game of mimicry where every move he made was countered by the doll’s perfect replication. Maxwell’s mind raced, his hypercognition allowing him to see the paths of each bullet before they were even fired, to predict the exact angles of the doll’s attacks. But no matter how many feathers he launched, no matter how swift his movements, the doll matched him blow for blow.

Maxwell's wings flared with an intense light as he darted to the side, avoiding a volley of bullets aimed at his chest. He retaliated by launching a flurry of feathers, each one slicing through the air with deadly precision. The doll’s wings shifted, the dark metal grafted to them absorbing the impact of his feathers, while its guns fired relentlessly.

Maxwell landed lightly on the stage, his breathing steady but his focus unrelenting. His feathers flew in rapid succession, aiming for the doll’s wings, its joints, its head—any weak point he could exploit. But the doll was faster than it had any right to be. It spun and twisted, dodging the feathers with an unnatural grace, returning fire with uncanny accuracy.

“This is getting annoying,” Maxwell muttered under his breath as he blocked another hail of bullets. “It's like it’s reading me.”

He leaped into the air, trying to gain the advantage, but the doll followed, wings propelling it upward as it fired from below. Maxwell spun mid-flight, his feathers deflecting the bullets as he shot toward the doll, intent on a direct strike. Their wings clashed, sending a shockwave through the air as they grappled for control, each trying to overpower the other.

But then, Maxwell felt it—a moment of hesitation, a tiny miscalculation. The doll twisted, faster than expected, and in an instant, a bullet shot out from its pistol, piercing through the air with impossible speed.

Pain exploded in Maxwell's arm, a searing lance of agony that cut through his focus like a jagged blade. The impact of the bullet drove him back, sending him crashing to the stage with a jarring thud. The once-vibrant energy of his wings flickered and waned, their celestial light dimming as a stream of crimson began to trickle from the wound in his bicep. His feathers, which had sliced through the air with such precision, now faltered and fell, unable to sustain their brilliance.

He gritted his teeth, trying to steady himself against the rising tide of pain. Clutching his injured arm, Maxwell struggled to rise, but the effort only seemed to intensify the throbbing ache that radiated from his wound. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation drawing a fresh wave of agony. The twisted doll, its grotesque parody of Maxwell, descended with a sinister grace, its cold, glassy eyes locked onto him with unfeeling precision. Its pistols, gleaming with dark malice, remained trained on him, ready to unleash another round of deadly fire.

“Predict that,” Toymaker's voice rang out, dripping with mockery as it echoed through the doll’s dispassionate tone.

Seizing the opportunity, the doll's pistols roared to life once more, each bullet a merciless harbinger of pain. Maxwell’s attempts to evade were futile. A shot exploded into his leg, the force of it buckling his knee and sending him sprawling. Another bullet punctured his other shoulder, the impact driving him further into the stage with a cry of pain. The relentless barrage overwhelmed him, his body slumping to the ground as the doll stood tall and indifferent above him.

Maxwell’s vision blurred at the edges, the stage around him spinning into a chaotic whirl of shadows and blinding light. His once-mighty wings lay crumpled and dim, their grandeur shattered like a broken dream. Each breath he took felt like a struggle, every beat of his heart sending a fresh jolt of agony through his battered form. The doll’s cold metal boots pressed down on his stomach, the weight of it like a vice that crushed what little hope he had left.

“Let the curtain fall,” Toymaker's voice echoed with a chilling finality, a cruel twist of fate as the doll’s pistol leveled at Maxwell’s head. The gun’s barrel gleamed ominously in the dim light, the muzzle pointing directly at his temple.

Maxwell's mind raced, a flicker of desperation amidst the encroaching darkness. The pain was overwhelming, the physical assault relentless. The stage lights above seemed to dim as if in sympathy with his plight, casting long, eerie shadows that danced around him.

Toymaker's voice continued, a chilling monologue that seemed almost detached from the gravity of the moment. “According to the dolls I’ve hidden around this place, those other amateurs seemed to have died. What a shame. I wonder how Chickenhead is doing,” Toymaker mused, a tone of idle curiosity in its voice as the doll above Maxwell regarded the scene with a dispassionate air.

The words felt like a taunt, a final insult to add to the physical pain. Maxwell's world narrowed to the point of the gun, the cold metal pressing against his skin. The replica’s face, a grotesque echo of his own, bore down on him with a sinister smile, its eyes void of empathy.

The stage, once a battleground of light and shadow, now seemed like a pit of despair, a place where even the most radiant of beings could be snuffed out. Maxwell lay there, his body battered and broken, as the final act loomed large above him. The roar of the pistol’s shot, when it came, would be the crescendo to this cruel performance, a punctuation mark to the dark, twisted tale that Toymaker had spun.

As the bullet tore through Maxwell's head, his body slumped to the stage with a final, brutality. Toymaker’s laugh echoed through the auditorium, a cold, triumphant sound that seemed to relish in Maxwell’s demise. The doll, a mockery of Maxwell, turned away with an unsettling grace, its pistols still smoking as it walked off the stage, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

Suddenly, the air shimmered with an otherworldly glow, and a woman materialized from the shadows. Her entrance was marked by a cascade of glowing green fireflies that danced around her, their soft light casting an eerie, almost celestial aura. She appeared ethereal and enigmatic, her long white hair flowing wildly around her, as though caught in an eternal breeze. Despite its disheveled appearance, her hair exuded a raw, untamed beauty that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. Her eyes, a mesmerizing, intense green, flickered with a calm yet unsettling intensity as she surveyed the carnage.

The surrounding air seemed to shimmer as she moved, the ethereal glow of her flowing white sundress catching the faint light, each movement graceful and deliberate. Her long, disheveled white hair cascaded down her back like a wild waterfall, untamed yet captivating, adding to the mystique she carried with her. The fireflies that orbited her like tiny glowing sentinels cast an aura of serene, almost divine presence, contrasting starkly with the carnage of the battlefield.

“This is the second time you’ve died,” she murmured, her voice carrying a haunting calm, as if she existed in a realm untouched by the surrounding violence. “My siblings would be quite displeased to know I’m about to cheat again.”

As she spoke, a single firefly descended, its glow intensifying as it landed delicately on Maxwell’s broken body. Instantly, its light spread, weaving through his torn flesh and battered form like threads of life being sewn into him. The wounds that had marred his body began to close, the once-jagged gashes smoothing over, leaving no trace of the agony he had endured. Bloodstains evaporated from his skin and clothes, as though time itself had been reversed.

She bent down, her fingers ghosting over the key that Maxwell always kept with him, her touch both gentle and purposeful. Her eyes gleamed with an unreadable emotion as she grasped it and inserted it into the keyhole in his head. A soundless click reverberated through the air, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

“No! Stop it!” Toymaker’s enraged voice tore through the silence. Bullets fired from the doll’s guns in a rapid barrage, each one aimed with fury at the woman. But before they could touch her, they disappeared into the ether, dissolving as though reality itself refused to acknowledge the attack. She stood untouched, serene, unbothered by the futile assault.

As she turned the key, the transformation began with a violent surge of power. The air crackled with energy, a wild storm of force erupting from Maxwell’s body. His orange hair darkened, twisting and elongating into pitch-black locks that fell down his back in thick waves. His once kind and focused orange eyes shifted, turning a piercing blood-red, burning with raw intensity and rage. A single horn, now pristine and unbroken, jutted proudly from his forehead, symbolizing the return of a more ancient, more dangerous version of him.

His wings, once radiant and white, became black as night, their feathers now sharp and intimidating like obsidian blades. The surrounding aura was no longer soft; it was overwhelming, and oppressive, as if gravity itself bowed to his newfound strength. Shadows clung to his frame, flickering around his body like tendrils of darkness, and yet his presence exuded a terrible, magnetic allure—both beautiful and deadly.

His gaze, now filled with an unrelenting, predatory focus, locked onto the doll that had once mirrored his former self. The twisted replica stood, a crude version of what it once was, but compared to the newly transformed Maxwell, it now appeared grotesque—a hollow shell. The power that had animated it seemed small, insignificant in the face of this overwhelming force.

Satisfied with her work, the woman smiled with an enigmatic grace. “Now go ahead, rewrite this poorly written play,” she said softly, her voice a gentle breeze against the chaotic backdrop of the stage.

With a final, almost imperceptible nod, she vanished, her form dissolving into the swarm of fireflies that drifted off into the darkness, leaving Maxwell standing alone. The auditorium, once a stage for Toymaker’s cruel game, was now a scene of profound transformation, setting the stage for the next chapter in this twisted play.

“There wasn’t supposed to be a fourth act,” Toymaker grumbled, there voice tinged with frustration. “The play was supposed to end.”

“Prepare for an encore, you cheap, pathetic replica,” Avaritia's voice reverberated through the air, cold and commanding. The warmth and light that had once defined Maxwell were now gone, replaced by a darker, far more dangerous presence.

Maxwell's transformation was a stunning display of raw power and malevolent grace. Tiny droplets of water materialized from the aura, hovering in the air as if suspended in time. At first, they drifted lazily, almost deceptively harmless, but then, with a flick of Maxwell's will, they shot out in every direction like daggers.

The room erupted in chaos as the droplets found their targets with terrifying precision. Hidden dolls, previously undetected in the shadows, were instantly dismantled. Each impact was accompanied by a sharp crack, followed by the shattering of porcelain and wood. The onslaught was ruthless and unrelenting; limbs and faces twisted, breaking apart under the sheer force of the assault.

Maxwell stood in the center of it all, untouched and composed, his expression unreadable. “Any other cheap tricks?” he asked, his voice now a sinister blend of calm and malice.

Toymaker’s shock was evident, the smug arrogance gone. Their eyes darted back and forth, scanning the room as more of Their precious dolls were obliterated. “Who are you? You’re not the same as before, are you?” Their voice trembled slightly, struggling to mask the growing fear.

“No,” Maxwell responded with a dangerous sneer. “I am Avaritia, the sin of Greed. It’s a shame your real body isn’t here, but I’ll settle for your toys.”

Avaritia's memories surged within him, flashes of his father’s betrayal, the brutal murder, and the torment of his own death. Fury bubbled up inside him, his once-clear purpose now sharpened into a singular desire for revenge. “I don’t understand how I’m still alive, or why I feel so much stronger than before,” he growled, “but I’ll accept it. I’ll claw my way back and kill those who betrayed my father.”

Suddenly, Avaritia’s hand shot forward, grabbing the replica by its wrist. Instantly, an intense heat radiated from his grasp, causing the doll’s arm to bubble and melt. The once-perfect replica’s limb disintegrated in mere seconds, reduced to a pool of molten material. The doll stumbled backward, its artificial face contorted in pain, though it could feel none.

Desperately, the replica retaliated, its embedded guns firing relentlessly. Bullets whizzed toward Avaritia, but each one barely had time to graze his skin before his wounds closed up in a flash of emerald light. It was as though Avaritia’s very body rejected the concept of injury—no matter how fatal the shot, his skin knit itself back together, leaving him unscathed.

“You can’t hurt me,” Avaritia taunted, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “And now… let me show you what true power looks like.”

In the blink of an eye, more bullets of water formed around Avaritia, this time far more concentrated. With a snap of his fingers, they launched toward the replica’s wings, tearing through them like paper. The wings, once imposing and deadly, crumbled as the water shredded them into pieces.

“No! Stop it! I won’t let you destroy my toy!” Toymaker’s voice screamed, the panic now undeniable.

But it was too late. The replica, now wingless and crippled, stumbled to the ground, its guns sparking uselessly. Avaritia stepped forward, his cold gaze fixed on the fallen doll. Each step was deliberate, as if savoring the moment before delivering the final blow. Toymaker’s voice echoed in desperation, but Avaritia no longer cared.

“I won’t let you destroy my toy!” Toymaker’s voice rang out, a desperate plea echoing through the room.

But Avaritia didn’t flinch. His eyes, now blood-red and devoid of any mercy, narrowed as he advanced on the replica. The twisted imitation of Maxwell, now broken and wingless, struggled to rise, its limbs twitching awkwardly as it attempted to obey Toymaker’s commands.

“Your toy?” Avaritia scoffed, his voice dripping with malice. “This is nothing more than a cheap imitation. You really thought this could defeat me?”

The replica raised its remaining arm, grasping the gun in its hand, and fired another volley of bullets. The air filled with the deafening sound of gunfire, but it was futile. Avaritia barely moved. With a subtle flick of his wrist, the blue aura surrounding him shifted, and the bullets were met with droplets of water that acted as shields, dissolving the projectiles before they could even reach him.

He grinned, savoring the moment as the replica's attacks grew increasingly erratic. The once-precise shots were now wild and desperate, a final, futile effort to stop the inevitable.

“You’re starting to bore me,” Avaritia growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Suddenly, his wings flared out, their black feathers glistening with an eerie light. With a single powerful sweep, he launched a barrage of feathers, each one imbued with lethal energy. They shot toward the replica with terrifying speed, piercing through its body like spears.

The replica let out a mechanical whirr, stumbling backward as its frame buckled under the assault. Sparks flew from the gaping holes in its chest and limbs, and its porcelain-like face began to crack, jagged lines spreading like a spiderweb across its distorted features. Still, it tried to fight, raising its pistols in one final, defiant motion.

But Avaritia was already upon it.

He grabbed the doll by its throat, lifting it off the ground effortlessly. His grip was like iron, and the replica’s body convulsed as it dangled in the air, powerless. Avaritia leaned in close, his expression one of pure contempt.

“Pathetic,” he hissed.

With a surge of strength, he slammed the doll into the ground, cracking the floor beneath them. The replica writhed, its broken wings twitching uselessly as it tried to push itself up. But Avaritia wasn’t finished. He raised his hand, and the room grew colder as the water droplets that floated in the air condensed into razor-sharp shards of ice.

“No, no!” Toymaker’s voice cried out, frantic now. “I won’t let you—”

“Let? You’re not in control here,” Avaritia interrupted, his voice deadly calm.

With a sharp downward motion, the ice shards descended upon the replica, driving into its body and pinning it to the floor. The doll let out a pitiful whirring noise, its movements becoming slower, and weaker, as the life was drained from it. Sparks and wires protruded from its wounds, its glassy eyes now dimming.

Toymaker's panicked voice continued to scream through the replica, but Avaritia ignored it. He stepped closer, his expression unreadable as he watched the last flickers of movement from the fallen imitation. Slowly, methodically, he extended his hand, his fingers curling around the doll’s head.

“I think it’s time we ended this little game.”

With a sickening crunch, Avaritia crushed the replica’s head in his grip. The porcelain-like material shattered, fragments raining down onto the ground as the once-proud doll collapsed, its body falling limp. The mechanical whirring stopped, and the light in its eyes vanished completely.

Avaritia let the remnants of the head fall from his hand, standing over the wreckage of the doll. The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of broken machinery and Toymaker’s fading, impotent cries.

Avaritia's form shimmered, and slowly, the dark, demonic features began to fade. The black wings retracted, the horn disappeared, and his blood-red eyes dulled to the familiar orange. His once-pristine hair, streaked with black, returned to its normal messy state. Maxwell had regained his human appearance, but his mind—his memories—were no longer locked away. He remembered everything. The betrayal, his father's murder, his own death. And most of all, the dark, overwhelming hunger for power that had given rise to Avaritia.

He stood silently on the stage, his breaths steady but heavy, processing the surge of memories. He had unlocked something deeper within himself, something dangerous, and though he had returned to normal, the transformation left a lingering weight on his soul.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the room. A figure appeared in the doorway. Frank.

But this wasn’t the Frank Maxwell had remembered. He was even more deranged now, covered in blood, his face serious and filled with malice. In his hand, he gripped a woman, dragging her by her hair, her limp body behind him.

The girl had a strange elegance, her light blue hair cascading down like a river, and her eyes, a striking, unnatural red, stared vacantly ahead. She wore a pale blue dress that swayed as Frank jerked her along, the heels of her crimson shoes clicking with every drag.

“I believe this is the one who was controlling all those dolls,” Frank said casually, throwing her to the ground in front of Maxwell.

“I won't let you get away with this!” Toymaker’s voice shrieked from the girl's mouth, panicked and desperate.

Frank’s face took on a twisted grin, as he stomped down on her head, a sickening crunch following. The body on the ground twitched violently, then fell still. Sparks and mechanical whirs echoed as the illusion shattered—revealing the woman to be nothing more than another doll, a far more lifelike creation than any before.

“Another fake,” Frank mused, wiping his bloodstained hands on his pants. “I bet the real body isn't even here.”

Maxwell stared down at the broken doll, his mind whirling. The Toymaker was still out there, lurking somewhere, controlling these elaborate puppets. He clenched his fists, knowing this was far from over.

Frank’s unsettling laughter broke the silence. “So,” he began, his tone dripping with mockery, “care to tell me what that was about, Sin of Greed? Avaritia?”