The Origins of Pierre

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The deputy wasn’t particularly keen on being inside the tinkerer’s home any longer than was necessary; it creeped him out, from his toes to the tips of his eyelashes. Several unfinished animatronics hung from repurposed meat hooks on the walls, their lifeless eyes seemingly tracking his every move. He half-ran, half-skipped to the bench that gave birth to those monstrosities. Reaching down to grab the journal, he swore he heard voices screaming at him to leave that place. He shivered in the sweltering heat and passed the book over to his superior officer. His eyes traced his way back; to look to the walls was to welcome evil into his mind. Yet he couldn’t quite keep himself from looking at the same spot on the wall. Over and over, he steeled himself to train his gaze on the floor; time and time again, something — or someone — demanded that he stare at a gap between two mechanical bears. Dust outlined what once had filled that gap: a head, what looked to be wings, perhaps a beak.

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“…Pierre. I will call you Pierre. Does that please you, Pierre?”Pierre turned his head and smiled.

His beak opened wide, and the tinkerer thought he could see all of the truths of the universe.

Pain.Suffering.Torment.

Pierre’s power source was turned off, yet he moved. He lived.He destroyed.—

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