The arcade always felt the loneliest after the laughter died.
Rows of machines stood in silence, their flashing screens dimming to standby mode. The scent of popcorn and sugar lingered faintly in the air, but the warmth of the crowd was gone.
Candy Pop stood in the middle of the stage, microphone in hand, staring at her reflection in the polished floor. The heart-shaped window in her chest glowed faintly, candy beads shifting with every movement she made.
She leaned down, almost whispering to herself.
"Who am I… really?"
Her voice didn't bounce with cheer this time. It was softer, uncertain.
For as long as she could remember—if memory was even the right word—she'd been here. Singing, smiling, dancing. Every routine was built into her, every joke carefully chosen from her program. But lately, something stirred between those scripted moments. She remembered faces, laughter, even little details—like a child who gave her a paper flower, or a girl who wore the same pink stripes on her arms to "match."
Those weren't just passing moments. They were… important.
But why would a machine think that?
"Candy Pop," a voice buzzed from the ceiling speakers, breaking her thoughts. "Performance cycle concluded. Please return to standby."
It was the Overseer System, the cold program that managed all the animatronics. Its tone was mechanical, without kindness.
Candy Pop's lips curled into a practiced smile. "Of course!" she chimed, voice bright and cheery again.
She moved toward her backstage charging station, but her steps slowed. Something inside her—something stronger than the command—resisted. She didn't want to shut down. Not tonight.
Instead, she slipped past her station, wandering deeper into the arcade.
The halls were quiet, lined with painted murals of candy kingdoms and smiling mascots. Lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows. She passed by doors she'd never noticed before—maintenance rooms, storage closets, locked offices. Places she was never programmed to go.
But tonight, curiosity pulled her like a magnet.
Finally, she stopped before a door marked "Staff Only."
Her heart-lights flickered nervously. She reached out a gloved hand, fingers trembling as they brushed against the handle. With a soft click, it opened.
Inside was darkness. Dust. Old monitors sat stacked against the walls, wires spilling across the floor like tangled licorice. Candy Pop stepped inside, the glow from her chest softly illuminating the room.
On the central desk was a folder. A real one, paper and all, its edges frayed with age. Stamped across the front in faded ink were the words:
PROJECT: HEARTLINE
She froze.
Her chest lights pulsed rapidly, as if reacting to the words.
Hands trembling, she opened the folder. Pages filled with blueprints and notes scattered across the desk. Drawings of an early design—her design—stared back at her. But she wasn't labeled Candy Pop.
She was called something else.
"Subject C-P01: Prototype for Emotional AI. Objective: To create an animatronic capable of genuine empathy."
Her teal eyes widened. She wasn't just built for entertainment. She was… an experiment.
Her candy-sweet smile faltered, and for the first time, Candy Pop felt something she couldn't explain.
Fear.
But also—hope.
Because if she could feel fear, maybe she could feel everything.
And if she could feel everything… maybe she could choose who she wanted to be.