It should be better than this.

4.

It's quite unnerving how an old friend can become a stranger in a couple of years. Especially an old friend who you had shared fond memories with. An old friend whom you used to talk to everyday and hang out with constantly. An old friend you'd laugh with, despite your suppressed hardships. Such memories stood out to Lou, as the time spent with his old friend Ox had been some of his best... but they had ended abruptly.

The prototype knew of his role, he knew he wasn't meant to keep any sort of imperfection around, let alone a reject from a different model entirely, but he yearned for the company. He hated growing countless bonds with dolls who he knew would leave, so having at least one doll he knew could never do that was a tragic blessing.

...However, deep down he knew that eventually Ox would be found out and sent to recycling. He didn't expect anything less, but that didn't stop the thought of separation hurting more than anything else.

"I'll do it." Lou swallowed the lump in his throat, "I'll... dispose of the reject." His voice was almost a whisper, the words leaving him unsteadily, sounding unlike himself. He didn't want to dispose of Ox; Factory knows he didn't want to. But if he didn't, then...

Countless days had passed since Lou had left Ox to be recycled- to be reborn in a hopefully more perfect state. So, upon hearing his name be spoken again by a red 'Lucky Bat' just a few months ago made him visibly flinch, the same feeling of utter despair he felt upon 'disposing' him flooding back into his mind. You wouldn't be able to tell though; Lou's emotionally strong façade back then was hard to waver.

Back to the present, it turned out that the 'Ox' Lucky Bat was on about was who Lou thought he was, but it was evident that his opinion of the blond had soured over the years. The prototype doesn't blame Ox though, he was the one who went through with trying to recycle him, and he had said some cruel things in his blind rage a few months ago. Still, it did slightly sting to see the green rabbit so uncaring of their past friendship now.

The robot dog was sitting patiently outside the mayor's house as Lou trudged back outside, gesturing a hand for the dog to follow. Her ears perked up, tail wagging as she bounded off the ground, the doll looking at the machine with a raised eyebrow.

"Someone's in a good mood today." He observed, guiding the dog across the large path of the institute, "...wish that I could say the same." The two arrived at their cleaning task of the day, much to Lou's misery: his old mansion.

...

It was obvious that the sky was brewing up something nasty, but that didn't prevent the freckled artist from going outside: canvas, paints, brushes, and easel in a large backpack. Nolan had been working on a landscape painting for the past few weeks, only being able to get so far with his motivation or the recent weather. Tuesday's and Babo's sculpture had inspired him, and he is not going to let such inspiration go to waste, even if mother nature was not on his side today.

He situated himself in the same spot and angle to continue the painting, rolling up the longer sleeve of his uniform. He was in the middle of a fabric forest, a mashup of both systematic and unsystematic-looking trees. The sun above was glowing similarly to that of the painting, a soft yellow glow flooding onto the edges of the trees, as an ocean lapped not too far from it all. This area was unusually quiet compared to the rest of the institute, and Nolan sometimes preferred it that way; it was calming.

As he painted, his hands glided across the canvas, painting the details delicately without wasting the slightest amount of time. With practiced movements, he mixed and blended colours in between, occasionally spending a moment to look at his reference before him. And all the while the weather continued to worsen. In fact, the storm clouds overhead looked as though they were moving towards him faster than anticipated, threatening rain. A cold breeze slid effortlessly through the fabric of his uniform, chilling him whilst he began to reconsider staying outside. His brush strokes became quicker as he tried to finish what he had started, but alas the wind grew stronger, and the paint refused to cooperate.