((Author's note: My first 9 fanfiction, told from the Scientist's point of view. I tried to keep it as true as possible. It's not much, but it's a start, perhaps? Let me know what you think, even if you just loath it. Possible chapters to follow...))

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August 28th

His eyes opened, not exactly simultaneously. First one, than the other optic gyred into focus. I had designed him to be different, but I had no inkling of just how different he would be until his asymmetrical eyes fixed on me. The perfectionist in me felt a small stab of regret that I had not been able to find matching lenses. He stared at me, wide eyed and silent, for several seconds- with such intensity that it was slightly unnerving. Then his eyes seemed to unfocus, grow distant, and if he were looking beyond me.
When I set him down the way the sharp nibs of his fingers dug into me expressed a reluctance to leave my hand. When I withdrew it, he folded his hands up close to his chest, interlocking his fingers.
I didn't realize how drained I was until I heard my own voice, high and weak:
"Hello, 6... Welcome to the world."

At the sound of my voice he registered surprise, like someone waking from a dream, and looked around himself dazedly, noticing the world for the first time.
I smiled. He is certainly... peculiar. I must admit, I let my long dormant toymaker whimsy run away with me when I designed him. I had been delighted when my guardian angels brought me the old pinstriped tie I used for his body and which, I now realize, is completely impractical and will offer nothing in the way of camouflage. The pen nibs, while sharp, are also fragile and will be next to impossible to replace out in the chaos of the world. And the yarn representing hair, originally 5's suggestion, serves no purpose whatsoever aside from aesthetics. Nevertheless... something about him has endeared me to this awkward little manikin.
Up until now, they all expressed a certain amount of curiosity about the world around them, 3 and 4 particularly so. Even 5, though timid, had an irresistible need to know how things worked. But 6 just looks at things in passive wonder, or looks right through them. It's as if he's viewing the world through a veil of thought, or through the window of some darkened and locked-up building.

I watched him as some object on my desk caught his interest. He got unsteadily to his feet and took his first, albeit unsuccessful step. He immediately got back up with undiminished eagerness, stumbled, and fell again, quite hard. I realized at last that the object he was so desperate to reach was my inkwell, which I had used, just minutes before, to paint the '6' on his back. In my exhaustion I had been a little careless and a long black streak shone on the side of the bottle and welled up in a drop at the bottom.

"That's ink," I said, nearly laughing at the expression of awe on his face as I set it down it in front of him.
"I-ink..." he repeated softly in a high, thin voice, peering inside.
After a few moments of silent contemplation, he reached into the liquid abyss and drew out four shining black fingers. His eyes grew wide as he stared at his hand, and a faint smile flickered across his face.
"Just a moment," I muttered. After a short fruitless search, I was compelled to tear a blank sheet of paper from my journal. "Here." I said, placing it in front of him. He made a soft sound of wonder and cognition.
There were a few moments of hesitation, gazing from, the blank white emptiness of the page to the tear of liquid void trembling on the tip of his index pen nib. Then, with a sweeping, graceful motion, he drew a scratchy, splattered circle.
Every part of him seemed to relax, his shutters unfocused and he slowly dropped to his knees, drawing line after line, shape after shape, as naturally as if he'd been doing it since the beginning of time...

He's there even as I write this: I can hear him scratching away. He even seems to be humming some soft, eerie tune to himself. It seems so familiar and yet I cannot place it.
Part of me is glad that he appears content to be on his own. 5 was so dependent on my guidance. 6's ability to retreat into his mind may be a blessing, perhaps help him deal with the horrors of the world I have brought him into. But another part of me worries that his detachment will make him all the more fragile, that his drawing will become the only connection he has to the world...

In any case, he certainly is determined. I doubt he'll stop until there's not an inch left to draw on. I, on the other hand, have filled my pages for today. It's much later than I realized. I feel so hollow, so empty. I must start designs for 7, but I feel like my ideas have been drained also. Tomorrow. Perhaps inspiration will come in my dreams, if I can still dream...

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((... to be continued?))