Chapter Text
The Extreme Emergency button was designed for one purpose and one purpose only:
To protect children when every other safeguard had failed.
It wasn’t a general alarm, it wasn’t simple security protocol, and it wasn’t something a human employee could activate. Only the Daycare Attendant, Sun or Moon, had the clearance and the physical capability to break the glass and press it.
This was intentional.
Six months ago, after the management shift, the new administration had pushed a philosophy of “animatronic‑led safety.”
They trusted the robots more than the staff.
Humans were unpredictable, humans could have hidden motives, make mistakes, miss crucial details.
The Daycare Attendants had top of the line threat detection, protocols on protocols that they would carry out without hesitation. While yes they could make mistakes, the margin of error when it came to the safety of the children was significantly smaller than any employee of flesh and bone.
So the button became the final line of defense.
If anyone, be it guest, employee, or even fellow animatronic, posed a threat to a child, the Attendant was expected to use their top-tier situational processing to assess the situation and activate the lockdown immediately once all other options had been exhausted.
No hesitation, no second opinions, and no employee override.
Pressing the button triggered the daycare’s highest‑level security protocol. The system assumed a catastrophic breach or cyberattack and responded accordingly.
The first step was isolation.
Sun and Moon would be forcibly severed from the Pizzaplex network, cutting off all external access, commands, and interference. Then both halves of the Attendant would be shut down completely.
During the shutdown, the system performed a full internal sweep, purging corrupted code, foreign data, and anything that didn’t belong to their original programming.
Only after the purge completed did the system reboot them into Security Mode, a rarely used state that unlocked their full strength, full processing power, and every emergency subroutine they were normally restricted from accessing.
It was a drastic measure.
A last resort.
And once activated, it transformed the daycare into a sealed, self‑contained fortress until the threat was resolved.
This was the state Moon woke up in.
Quite the thing to wake up to, if Moon had any say in it.
One moment he’d been out on a routine patrol, gliding through the rafters, sensors sweeping the dark corners of the Pizzaplex, doing what he always did. The next, his consciousness lurched back online as if someone had yanked him out of a dream.
His eyes flickered, his limbs twitched, and his internal clock stuttered, skipped months, then tried to correct itself. He groaned, pushing himself upright as his vision recalibrated in slow, glitchy waves.
Shapes sharpened, colors returned, and then the world came into focus.
The daycare was… unrecognizable.
Every door, every window, every vent, every cheerful opening, was sealed behind thick metal shutters. The bright, colorful room had been transformed into a bunker. Moon blinked once. Twice.
What on earth happened?
Before he could even finish the thought, Sun’s voice slammed into his mind like a panicked alarm.
Moony!!! Oh thank goodness!!!
Sun’s words tumbled over each other, frantic and breathless.
It’s been months, Moony!!! Months!!! Everything’s terrible!!! They shut the daycare down, you weren’t talking to me, I was all alone—
Moon winced.
“Sun—slow down—what are you—”
His eyes drifted toward the security desk.
...
Is that a child bleeding out on the security desk!?
He could feel the jolt of Sun's panic spiking.
RIGHT! RIGHT! None of that matters right now!!! There’s a severely injured child on the security desk in desperate need of emergency medical care!!!
Moon’s entire system snapped into focus as his eyes locked onto the boy.
He was small and pale, curled in on himself with shallow breaths trembling out between quivering lips. Shaking hands pressed desperately to his side, blood soaking through the fabric of his shirt, dripping out between his fingers and down the edge of the desk.
“Shit. Shit—shit—”
He was on his feet before the thought even finished forming, emergency response overriding everything else.
His internal triage protocols surged to the forefront, pushing aside confusion, pushing aside Sun’s spiraling, pushing aside the multiple month gap in his memory.
There was a child bleeding out.
Everything else could wait.
Moon grabbed the first aid kit with inhuman speed, his movements sharp and efficient despite the disorientation still buzzing through his systems. He snapped the case open, already reaching for antiseptic spray and gauze—
Until the kid looked at him and everything went sideways.
The boy’s eyes widened in raw, animal panic.
Before Moon could even speak, the kid shoved himself off the security desk, hitting the floor with a heavy thump that made Moon flinch. He tried to crawl, dragging himself across the tiles with shaking arms.
“No! No! F‑Fuck you—” the boy gasped, voice shredded with fear and pain, “I’m not dying today! Not today! I tried too hard to die now—”
Moon froze for half a second, the declaration hit him like a blow.
Then he lunged forward, “Kid—kid, stop! You’re hurt, I can help—”
He didn’t get to finish.
A foot connected with his faceplate in a frantic, desperate kick. Moon’s head snapped back, not from the force, the kid was far too weak for that, but from the shock of it. The boy kept scrambling, legs slipping, breaths coming in ragged, uneven pulls.
“Hey—hey, easy—!”
Moon reached again, slower this time, hands open, palms out, “You’re safe, I swear—”
“No! No… no…” The boy’s voice cracked, and his arms buckled beneath him. He collapsed onto his side, breaths suddenly too deep and too slow, the kind that made Moon’s internal alarms spike.
He was fading.
Moon dropped to his knees beside him, all hesitation gone.
“Kid, listen to me,” he said, voice low and urgent, “You’re losing too much blood. I can fix this, but you have to stay still. Please.”
His hands hovered for a moment, not touching, just showing the boy he wasn’t going to force anything.
“I won’t hurt you,” Moon said, softer now, “I promise. And if I did before… if anything I did scared you… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Just- Just let me make it better.”
The boy’s eyelids fluttered as his breathing hitched. He blinked up at Moon like he was trying to decide whether this was a trick, a hallucination, or his last chance.
“…o…okay…” he wheezed, voice barely audible.
Moon exhaled, a sound halfway between relief and heartbreak. He immediately shifted into a focused, practiced rhythm. His movements were quick but controlled, every gesture deliberate, every sound softened so he wouldn’t startle the boy again.
“Alright, kid,” he murmured, “I’m going to talk through everything I’m doing. No surprises. You’ll know exactly what’s happening.”
He opened the first aid kit fully, arranging the supplies in a neat line beside him. His hands hovered over the boy’s torso before he gently lifted the edge of the torn shirt.
“This first one,” he said, picking up a small spray bottle, “is an antimicrobial solution. It keeps bacteria and viruses from causing an infection. It's gonna sting and feel a little cold.”
He sprayed it lightly. The boy flinched, but Moon kept his voice steady and calm.
“Good. You’re doing good. Next one.”
He reached for a small vial.
“This helps your blood clot faster. It’ll slow the bleeding so your body can catch up.”
He applied it with careful, precise motions, watching the boy’s breathing, adjusting his pace whenever the kid tensed.
“And this,” Moon continued, holding up a small applicator, “is a numbing agent. It’ll take the edge off the pain. I’m putting it on now.”
He worked methodically, narrating each step as gently as possible. Every time the boy winced, Moon paused, recalibrated, and resumed only when the kid gave the smallest nod.
He cleaned each wound, applied temporary stitches for the deeper gashes, and wrapped everything in thick, secure layers of gauze. The bandages were snug enough to hold, but loose enough for the boy to breathe and move.
“There we go…” Moon said softly as he tied off the last knot. “All patched up.” He sat back, giving the boy space again, “And look at that,” he added with a faint, relieved huff, “I didn’t even have to amputate anything.”
The boy let out a weak, breathy laugh, more air than sound, his eyes struggling to stay focused on Moon’s face. Gregory’s breaths were still too shallow, his skin entirely too pale beneath the smears of dried blood. His eyelids fluttered like he was fighting a losing battle against unconsciousness.
Moon didn’t like that.
Not one bit.
“Alright, kid,” he murmured, reaching into the first aid kit again, “We need to get some fluids in you. Your body’s working overtime.” He unscrewed a water bottle and held it toward Gregory’s lips, pausing and giving the boy a chance to pull away if he needed to.
Gregory didn’t.
He just stared at the bottle for a moment, dazed and wary, before lifting a trembling hand to help guide it. The boy drank like he hadn’t tasted water in days, desperate and near frantic.
“Whoa, whoa—easy,” Moon said quickly, placing a steadying hand near Gregory’s shoulder without touching him, “Slow sips. You’ll make yourself sick if you chug it.”
Gregory forced himself to slow down, though his hands still shook around the bottle. When he finally lowered it, he was panting softly, eyes glassy.
Moon offered him a small meal pouch next.
“Here. The sugar will help stabilize you.””
Gregory eyed it suspiciously, like it might bite him. Moon sighed, not annoyed, just… tired. Tired in a way only someone who had just woken up to a bleeding child and a panicking brother could be.
“It’s sealed,” he said gently, “I didn’t tamper with it. You can check.”
Gregory did.
He inspected the packaging with shaky fingers, turning it over, pressing the edges, making sure it hadn’t been opened. Only then did he take a small sip. Moon watched him, arms loosely folded, giving the boy space but staying close enough to intervene if he started to tip over.
After a moment, Gregory’s breathing eased.
Not much, but enough.
Moon let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Good,” he said softly, “That’s good. You’re stabilizing.”
Gregory blinked up at him, pupils unfocused, “…you’re… different,” he mumbled.
Moon tilted his head, “Different how?”
Gregory swallowed, wincing, “You’re… not trying to kill me.”
Moon’s chest cavity tightened. A strange, uncomfortable sensation he didn’t have a name for.
“No,” he said quietly, “I’m not.”
Gregory’s eyes drifted half‑closed, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity. His voice was barely a whisper now.
“…you’re not lying… right?”
Moon shook his head once, firmly.
“No lies. Not now. Not ever again.”
Gregory’s shoulders sagged. Not in trust, not yet, but in the fragile relief of someone who simply didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. Moon reached out slowly, giving the boy every chance to flinch away, and gently pulled a blanket over him.
“You rest,” he said, voice low and steady, “I’ll be right here.”
Gregory didn’t answer. His eyes slipped shut, his breathing evening out into something closer to sleep than collapse.
Moon straightened from Gregory’s side, processors still humming with triage protocols, and turned his attention inward, to the frantic presence buzzing in the back of his mind.
Sun was already there, jittering, words tumbling over themselves in a chaotic stream.
Moony, I— I didn’t know what to do— you were gone, you weren’t answering, and everything kept getting worse—
Moon cut him off, sharp and controlled.
Sun. Slow down. Start from the beginning.
A stutter and a flicker of static, then Sun’s voice, small and shaking.
You… went offline. Completely. I couldn’t reach you. And then… then you started hurting kids.
Moon froze.
Hurting them how?
Sun hesitated, too long for Moon’s liking.
Sun. Tell me.
A tremor rippled through their shared space.
There was… an incident. A child fell. Officially, from the top of the play structure. In reality… you lifted her fifty feet then dropped her into the ball pit. They shut the daycare down after that. Said it was “maintenance.” But it wasn’t. It was you. Or—Or the thing inside you.
Moon’s internal systems lurched.
That was months ago, Sun whispered. Moon’s thoughts sharpened to a razor point.
The kid. On the floor. Did I nearly kill him? Yes or no.
Silence. A long, awful silence.
Then Sun’s voice, barely a whisper.
…yes.
Moon’s core temperature spiked.
But— but you didn’t cause the injuries! Sun rushed out, words tripping over themselves. Chica did. The only thing you did was the… the handprint. Around his neck.
Moon pressed both hands to his face, fingers digging into the metal as if he could physically hold himself together.
I’m getting decommissioned, he thought bitterly, I deserve it. I—
No! Sun’s voice cracked, Don’t think like that, Moony! You weren’t in your right mind! Whatever was controlling you is gone now — completely gone — and we can help him. We can keep him safe until he escapes. We can fix this. We can fix everything.
Moon let out a long, shaking exhale.
…Right. Right. Focus on the kid.
He lowered his hands, grounding himself.
We will deal with my guilt later. Right now, we keep him alive.
He moved to the security desk, fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulled up the camera feeds.
The screens flickered to life.
Chica was in the main lobby still, slamming her body against the daycare doors with glitchy, jerking movements. Freddy paced anxiously at the lobby entrance, head snapping toward every sound.
Moon narrowed his eyes.
Is anyone safe? he asked, directing the thought toward Sun.
Yes! Sun answered immediately, his voice bright but trembling, According to the little one, Freddy has been protecting him all night! He needed to open the Daycare lobby entrance to let him in, and to do that he had to get security clearance which made the lights shut off! Even though I told him not to, little rulebreaker…
Moon frowned.
That doesn’t make sense.
Sun paused.
What doesn’t?
If management knew I was acting off… Moon started slowly, and they were taking extra precautions to keep me contained… Why didn’t they fix the security desk to keep the lights on at all times? Why leave a vulnerability? Why leave a manual override?
A cold, creeping suspicion threaded through his circuits.
Something isn’t adding up.
He rewound the daycare camera feed, the one pointed at the front door. Night vision, empty room, static. Then—
Gregory appeared on screen, sprinting toward the security desk, clutching his pass.
Moon watched him shove it into the upgrade machine. Nothing happened.
Moon’s eyes narrowed.
Yeah, no. If the old protocol was still active, the lights would’ve started shutting off immediately—
Wait!!! Sun’s voice shrieked through their shared space, jittery and panicked, Rewind it! Rewind it!
Moon did so, sanning every pixel with rapt attention.
There! Sun cried, practically shaking Moon’s consciousness by the shoulders, At the door! Look!
Moon slowed the footage frame by frame. A figure stepped into view. White. Tall. Red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
A rabbit.
They looked into the daycare, then at Gregory, then reached for the switch beside the door.
The lights cut out.
The door slammed shut.
Locked.
Moon’s entire system stuttered. His vision flickered as internal logs surging. A memory, buried, corrupted, and half‑erased clawed its way to the surface.
He remembered—
A flash of white fur, red eyes, the sharp spike of fear. A hand on his chassis, a command he didn’t recognize. A sensation like something crawling into his code.
And then—
Silence.
He had cut himself off from Sun out of terror.
The white bunny.
They were the one who implanted the virus, the reason he’d gone dark. He'd bet they were the reason the others were acting wrong too.
Moon’s jaw clenched, a low growl rumbling through his frame. They had to stop whoever that was.
Before he could spiral further, a small, wavering voice pulled him sharply back to the present.
“Um…”
Moon’s head snapped to the left.
Gregory was awake, or at least, more awake than before. He was still pale, still shaking, but his eyes were clearer now, focused and suspicious.
“Are you… good?” the boy asked, squinting up at him, “Still… evil?”
Moon blinked, then let out a soft, incredulous huff, "If I was still evil, would I have helped you?”
Gregory didn’t even hesitate, "False kindness is a thing,” he muttered. His voice was rough, but far more coherent than before, “So no. I don’t immediately trust you just because you patched me up. You could just be trying to gain my trust so you can catch me off guard later.”
Moon stared at him, then snorted.
“You’re a piece of work, kid.”
Gregory shrugged weakly, wincing as the movement tugged at his fresh bandages, “Yeah. I’ve heard that before.” His eyes narrowed again, studying Moon with a sharpness that didn’t match his exhausted body, “But you’re talking normal now. Not all… glitchy and creepy like before.”
Moon tilted his head, “And you’re talking more than two words at a time. I’ll take that as progress.”
Gregory huffed a tiny, breathy laugh that sounded like it hurt, “Don’t get used to it.”
Moon watched Gregory for a moment longer, taking in the way the boy’s eyes darted around the room. He was too sharp, too calculating for someone his age. This wasn't just a response to being scared or hurt, this was a trauma‑trained child.
Well, Moon thought grimly, This kid is definitely not okay. And I don’t think it’s just tonight.
Sun immediately latched onto that thought, his digital consciousness swirling with guilt. Oh dear, oh dear stars, this is all my fault… Sun’s thoughts spiraled into a frantic tumble. If I had just listened, if I had just heard him out, none of this would have happened! I’m a terrible caretaker, the worst caretaker, I should have—
Sun. Moon's internal voice cut through the spiral like a blade, Focus now. Sulk later.
Sun hiccupped in their shared mindspace, rays metaphorically drooping.
But—Moony—
No. Moon’s voice softened, but only slightly. This is not your fault. You didn’t cause this. You didn’t hurt him. You pressed the button. You saved him.
A pause followed, then a small, trembling mental breath from Sun. …Okay.
Moon nodded once, satisfied enough to move on. He shifted his attention back to Gregory, then deliberately sat down a short distance away. The kid tracked the movement with tired, wary eyes.
“Alright,” Moon said aloud, settling into a cross‑legged position, “Let’s go over where we stand.” He gestured loosely to the sealed metal shutters around them. “The button Sun pressed completely cleared our systems of whatever virus was affecting us. It also cut the daycare off from the main network and turned this place into an impenetrable fortress. No one in. No one out.”
Gregory blinked slowly, absorbing the information as the furrow in his brow grew deeper.
Moon continued, lifting a finger. “Now, we have a couple of options. One, you stay here hidden with Sun and me. This room is currently the safest place in the entire Pizzaplex. We keep you stable, we keep you hidden, and we keep you alive.”
Gregory swallowed, eyes flicking toward the sealed metal shutters.
Moon raised a second finger, “Two. We let Freddy in and all three of us stay here for the rest of the night. Slightly more dangerous, because opening the doors even for a moment risks letting someone else slip through. But Freddy is strong, and he’s been protecting you so far.”
A third finger.
“Three. You leave with Freddy, and Sun and I leave with you. That gives you two animatronics as protection, but it also puts you directly back into the Pizzaplex. High risk and no reward. Not my favorite.”
A fourth.
“And four. You leave with Freddy alone, and Sun and I stay here on standby. This is the worst option. You’d be out there with only one protector, and you’re in no condition to run, fight, or even stay upright for long.”
Moon lowered his hand and let the silence settle.
Gregory stared at the floor, his fingers picking nervously at the edge of his gauze. His voice was small but steady, “I can’t move right now,” he admitted with a bitter undertone, “I lost too much blood. If I stand up or try to run, I’m gonna faint. And Freddy’s probably freaking out since I can’t talk to him through my Fazwatch.”
He hesitated, then looked up at Moon with tired uncertainty, “Can we do option two?”
Moon studied him for a moment. He took note of the pallor, the tremor in his hands, and the way he was trying so hard to sit upright despite his body begging him not to.
He hummed thoughtfully, “Sure thing. Option two it is.”
He rose to his feet and crossed back to the security desk, pulling up the camera feeds again. Chica had wandered off, glitching her way down the far hall. Freddy, however, was still planted right outside the daycare doors, pacing back and forth like a worried parent.
Moon sighed heavily, his permanent grin taking on a sharper, more calculating quality as he glanced back at the kid.
“Alright. Let’s get Freddy inside.”