Chapter Text
People in horror movies don't know how easy they have it.
For them, there's a clear start and finish to when the fear begins and ends; a change in lighting, a change in music, a sharp instrumental sting to accompany the equally sharp blade of a knife. But for you, here, the terror is nebulous; you can't see the creature stalking you, and you can't hear it, and nothing changes except the slow roll of cold sweat dripping down the hollow of your throat.
Real life is much, much scarier than a horror movie.
You don't know exactly how long you stand there, peering wide-eyed into the dark, but it's long enough that the shapes of the play structures around you start to sort of blur in your periphery, melting together into looming shadows that feel more oppressive than anything in a Daycare should have any right to be. You're almost too afraid to blink, and it stings your eyes, but-- but what if you do, and that's when it gets you?
Click. Click.
A gentle, mechanical sound.
This time, you see the creature again before it sees you, and you're not sure if that's better or worse.
Or, at least, it's not acting like it sees you; because you spot it there, directly ahead of you, only a couple dozen feet away, and it's just sort of...standing there, swaying slightly, like a flower in the breeze. Is it looking at you? You can't even tell. It's too dark, and you're too scared to move. All you can see is the silhouette; spindly and narrow, scarecrow-like in its proportions, and something about it manages to ping you as somehow familiar.
It takes you a long time (way too long) before the pieces finally click into place; it's the animatronic from the statue in the waiting room.
You can't tell which one, from here, but you don't suppose it matters-- you can only hope that it's friendly, given its former occupation.
Because why would a robot made to look after toddlers want to do anything to hurt you, after all, right?
...Right?
The robot turns.
It was not, as it turns out, looking at you this whole time; but now it is, now it's looking at you, a fact which is made obvious by the glowing red eyes that abruptly swivel towards you in the dark. Red? Why would they give it red eyes? It looks like something out of a nightmare.
And you can't help it; the sight is so startling that you squeak, just a little yip of sound that barely makes it past your lips.
It's quiet, but apparently it's still just enough to set the thing off.
The robot seems to tilt its head, those bright little eyes turning to the side-- and then its whole frame bows backwards, drooping like a puppet with cut strings, and you watch with dawning horror as it bends over completely backwards, Exorcist-style, and braces its hands on the floor right next to its feet.
You have just enough time to marvel at how upsettingly flexible this thing still is after its years of neglect before you hear a clack-clack-whirr and see the bot's entire head spin around-- like an owl's, like a plate on a pole in the circus-- and very sharply, the animatronic turns itself to face you again, with its entire torso upside-down and its head somehow right-side-up.
You yelp again, and this time it's closer to a scream.
It skitters towards you.
"Oh, fuck!"
Your attempt at escape is understandably graceless; you reel backwards, nearly upending the little plastic house you'd braced yourself against, and immediately trip over your own feet and go down like a sack of bricks.
Thankfully, the floor is padded, but that's a small comfort when you can hear the animatronic laughing as it closes in on you. Giggling. Like this is all funny. Like it thinks you're funny. That would probably sting your pride if you weren't so preoccupied with trying to remember how many hours it's going to be before anyone even thinks to come looking for your body.
"Don't hurt me!" you plead to it, even though that's a stupid thing to say and you've mocked characters on television for doing just the same. It's just reflexive, just like the way you cringe in on yourself and hold up your hands (either in defense or supplication, you're not really sure which), and you're honestly still too shocked by the whole thing to even cry, even as the robot descends upon you, all grimy metal and shining eyes.
It crawls over to your prone, shaking body like some kind of gigantic spider, spindly limbs shifting, twitching, touching, and you scrunch your eyes closed and wait for the blistering, blinding pain that you're sure must be coming, the kind of pain that must come from having all your limbs pulled off one by one.
You can feel the way it hovers over you, lingering for a long moment, and then there is a great weight bearing down on you, pressing onto you unevenly. You feel stiff metal arms close in around you and distinctly begin to squeeze, and they are startlingly warm to the touch, even through the fabric of your jacket.
It's going to crush you to death? A cruel and unusual punishment, from something that could surely snap your neck in an instant with those massive hands, but you suppose beggars can't be choosers here-- you just whimper, begging wordlessly for a swift end, and grit your teeth as that unyielding weight settles fully into your lap, pinning you to the floor.
You wait for the end.
You wait.
And you wait.
And...wait some more.
It doesn't come.
...There's no pain.
There's no pain?
You slowly crack open an eye.
There's something fuzzy pressing against your chin, and as you peek down at the animatronic through your lashes, you realize that it's wearing a nightcap; the Moon, then, it must be the Moon. The fabric of the hat is still soft, somehow, despite how long its owner has been left to fall to ruin; soft in the way a baby's blanket is, all well-worn and slightly threadbare, and it seems almost humorously at odds with how huge and frightening the rest of the animatronic is.
Strangely, though, the animatronic isn't hurting you.
You're not sure what the problem is.
It's squeezing you, sure-- pretty hard, in fact-- but it doesn't hurt, just makes you breathless, despite the weight of the thing where it's seated almost entirely on your lap. Its spindly limbs are all tucked up, and its head is lowered to press against your chest; its eyes casting a faint ruby glow on your sweaty skin where it apparently stares, unblinking, into the front of your jacket.
And it's...trembling.
Just a bit, but enough so for you to notice it.
The rush of breath that leaves you in reply is heavy enough to ruffle the damp hair that clings to your forehead, your terror softening to make way for a gradual sort of bewilderment.
The light shed by the animatronic's eyes still isn't really enough to see by, but it's at least enough to allow you to make out some details as you peer down at it in the dark. You can see the edges of its faceplate-- flat, for some reason, not like Chica's at all-- and the loops of wires that hang down behind its head, completely exposed and unprotected. It must have lost some parts after its abandonment, somewhere along the way, because you can't imagine that the company would have just left this thing's internal wiring exposed intentionally, not when it's practically screaming for a lawsuit to be filed on grounds of electrocution. Toddler hands are curious, and even the very best babysitters can't have eyes everywhere at once.
You wonder, somewhat dizzily, if having its circuits exposed like that hurts.
You sit there in silence for a while longer, and time moves by at a crawl.
It takes some doing to scrape your courage back together, but the robot is being so still that you'd almost think it had shut down completely, right here in your lap, if not for the muted hum of electronics you can still hear coming from inside of it. The stillness combined with the time that passes is enough to embolden you again, at least enough to slowly (very slowly) lower your hands; you hadn't realized you were still holding them up to your face until your shoulders start to burn.
Gently, carefully, you let your arms fall, and as you do so the insides of your wrists brush against the robot's narrow shoulders.
You expect it to lash out at you like a sprung jack-in-the-box-- but once again, the attack never comes.
The robot just tilts its head and looks up at you instead.
You have to crane your neck to really make eye contact, but what you see in the meager light shed by its eyes is enough to give you pause; you can see the filth and grime smeared across its faceplate, even in this dim light, clinging to the curve of its nose and the textured whorls of its cheeks. It's like Chica was, but somehow almost worse. Coated in dust, uneven layers of it, and if you squint you think you can make out streaks that look an awful lot like they've been left behind by hands-- like the thing had tried, once upon a time, to clean itself off with bare hands unsuited for the task.
Realization clicks into place with an unexpected ache.
This animatronic isn't attacking you.
It's hugging you. Clinging to you.
It's afraid. Or relieved, perhaps.
It's been abandoned, like the rest of this place; but unlike Chica, this one seems to be aware of that fact. And you might very well be the first human person it's seen since the Plex's doors closed for good.
Oh, god. Suddenly, you feel like you're going to be sick.
"H-hey," you speak up, barely more than a whisper, addressing it for the first time since you'd been begging it for your life, "Hey...you're okay. You're alright."
Hollow words, perhaps, but empty reassurances are better than none. You don't know exactly how long this animatronic has been alone, but instinct still spurs you to offer comfort, regardless of whether this thing hunched over in your lap is really even alive or not, much less truly conscious.
"You're...not so bad, are you?" you ask it, leaning away a little bit to try to see it better. And that prompts your first real response; a soft grumble of discontent, so human that it's almost startling, as the bot twists its hands into the fabric of your jacket and clings to you with a grip like a vice.
"Stop," the animatronic says, "Stay."
You freeze again, eyes wide in surprise, and allow the thing to pull you back in.
It can talk.
It can hear you! And, well, that was not the voice you were expecting, insofar as you were expecting anything at all.
It's a soft voice, a quiet one; a hush, you could call it, even with the animatronic so near that its breath would have ruffled your hair if it had possessed the ability to breathe. The sound is well-suited to the dark, and yet it makes your skin prickle, goosebumps rising on your flesh, at the edge of laughter it holds beneath the tone. There's nothing funny about this situation, but the thing still sounds like it's trying not to giggle-- it's disorienting, and it makes the fine hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
You lapse into silence again, weighing your options.
You can try to shove the bot off of you, but you're not sure you'll be strong enough to move it. Even curled up atop you so strangely, you can feel the weight of it bearing down on you, a steel frame far taller and stronger than you are, and you balk at the thought of trying to struggle against it. And what if you upset it by trying to move? This is much worse than upending a sleeping cat; the animatronic is holding you tight, clutching you in covetous hands, and whether it's acting aggressive right now or not, the fact remains that it has the potential to deal you some very real damage.
Which means that your other option isn't really an option at all.
It's just a choice that you don't really have.
It's the choice that you have to take.
So you stay where you are, and so does the robot.
It's uncomfortable, to say the least. You hadn't landed in a very good position in the first place, and now your weight is awkwardly thrown to one side, your left hip already aching from the uneven strain of cradling this animatronic in your lap. Your thighs are starting to go numb, and you can feel the tingle of it starting to work its way down your legs towards your toes, as well-- you don't know how much longer you can hold this position, in all honesty.
Antsy and anxious, your fingers twitch where your hands rest on the floor, and you finally shift, just slightly, just enough that you can raise your arms again to lay a very gentle hand on the animatronic's dusty back.
It's all that you can think to do, a wordless murmur leaving your lips as you rub a single, stilted circle-- and the animatronic goes as tense as a spring about to snap, its hands almost seeming to seize.
You can both hear and feel the way the seams on your jacket rrrrrip as the Moon pulls the fabric, its round face snapping up so quickly that it scares you, the shine of its eyes burning into yours. And you assume that you've made a misstep, that it doesn't want to be touched, that you've set it off and now you're going to pay with your pound of flesh, but...but, but. The thing doesn't strike. Still, it doesn't strike, even though you've clearly startled it, to the point that some unseen mechanism somewhere inside of it begins to make a horrible scraping sound.
The animatronic actually shudders, instead, and the dented little bell on the end of its nightcap chimes quietly with the motion, hanging down over its shoulder and bumping against your knuckles. The Moon honestly seems to sigh.
That narrow back arches, and the Moon presses itself back against your touch, against your sweaty fingers, begging for that contact with every line of its body.
The back of your throat burns. You are struck once more, unwillingly, with the knowledge that this thing was left alone here, in the dark; advanced artificial intelligence left to wither and rot like an abandoned dog tied to a post. It makes your eyes sting. It makes your face burn.
"You're okay," you say again, rubbing little circles on the animatronic's back, smearing dirt and dust along the plastic casing as you bring your other hand up to brush against its cheek, "You're okay, you're alright! Look, you're alright. Don't be scared."
In hindsight, it seems like an insane thing to say to something like this, but you can't help it; you're a bleeding heart, and your own fear takes a backseat to your need to caretake and comfort, even though your heart is still beating uncomfortably fast and you're starting to lose feeling in your toes.
There's a moment of hesitation as your thumb brushes the whorl of the Moon's cheek-- the robot's static faceplate doesn't lend itself well to emotion, but you catch its hesitance regardless-- but you keep at it, trying to soften your own gaze, even though you're squinting into the red light emitted from its eyes as you click your tongue at it, muttering reassurances while it grins up at you with all those big, blunt teeth.