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In all honesty, you’re not quite sure how you even ended up in the daycare.
It’s not as if you had anywhere particular in mind, so you could have ended up almost anywhere and would have been just as confused—but the daycare seemed… better. Quieter. It shut down a few hours before the rest of the facility so that it could be cleaned and prepared for the next business day, so it meant that all of the kids had been picked up; no screaming, no noises, no blaring horns or overdriven guitars.
It was quiet.
You needed quiet.
Whatever had set off the episode was a complete mystery, but the Pizzaplex had absolutely no shortage of sights, sounds and smells that would have set you tumbling over the edge of ‘okay’ and thoroughly into ‘spiraling anxiety attack’
Your chest was on fire, your thoughts were flying—no comfort came from the knowledge that you only had an hour or so left on your shift, and the general noise from the crowds still within the building only made you feel like you were suffocating. Not enough space, not enough air-
Not enough.
Whether by choice or fate of your footsteps, you slip through one of the back doors of the daycare so you can hide yourself away and lean against the wall. The supply rooms kept most of the extra toys and supplies and smelled too strongly of disinfectant to be perfect, but it was better than most options; even the bathrooms had speakers constantly pouring music and advertisements for one of the hundred things that the company wanted people to spend money on.
But none of that mattered right now.
Right now it is quiet and dark. You hadn’t bothered to turn the light on when you came into the room, so only the thin sliver of light from the hallway lit it up enough for you to find a sufficiently empty corner of the room to lean against the wall and slide down until you were sitting on the cold linoleum.
Nobody would find you here—you are safe. You are safe. You are safe.
The words echoed in your head, a fragile mantra to quell the vicious storm of thoughts and emotions sending a rapid heartbeat through your ears.
“ And just whooo might you be ?”
The voice, soft and almost lyrical, nearly made your heart stop. Before you could even try to hurry out and claim you’d made a mistake in finding the bathroom, there was already a presence kneeling beside you. The only light came through the bottom of the door and the small window out into the main daycare area, so couldn’t make out very much of the figure.
An animatronic—that much was obvious right off the bat by their size alone. Even crouched the figure was several feet high, towering over you with a lithe figure and looming red eyes that seemed to pierce through you. It didn't take more than a few moments to recognize them as the Daycare Attendant, the animatronic tasked with looking after the kids dropped off in the aforementioned daycare. You'd only seen them a few times, but weren't very familiar.
They... looked a little different from normal. Instead of a beaming face resembling a cartoonish sun, their face was divided by a crescent-shaped moon. There were some other minor differences, but it is their eyes that make you squirm beneath the gaze.
“S-sorry,” Is all you can stammer at first, voice shaky and quiet between shallow breaths. “I’m not—I’m just taking a b-break.”
The figure is silent for a few seconds, which at first is incredibly unnerving, at least until you realize they're looking at your chest—more specifically the employee ID card hanging from the lanyard around your neck. A moment passes, and you assume they're scanning the employee number on the front.
Finally they move, shifting fluidly so that they’re sitting cross-legged next to you, but it's the sound of your name that catches your attention most.
"Aren't you rather far from your station, little star?"
The endearment is one you've often heard within the daycare, a soft way to refer to the kids. And while you'd like to correct the animatronic on the diminutive nickname, something stops you. It... feels kinda nice.
"I..." the sound stills within your throat. Heart is still racing. "I work by the Fazcade."
"We know," they respond, words neither cold nor particularly comforting. "But you're nnnot supposed to be here. Naughty naughty."
They raise and waggle a finger in front of you as if they were scolding a child. You're not sure whether to feel offended or not by the gesture, but it's probably just because they're programmed to care for kids; and technically you really aren't supposed to be the dark storage room for a section of the building you weren't even assigned to.
"I'm sorry," the apology is repeated, and for a moment you worry if the daycare attendant is going to kick you out. "I'm not going to mess with anything, I just n-need a few moments."
The animatronic is silent, watching with that eerie gaze until you start to squirm again and your heartbeat picks up in tandem.
"I-... Everything was starting to get t-too loud, too... s-small."
"Sssmall?" the attendant inquired. Their low tone of voice carried a gentle note of concern.
Your eyes flick to the floor in something akin to embarrassment. How would an animatronic understand what an anxiety attack is? How do you even begin to explain the layers of emotion involved or how it makes your skin absolutely crawl at the thought of going back to that crowded noisy arcade for another entire hour?
Some time passes before you find the words to answer with. They're half-ready on your tongue when you look back up, but the daycare attendant has disappeared from where they had been sitting not even a minute before.
You blink.
Before the question of your sanity can even emerge from the murky pool of your inner thoughts, they return with a few quick, fluid steps. With one motion they sit down and reach out a closed hand towards you, something enclosed against their fingers and palm.
Extending a hand in turn is almost instinctual.
A heavy, metallic shape falls into your palm, a bit larger than a deck of cards.
"Turn it on," they say, tone low and raspy, but oddly comforting.
Though you fumble a bit in the low lighting, it doesn't take long for you to find a little toggle on the side of the item and click it over.
Slowly, softly, a tune begins to fill the air from your palms. It is very simple and bright, though it takes a few seconds for you to recognize the music and the item itself quickly after that.
"A music box?"
They were sold at the main entrance gift shop, but you had seen kids walking around with them after getting picked up from the daycare. Did they give them out? Why are they giving you one? The answer to the former is elusive, but the second one actually is quickly put to rest--the daycare attendant tilts their head quizzically to the side for a moment before letting out a low noise that you assume is akin to a chuckle. Can animatronics chuckle?
"Sssometimes the world is very scary," they say, a gentle hiss in the 'S' that you have to wonder is a verbal quirk or not, "but it's okay to be scared. It's very brave, in fact."
Ah. Another programmed response--again, you're not entirely surprised, given the fact that they have to care for children, so undoubtedly they had encountered something like this before.
A hand, much larger than your own and metallic, settles on the top of your head in a motion that, while surprising at first, feels rather nice.
"Didn't mean to frighten you," the attendant says, gently messaging their fingers against your head while trying not to mess up your hair. "This is... what often works for some of our wards."
Our? You certainly weren't in charge of any kids. The verbal error is quickly filed under the thoughts from before and largely forgotten as they continue to speak.
"Just focus on the musssic," they instruct, "and breathe slower. Don't worry about counting--nothing else exists right now little star. It is just you, me, and your little gift."
Quick, shallow breaths are hard to stop. It's as if your body is on overdrive, pulling itself by the strings from a complete and total meltdown.
But your chest begins to slow. Little by little. It doesn't help the racing thoughts in your brain or the feeling of being too cramped, but... it does help. The attendant coos at you in a low tone almost rhythmic against the repeating tune; normally you'd hate how the music cycled over and over again, but the repeated notes act almost like an anchor in the moment. Familiar. Safe. It is so tiny in your hands.
"Gooood," they hum. "You're doing a good job right nnnow, little star. Can you slow down that breathing a little more?"
Something inside you wants to follow the gentle instructions, so your breathing starts getting deeper, more prolonged and deliberate. At first it feels suffocating, but slowly... eventually... your heartbeat begins to even out to a healthy resting rate. The attendant presses their hand down a little more firmly on your head; not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pressure distinctly. To focus on.
"Safe."
The word seems to melt into the gentle tune still echoing in the dark, empty room.
"You are sssafe. Nothing is going to hurt you. Weee're... riiiight... heeere."
The words mimic the mantra you had been trying to focus on ironically just before they found you, and it continues for... you're not quite sure how long, actually.
Minutes? An hour? All you know is at some point your phone starts buzzing in your pocket with a text message, and that almost startles you back to reality--but not in a way that tosses you right back into your spiral of anxiety. No, when you lift your eyes up and finally find breath and voice, it's with a renewed sense of stability and assurance.
The daycare attendant simply meets your gaze, though the once red eyes seem less unnerving and more lulling, and you can only imagine that this version of the attendant is to help putting the kids down to nap during the day.
"...Thank you," you finally whisper, and they pull their hand back from your head. A quick glance at your phone reveals that while it hasn't been an entire hour, twenty minutes seemed long enough.
"You should return to your area, little star."
With a nod, you slowly get up onto your wobbly feet and try to take a step; somehow your ankle doesn't bend quite the way its supposed to in order to catch your weight, and you nearly tumble onto the floor.
Only nearly because the attendant catches you, hands carefully on your shoulders and applying just enough pressure to keep you from tripping over your own feet.
"Shit," the word fumbles awkwardly out of your mouth. "Th-thank you... sir?"
"An acceptable title of formality," they say, affirming at least one new fact about them. "But you may call me Moon."
The realization of the animatronic having a name is more surprising than the sudden shift from plural to singular pronouns. But why? All of the other animatronics in the Pizzaplex had names and personalities... why couldn't this one?
"I... Thank you then, Moon." It is a fitting name, at least. But did they give it to themselves? Or was it simply something assigned so that kids had something easier to say when talking to them?
After a few moments to make sure you wouldn't trip again, you follow the thin trail of light towards the door. Just about to turn the knob, Moon's voice stops you with the sound of your name.
Peering back, you can't see much of Moon's figure, but their eyes peek out of the darkness, and their voice carries with it such a genuine sense of warmth that it lingers for hours afterward.
"Make sure to return... if things ever feel too loud again."