The First Darkness

November 1st, 2031

Through the morning it felt the hum of contentment which made its interior very much match its exterior. It loved. It loved the work, as it loved them—the little ones. Watching them, listening to them, and steering them through the daily activities of its daycare made it seem as if its many motors, servos and processors sang with a warmth and light.

After an hour of so of free play time, Sun had called out and brought all the kids into the center to form a massive ring. Sorting, trading, shifting them about until it finally learned the quick little groupings of friendships already made amongst them, and letting them be satisfied with where they sat in the circle before initiating the game. "Duck-Duck-Goose", one of the games it was programmed to know automatically. Of course, it could have chosen "Tag", "Hide-and-Seek", "Hot Potato", "Four Corners", any number of the easier improv games of making up songs or story bits at a time, but for the first day it was eager to try "Duck-Duck-Goose". For one, the name was the most amusing to it. Based on the game's rules, it extrapolated that geese were animals very given to giving chase, and the mental image that line of thought gave it made it keep giggling to itself.

Little Jessie was unusually clumsy, even for the age of three. Sun identified a problem with this early on in the group game; the other kids, of course, weren't being malicious about it, but only trying to call "goose" on someone they hoped they could outrun. After sending her to the middle for the third time, it resolved to let itself be caught. It made long steps, comically light and "sneaking" despite the kids snickering in anticipation of it tagging someone. Finally, when it tapped her on the head and began to wind up to flee it made sure to run bent double. This severely limited its stride, and the three-year-old began to catch up with its duck-like retreat with determined huffs. With a few feet to go, she clamped onto the puffy pants hem of one leg, and it made a great show of flopping over with limbs sprawled out in all directions. Once it pulled itself back upright it scooped the tiny girl up into a giddy hug, and sent itself to the middle. As it detected a few of the older children beginning to lose interest it called the game, letting its charges run off and play on the equipment freely for another short while.

It had other things in mind now. 10 a.m. was nearing! 10 a.m. meant arts and crafts would commence. Arts and crafts it knew fondly already. It caught itself wriggling its torso and neck joints in a curt mini-dance as it brought back to mind the night Mr. Jobe had introduced it to sheets of stickers. Foil, holographic stickers; Space Chicas and Space-Captain Foxys and shooting stars and flying saucers in dazzling, shifting colors. The daycare worker named Elsa was looking their way as it bounded towards the corner of the security desk; as it drew up and stood taller it surveilled her face, noting raised brow, wider eyes. Confused! She'd likely seen its spontaneous dance; humans were also not mind-readers, of course, so they had not a scrap of blame in them for her reaction.

"Hello, Elsa," it bobbed its head up higher with the warm greeting, "The art supplies are stashed somewhere over here, yes?"

"Yeah," she nodded, uncrossing her legs and leaning down from her seat. Rummaging from the shelves on the backside of the desk console drew its gaze; amongst the papery sounds were those of plastic—tubular—knocking hollow against each other and piquing its interest. The sound of markers knocking together. Or glue sticks. She dug out some of the plastic mesh baskets. At lightning speed it hunched closer and took stock: Teal for markers (washable), red for the sticker sheets, yellow for glues and the like, purple for a number of miscellaneous yet wonderful things. With a pair of polymer-tipped fingers it flipped through several packages of sticky-backed rhinestones, googly eyes, sparkly and non-sparkly pipe cleaners in rainbow colors, and a lone little tube of shimmery gel.

"Mh!" It tilted its face askew, plucking it up and popping it together with the glues, "Only one glitter glue, and only in gold. We're gonna run out of this in no time."

"We'll get more," She was smiling at it. Her tone was bubbly, unstrained. Sun took care to balance the four trays in a tower and scoop it into a one-handed grip, taking the stack of construction paper in the other as she handed it their way. An urge to smile flooded it; it was, as always, grinning in a wide arc already, but it did think of a different smile.

"Thank you, thank you!" It spun on its soft-slippered heels, causing a sharp tng-tng! of bells. Once the raw materials were laid out on the three big round tables the arts and crafts hour could commence: Not all of the kids were that interested, but a round dozen clustered up to the tables as soon as Sun called on them, using a bright green sheet of paper as a flag to catch their attention. Management had not quite the confidence to supply it any scissors, not even "safety scissors", so early in the running, so collages nor paper puppets or paper dolls were an option. Drawings, then. Drawings were soothing. Drawings were fun. An easy place to begin. It led by example, of course, making one of its own while arching its neck joints over to observe the creation of the little ones who'd claimed the tiny chairs either side of it. River—4 years, shouldn't be shown strobes or flashes—favored Bonnie and it showed in the sold blue, long-eared form appearing on the center of her drawing. The Daycare Attendant chuckled and patted her on top of the head as she pointed out the gigantic ruby-red fake jewel she had stuck onto 2D-Bonnie's bowtie. Jackson, on the other hand, was very close to turning 5, ADHD, allergic to bees should that ever come up within the Pizzaplex, and had crowded his sheet of paper with dinosaurs. Many a Stegosaurus, most of them with tremendous purple and red back spikes. He'd gifted each of them "real eyes", as he'd said it. Googly eyes, which made the assortment of beasts all look rather distracted with each other.

Once 11 a.m. ticked over it was "snack time". It was a "snack" in name only—part of attending the daycare included not only being entertained and exposed to softer skills than most education gave these days, but having other needs met as well. Elsa and another of the human workers took over for a short while, ushering the children up the ramps and to the small series of party rooms where pizzas, chips, Fizzy Faz ™ and other goodies were laid out for them. While they settled and ate, Sun busied itself clearing away the art supplies and sorting them back into their proper baskets—the drawings themselves laid out in proud display on the tabletops where it craned over and admired them a moment longer. Such playful uses of colors! So many different interests! Such, er, chaos on a page! Gentle chaos. That was it. It wondered if maybe that blending was what it found so pleasant about this particular subset of its programs.

"Hey," It jolted from its metacognitive evaluation, turning to see Elsa standing in the playzone's doorway, giving it a puzzled stare. "It's after noon now. There's a dark hour starting at 12:30, right?"

"Ah—yes! Yes," it straightened and stepped away from the artwork. Nap time. It did not have much chance in the weeks prior to practice the dark-mode protocols, though much of the guiding script as well as general directives for such a setting were drilled irremovably into its mechanical memory. "Would you help me get things ready, please! The mats are in that closet next to the theater, I think. Unless someone moved them. D'ya know where the pillows and blankets got put?"

"Security desk, other side." She was squinting over it now; Sun faltered for a second—it didn't know how to register this emotion. Tired? No—too much muscle tension, especially in the shoulders. Cranky? Perhaps! It was so much harder to read these adults, though, even when they weren't trying to hide anything. "Err… how many should I grab?"

"Thirty-seven!" It answered without a pause, "We need exactly thirty-seven of each. Plus some plushies, on request. I can handle that in a moment, so not to worry!"

"I wasn't worried," she snorted—it was a laugh.

"Oh!" Sun head rotated slightly. A relief—but one that left a nagging doubt. Doubt? Was that what this was on her face? The robot's eyelids gave a few swift flicks, resetting its lighting focus. Annoying. It stood with its legs fully straightened and quite suddenly towered a foot over the fellow worker's head, even without extending its jointed neck. It could ponder exactly what Elsa was doubting later; for now, it had responsibilities, "If you could handle the blankets and pillows I'll just run up and fetch those mats."

Before she could much object it loped past her and decided against the switchback of ramp in favor of a running leap up the elevation. Its grip caught upon the top of the railing and held firm as it somersaulted its body up and over; good, good!—thankfully this safety feature was up to code, being one of the few places where Fazbear Entertainment hadn't shaved off some quality to retain profit.

The mats were each about twenty pounds. Soft and plush and new (though their water-resistant exteriors were a tad squeaky still) and rolled up with a Velcro strap. Sun/Moon juggled them up, wedging and stacking beneath its arms, between arms and torso, until it could no longer fit more. At about eight at a time, it did not take that many trips before it had the naptime supplies laid out in the foam-padded spaces near to the decorated inner wall. Elsa seemed distressed by something—though Sun could not imagine what. It had sprung down amongst the folded blankets and small, toddler-size pillows just in time for her to be finished gathering them up, to take a break.

"Hoo, dear," it approached after it had finished dropping the last of the thick mat rolls with hefty thunks, one finger raised as if scratching at a chin it did not technically have, "Are you feeling okay, friend?"

"Y-yeah, sure," she was, very oddly, staring into the mat pile. Trying to develop lasers for eyes, it joked to itself. "Fine. I'm fine." Sun followed her eyeline exactly; a thorough scan confirmed this. They were fine, things were ready.

"Very good! Very good!" Stretching upwards, it strained its visual capacities towards the overhead lighting—well above the scaffolding intended to catch its trick wire (and in fact caged by it to avoid any misfires causing a bulb shatter). "Who is in charge of lights?"

"Susan. She's back in the control room," she pointed towards the wall which sat between the open play area and the back areas near the theater. "Uh, so… speaking of the nap period, I have a question."

"Yes?"

"You're sun-themed, so… won't this get confusing for the kids?"

"Ohoh—you'll see!" Right! The lights would go off! It would be dark—and when it was dark the moon would come out!

"Well, that's not ominous…" she snickered. The Daycare Attendant let its face spin a full rotation despite detecting the woman's sarcasm. She naturally wouldn't be nearly as excited for their dark-mode's first real application as itself, but something about her quip seemed like a secret anxiety. It lowered its frame a touch, wrists rhythmically flicking, creating soft jingles of background noise for its musings.

"It isn't! I swear—it isn't," it cocked its head and emitted a low giggle, "It's a surprise—a good one. It's one of my features—I change!" It giggled a little louder, "And when I do, you'll get a break. Sounds good, hm?"

She answered in the affirmative, but Sun retained the suspicion she either had no clear opinion or was hiding unease. Little figures were trickling back into the playzone like ants returning home to hill anyhow, and it decided to leave the grown-up's side in favor of joining River, Jackson, and a handful of others in complementing each other's artworks. In a few moments, Sun made a head count and found all the small guests on file were back within the bounds of its domain. Time was near.

Light and springy, the robotic caretaker bounded up to the top of a trio of stacked noisemaker cans where it spread its arms upwards with effortless balance. Young heads turning at the display, Sun's voice rang out but with a decidedly drowsier tone creeping in:

"Alright, Superstars—it's afternoon." Its head tilted aside and down, addressing them directly, "How was the pizza? Cheesy, huh? Sounds like me!

"Aha—alright, alright, enough goofin' from me. I dunno about you but I think I feel a bit cloud creeping over," making languid mimicry of several arm and neck stretches, it nodded over towards the readied mats and blankets, "Perfect timing! A little cloudy weather is just right for a nap. We all need one after such a busy morning."

Jessie, being three, squawked in protest as she tottered towards its tower.

"Now, now, it's okay!" Sun crouched down on the perch, reaching and giving a light rustle to her hair with the padded tips of its fingers, "Everybody needs to rest sometime—and there'll be the whole afternoon left to play once nap time is over!" But Jessie kept reaching up as if to grab a tight hold of her mechanical playmate, and being held at a distance by one of Sun's outstretched hands lest she end up disrupting the tower and ended up hurting herself. The Daycare Attendant scrutinized her distressed features, and felt something in itself soften. The overhead lighting was being dimmed already; it began to feel some subroutines coming closer to reach, and use, and it patted the whimpering child's head more softly. Perhaps it was lucky; the sheer energy and constant flicker of focus of Sun Mode was making the words it was trying to find to rectify the toddler's fears so hard to parse out, but Moon Mode was activating. Moon Mode was made to soothe:

"I know, I know, you don't like the dark—that's okay! You'll be safe here, I promise," Jessie sniffled, relenting her press forward as Sun let her grab tightly onto its smooth, padded palm instead. "I'll still be here! You know the sun still shines even at night—it's just under the covers. That's it, get your blankie. Good girl," It straightened back up, the dimmer lights now almost entirely darkened. Arms spread back out, low and drawing the eyes of the huddled children back to them. "I'll be right back—I've got to get changed!"

Darkness had set in; the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets adorning the walls and hanging from light cables in the rafters threw their soft neon blues and greens and colors in-between over the playgrounds and tables. The Daycare Attendant's attire was already shifting to match: The deep maroon stripes faded out, the bright yellow transmuted to an evening-sky blue, the pale gold stars outlined themselves and popped out as if by magic. The pale beigey tones on its arms and body changed too—the electroconductive polymer encasing them flowing from light to dark—a blue even more saturated than on its clothes. Finally, some switch clicked inside its head casing, and it revolved its face in a slow sweep. The sun rays popped inside their dormant slots, clockwise and one at a time, as the brighter half of its face darkened, obscured. Now, only the off-white crescent stood out, and with a dull spng! its nightcap flopped out again, stars finally matching the rest of it. Moon's eyelids shuttered briefly, visible now as the sunny lighting of the spheroid eye protectors lost much of their brightness, hue sliding over to a pale blue, standing out and illuminating its facepiece no more than a night-light.

"Nap time, little ones…" The spice was no longer in its voice settings, but the familiar voice it was. Calm and collected, and happy in a different way—half contented sigh and half lullaby. Those toddlers who seemed most upset by the prospect of being left alone in the dark seemed relieved; the Moon bent backwards and made an elegant acrobatic toll to the ground, a soft jingling of bells as it caught itself on its feet and crept out amongst its charges. It was fuzzy and ecstatic to find it could finally whisper—in daytime mode it could only affect a false one but still extremely audible—excellent for comedic effect but not for much else. Weaving between the clusters of dozy children, it took a few minutes just to ensure all were present and accounted for, tucking some in who needed it, repeating some gentle refrains of bedtime songs for others if it knew the tune asked for. It could sing more quietly too, which it was glad for. Some of the music in its pre-loaded memory it had found its Sun temperament unsuited for; appropriately, in the light they could belt it out with all the volume, pitch control, and fire of the band members—but only ever that, all forte, no piano.

It chuckled, and carefully shuffled Jessie back to her pillow after just finishing the first verse of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star". She'd insisted in the way three-year-olds do that she wasn't tired. Now she was limp as a kitten, clinging onto the powder-blue, galaxy-printed fleece with both hands. Most of the other children were also asleep by now, with a handful lying more fitfully, but bleary-eyed, holding plushes or hiding themselves under their blankets and peeking out every so often to whisper or signal to another kid across from them. Moon kept a close eye on these, perching on one of the slide loops as if it were a comfy hammock.

About a half-hour into the napping period, Moon glanced past the far row of resting daycare attendees and felt its visual settings hitch. Completely unmoving, the Attendant fixed its worried stare out at exactly the point its sensors had tripped, and blinking to adjust its lens aperture it finally saw the cause. Barely standing out against the shadows piled against the daycare's open doorway was a figure of a small child, standing rigid at the gateway.

It raised into a frog crouch, spurred on by about four different subroutines at once: It thought of taking another head count, but decided against it in favor of time—sleepwalking in such youngsters was not on registry, but not outside of possibility. There were always surprising aspects of the new, tiny people that parental units would not know about. Crawling down the play-tubes to not ring its adorning bells too loudly, Moon began to lope up to the lone child and try to intercept before the poor thing harmed themselves.

"Sweetheart~" It cooed as it came within range where it could have scooped the little form up, slowing itself and coming to a silent halt. It blinked, proven wrong about the sleepwalking theory as it studied them: A little girl, it seemed, with shoulder-length black locks, and eyes wide open to meet its blue-lit gave with a distinctly unhappy look. "Sweetheart, come on back to your spot. Naptime isn't over yet…"

She glanced up and down, still standing stiff as a ramrod. Cold and almost disdainful of the robotic caretaker. Moon tilted its head and it shuttered its eyes several more times—it had struck them suddenly, as most of the rapid calculations it had to run did when things were not going exactly to program. It did not recognize this little one; meaning, she (it guessed) was not on record with the daycare.

"Oh dear," it raised its hands in a gesture of apology, "I'm sorry, little friend… I assumed you were part of the daycare's group. Did you want to join us after naptime?"

"No." The unknown child deigned to speak, with a strength of voice and a seething that Moon was rather taken aback by. She kept looking the Daycare Attendant up and down, pout deepening, "You're not her… What are you?"

"Hmm~?" Moon tried studying the youngster's face again; she was perhaps five or six, or maybe seven if she happened to be small for her age, and its sensors darted about the front of her faded dress and at the wrists of her clenched, tiny fists. Seeking any trace of identifying data, "I don't mind being called 'she' or 'her', friend, I have no preference… though, did you mean someone else? Are you looking for your mother? Or an older sister?" It started to reach out, blunted fingertips upturning to begin taking her small hand into its own, "I can take you to security, if you like. I'm sure they can find who you're—"

Moon's voice hiccupped in alarm; its arm was outstretched but holding no tiny fingers, as the child was a foot further away than it last recalled. She had whipped her arm away and dodged back, so it seemed.

"No," the deep, sad eyes flickered around. "Not them. I need her. You're not her. You're not even real."

There was a mechanical whirr; Moon's neck joint bobbing back at such a statement. Rude as it was, it was not something the Daycare Attendant was unprepared to hear, and the abrupt and willful air she'd said it with baffled it more. There was something in the dull voice which was next to tears that made Moon ignore this disregard of Rule Number One for the moment.

"Are you in trouble, little lamb?" It asked in a whisper, intrigued, "And if it's not too much to ask, may I have your name?"

She was silent a few seconds, looking down at the floor. Shame? Shame. The robot leaned closer, listened harder. Shame was not something that should spill out in such a torrent from one so young; it made them dread the worst.

"Cassidy." She sniffed. Her balled fists raised up, knuckles far too tight for comfort and not unclenching even as she wiped the backs of them against the damp trails rolling down her cheeks, "H-he won't let me leave."

"I… Cassidy, is it? Shh, it's alright," It reached out again, unable to stand not doing so, but its sensors felt a feather-lightness at her shoulders where there should be fabric of her sleeves, and errors flew before it could detect nothing—not numbness, but open air, as it watched its fingers gently pat the shaking shoulders. "He… he won't let you leave? Who is 'he'? Has he hurt you?" It paused, gathering its wits; steeling its tone to sound more sure of itself, to stay her fear from growing: "Please, tell me what you need."

"Help me."

Moon's voice faltered. It kicked its voice box back into use, beginning to try and promise the strange little child that they would try.

"Sun? Er, I mean, Moon?"

Its head swiveled to meet Elsa, who was padding over with a small keychain light and a slew of questions on her face. Its internal chronometer recognized with a jolt how long it had spent trying to reunite the girl with her family. Or at least, with somewhere she wished to be.

"Oh, thank goodness~" Moon half-stood with a relieved sigh, "You couldn't have come at a better time. I'm going to need some help to find out where this little one—"

"Uh, Moon..?" Elsa shone her dim light over the colorful foam squares in front of the robot. "What are you doing over here? The lights come back on in five minutes. You need to start making sure the kids don't get scared awake, y'know."

"Oh." Its optical lenses widened and narrowed in turns, trying to hone in on the empty shadowed space between its still-outstretched fingers. Gone like a breeze. They had difficulty computing a dashing child so fast, and in favor of not having any processors overheating it gave up the attempt. It peered back over to Elsa, "Of course, of course, but what about Cassidy?"

"Who?"

"Cassidy," The Daycare Attendant stood at full height, neck craning high to try and find sight or sound of the small girl in the yellow dress and black curls, "The child who was just here. She wasn't in my registry."

"I didn't see a kid," the daycare worker flashed her light around the entry area, which landed only on bounce zones and scattered toys.

"She was right here," Moon waved to the place in question, facepiece giving an involuntary tic in frustration. "Please, at least check with the security desk. The poor thing seemed lost, and in so much distress…"

"Hey, easy," Elsa let out a sigh. Tired, but not a contented tired—a frustrated tired. Tired of it, it understood. "Look, I didn't see a kid. What I saw was you scuttling into this corner and staring into thin air mumbling nonsense for a long time… are you sure you're working correctly?"

"I…" Moon brushed its hands over each other, head turning one way, then another, "I suppose… I suppose I can't rule out a visual error. Maybe…" But it shook its head, sharper than its modal settings would have liked, "Please, Elsa, please… malfunction or no, I just will not feel right without checking. Her name is Cassidy. If something happened to her because of an oversight…"

"Alright, fine," she relented, but Moon did not find much satisfaction in it. Still fraught with worries, it let her turn its shoulders to face the group of slumbering toddlers, "I'll pass on the word to security to be on the lookout for a lost girl. Just focus on looking after these kids. She slapped against the polymer-coated metal of its backplate, as if to shock a disobedient steer forward and into its pen, "And go see Leo after the last one signs out. It's the first day—glitches like that shouldn't happen."

"I will," Moon made off towards its duties, making it about five jangling steps before it was aware its own gait was very much sulking. Frustration, yes, it was a new experience. But it was built to be patient—to deal with frustration with warm thoughts and a learning brain. Denial of this sort from the innocent, it could handle—it could even enjoy, their assumptions and wrong-headed ideas amusing and their overcoming this silliness gratifying. River, for example, did not quite know the difference between the word "grotesque" and the name "Giuseppe"—thinking both were the former and needing a hard stop and a soft correction during introductions earlier.

But from adults, there was no excuse… She had been there, then vanished. But she had been there. For the yawning children's sake, it squashed down the frustration, for now. It could think on what this meant later.