Fame and Fortune

(December 15th, 2031)

The work of the conscious attractions began to settle into routines, as the lives of most new entities did. The Grand Opening was deemed a great success by management—having served a peak capacity of almost three thousand human beings on that first long day, staff were relieved to have found it… tolerable. Of course, snags did happen. This was a family entertainment center—essentially a massive indoor theme park—flaws, heated tempers from entitled guests, spills and technical bugs were going to be. Considering the most major of these, day one, was a stubborn error in the dining area's ordering systems to where the computers refused all attempts to order Rockstar Cherry flavor Fizzy Faz, most employees considered it a weight off their backs.

Over the first weeks, similar days followed. Overwhelming was the popularity of the twice-daily Main Stage Showtime—and crowds choked in denser and denser to see the Glamrock Band perform their half-hour set. Especially in the evening: 8 p.m. quickly became what greeters, line managers, and security detail would call "the witching hour". The consonant at the head of the operant word would change in time, as the demand rose, rose, blossomed skyward and the finite spaces in the seating areas and in the attraction queues were clogged. Not much operations could do; the West and East Arcades, the restaurants, the massive Monty's Gator Golf, Fazerblast Laster-tag Arena, Roxy Raceway and even the smaller attractions were built with a certain capacity—changes to this would take multi-month shutdowns and tens of millions that HQ was not ready to spend. Besides, so long as the teeming crowd was also a paying one, HQ was content with the hustle and continued cheering on their franchise's load-bearing elements.

Operations was managed by a man named Dave. Not much mattered about the look of Dave, save he very much looked and talked like the type who would be put in charge of the tough logistical decisions of a theme park, and would still believe (and brag to those in society he wished to impress) that he had a "fun job". As the Christmas season loomed, Dave had a bright idea to adjust the evening showtimes on the 24th and 25th. In theory, he wasn't doing anything terribly new. Unbeknownst to most higher positions with no head for the true technological marvel that was their performers, the Glamrock Band and the team of show handlers, sound mixers, and instrument techs had been modifying the set to suit the passing occasions for weeks. Dave wouldn't have known that; though he was on-site for many shows, he wasn't the listening type. Thus, harmlessly, he preened and puffed over his "unique" directive regarding the Christmas shows.

Less harmless was the other half of his changes:

"What'd ya say again?"

Summer had stopped on one of the unoccupied recording marks set up in the face characters' rehearsal studio, facing opposite the four robotic animal band members. The first to speak had been Rockstar Foxy; a six foot, ten inch tall crimson-red fox, this iteration of the Foxy character had finally dispensed with most of the pirate theming—but in favor of adopting an 80s "bad" sort of look. The portions of his casing meant to stand in as clothes were those of a black leather sleeveless jacket and black leather pants—"spikes" on the exaggerated shoulder-pads and studs on the tightly-cinched belt. He'd retained the gold hoop earrings, and one gold tooth, and the parrot. Sort of—Foxy's bird companion from last generation's series was reduced to an artistic rendition on his left arm. He'd let the electric keytar he'd been assigned to play in main performances fall slack, supported only by its strap over the shoulder, and his mechanical eyebrows dipped as low as they physically could. Summer sighed, glancing over the four but too worn out and done with the idea to look apologetic:

"Scheduling adjustment. The 8 p.m. is extended to a one-hour. That's all."

"An hour!" Foxy's jaw had hung open on its hinge, too exasperated and worked-up to trigger the affect of mouth movements for speaking. The robotic vulpine whipped around to the nearest band mate, as if for validation, which was Bonnie: "What kinda battery life those suits think we have? An' that's doubling up on songs—do they have set songs prepared for us ta rehearse or do we have to do everything?"

"Well, S'Christmas shows," Bonnie leaned out over where he sat with his bass guitar. Glamrock Bonnie—who still preferred "Bonnie Bunny" in accordance with his established slacker ethos—had been aesthetically shaped to fit an early punk look, with legs modified to have "ripped jeans" and a matching, heavily-patched and symbol-spattered "jean jacket". A bright red star marking outlined his left eye, matching the star shape of his shades. The blue bunny gave a heavy shrug, "I'm assumin' we'll be filling that time with stuff from the Christmas specials."

"D'we even have the sheets for the Christmas specials?" Foxy growled, rounding back on Summer and staring with paws out. She stepped back, snapping the lanyard around her neck and raising her voice.

"Settle down. I'm only here to let you know of the changes—I was not the brainiac behind this, okay?" She glared over towards the fox, uneasy about the aggressive tics appearing with greater frequency in his voice settings, never mind how ready he was the close distance when he got argumentative with the sound booth personnel: "And Foxy, you watch your tone. You're lucky no management guys are here today."

"Huh ho—'watch yer tone', is it?" The fox robot stepped back, but angled his eyelids down in an unmistakable sneer. One of his fingers idly tapped at a mid-B and a B-sharp on his keytar (though, unplugged at the moment, created no noise), "If only they'd made me with a proper five fingers…"

Chica turned away sharply, trying to suppress both embarrassment and a giggle-snort the fox's remark had triggered. Glamrock Freddy, standing rigid and uncomfortable amid the conflict, finally raised his paws.

"H-hey—Foxy, cool off, man. None of this is Summer's fault." The brown bear robot adjusted the floppy black necktie he'd been kitted out with instead of the earlier editions' snappy bowties. "I mean… we can all agree this is Dave's work, right?"

"True, it reeks of Dave," Foxy leveled an eye back over at the woman, "It was Dave, wuzn't it?"

"I can neither confirm or deny the involvement of any named management members," Summer threw up her hands before turning towards the exit, "But you can keep your suspicions about that asshole."

"Ugh…" Freddy shook his head, pacing back from his mark at the mic stand. He peered over to Chica as she fiddled with switches on her electric guitar, "So, anyone have any idea how we could get something half-appropriate to practice on short notice?"

"Ay, Matt?" Foxy had his own opinion, off towards the sound booth in big strides to pester the poor, innocent, also completely-ditched-ignorant sound tech on the matter. Bonnie slumped back, eyelids uneven and what little of his eyes still showed glazed over.

Chica's neck gave a twitchy, furtive rotation; the white chicken was the only girl in the band—as it had often been in the franchise she was part of replicating—and was coincidentally also the tallest of the band at a whopping seven foot three. She had big, green, dangling wedge earrings despite the lack of ears, and a fluttering up-do of simulated polymer hair despite being an animal which wouldn't have hair. These decorative extras rattled about as she leaned over and offered her idea more confidentially:

"It would have to wait 'til after hours," she sighed, "But maybe after maintenance I could get away for a few minutes. Longer, if you guys could stall for time for me."

"Why you?" Bonnie tilted his head.

"Well, it's gotta be one of us," Chica shrugged. "And really—can you see the staff just letting Foxy have a casual wander in the utilidors without any questions? And you two look like trucks compared to me. They hardly let you walk ten feet from your stations in the bowling alley and the laser-tag arena—I doubt they wouldn't think of stopping you either."

"Huhh," Bonnie put a paw over his forehead, "The feminine charm, is it?"

"Yes," Chica grumbled, looking back down to her instrument, "You two are better offstage than me anyways. When we get down to parts and service tonight, just do what you can to keep 'em talking. Make up some sensor issue. Doesn't matter, just buy me time and I'll see if I can arrange some help."

For those entertainers not part of the illustrious band, far less mind was paid to their travels either within their domains or the unseen areas of the complex—particularly once the activity on the customer side was winding down. Aside from the Daycare Attendant's especially unrestrainable nighttime movements, the others who fit the mold were just Roxanne Wolf and Montgomery Gator.

The alligator was the biggest by far—an inch taller than Chica and built with the hefty proportions of Bonnie and Freddy. Awkwardly he was designed to look like he wore gator-leather pants along with his bright red mohawk and wrap-around beach shades. He didn't feel too strongly about the implied skinning of his own kind, as that was not his own kind. Under plastic scales, he was metal. Though the pauses this design choice gave the more observant parents did make him chuckle a bit.

Gator Golf had emptied out around 10:30 p.m., and he let the handler on duty take the lead towards the utility entrance for this wing of the complex. Like a lot of the utilidors, this entrance was hidden with décor so that knowledgeable staff (and working bots) who knew of them could slip between zones by magic, but guests would not accidentally blunder into them—or be tempted by restricted entry signs. The handler pushed in one of the teeth on a poster of the golfing gator himself and the door rolled up, letting both pass into the less spacious, winding guts of the building. Monty waved off the low-wage teenager's offers to assist hooking him up inside the recharge station in the hallway immediately between minigolf course and daycare storage. He didn't need the help, and besides—minimum pay, minimum effort, amiright?—he'd joked with the kid. He didn't remember the guy's name. He'd had four different handlers breaking their tailbones to try and manage crowd interaction, pass-ticket scanning, and checking ride safety just that week. The part-times lasted about as long as a snowflake in the Florida wetland. And Monty couldn't blame 'em for taking the first check and going.

Once plugged-in, time seemed to pass not at all, or flit by at the snap of a few fingers. Worn out as he was, this was one of the latter times, and before he quite knew what was happening a sharp knocking against the plexiglass portal made him jolt. Peering through, he came face to face with Chica, who made a hurried little wave before shooting paranoid glances down each of the adjoining hallways.

"Chica? Whatcha doin' down this way?" Monty's voice echoed in the cylinder of metal over the electrical hum.

"Shh!" she raised up a finger, "I gotta be quick about this! You done there?"

"Yeah," he said as he stepped slightly forward and the paired plugs in his back disengaged. The door retracted inwards and he ducked slightly to poke his long snout through, bracing both claws on the exit, "The heck's goin' on?"

"Monty, I know you've got volume modulation," Chica pleaded as a distant grate clanking reached the hall, "Use it, please!"

"I am," the gator shuffled out, head twitching with flustered mood. He adjusted his shades down lower on his snout to get a clearer look at the dim surroundings, "What's this about? Y'said quick, so…"

"This is going to sound weird, but, er, do you maybe have anything music-related around? Specifically, Christmas music."

Whatcha need Christmas music for?"

"I swear, Montgomery, these rechargers do something to you," Chica slumped with her hands resting on each of Monty's broad shoulders, "We need it for the Christmas Eve show. We don't have long."

"Shouldn't th' sound crew have that stuff?"

"Should, but y'know," Chica's eyes rolled. They'd been made at the same time, but it was obvious now how much rougher the band members had it. The time being pushed and pushed and shuttled up to stage, down to parts and service, back to Rockstar Row, over to the rehearsal room, had worn away her more innocent view of their purpose. Poor Monty was a baby in comparison—a lucky little naïve baby. "You got anything? Sheet music's ideal, but I'll take anything. CDs. Old tapes. Anything where we could hear the parts, at least."

"I mean… I ain't really into the holiday spirit…" The gator winced. "The only music stuff I could getcha is the background tracks for the golf course. An those're, uhh…" With a claw, he nervously picked at the veneer layer of one of his most protuberant teeth, "…very Florida. Not Christmas."

"Damnit," Chica's voicebox buzzed, protesting her choice of words. She straightened up and put her hands on her hips, checking the halls again. "Roxy didn't have nothin' either. Where are we supposed to get this if the staff don't provide it?"

Monty cocked his head, and after a moment of getting his head together once down from the voltage fog he raised a claw towards the double-ended stairwell lit up at the farthest end of the main hall, "Well, there's another place to ask in." Chica turned about; not being permitted as much free reign in these passages, she had only just now followed the gator's pointing finger and noticed the hybrid sun-and-moon logo printed on the right side of the wall.

"Th… that thing?" Chica shivered, then adjusted her earring on the left side back into normal position, "N-not that I have anything against him, just, er, something about them really freaks me out…"

Monty gave an abrupt howl of hearty laughter, forgetting to muffle his volume once more. As the echoes died down and no human voices shouted out to reprimand them, the gator wheezed, "Alright! You're a seven-foot chicken in legwarmers—but go on!"

"H-he just… moves weird, okay?"

"Aww, c'mon, you're scared of old Moonbug? It's a peach, Chica, a real peach. C'mon, we can poke our heads up there and see what it's got." He beckoned Chica to follow him as he began to clump over towards the stairs switchbacking up to the backrooms of the daycare's theater, "Sunny hoards all kinda junk. Might be a music book or two in there we can borrow."

"And what if he… doesn't have any?" Chica hesitated, but finally drummed up her courage and clanked after Monty rather than be left by herself in the gloomy halls.

"Ooh, he can get you something, I'm sure," Monty snickered as his heavy frame began rattling up the grate staircases, "Give 'em a good idea of what you need and I guarantee ya, if it exists and Moonbug can reach it, you'll be getting' it sometime in th' next twenty-four hours."

"Ugh."

Leo had no kids; he neither wanted them, nor knew too much about them, and as he knelt in his last task of the day he wondered how his "patient" could remain so faithful to their care, so unfazed by what he was… well, winkling out of the crevices on its poor face casing. It was a rare closing period for the Daycare Attendant where it slumped onto its now nest of cushions and stray plushies while still in Sun Mode. Its eyes shuttered and unlit, the top button on its chest glowing a pale blue, and an extension cord half-spooled on the floor beside it, plugged into the outlet beneath its lower torso plating. The technician had been at this for the better part of an hour, since Sun had swung itself back into the castle and collapsed into Sleep Mode. He chucked another large Q-tip into the waste bin and took up another. Dipped into a bottle of 70% isopropyl alcohol, these were the tools to have to gently remove the day's worth of grubby little fingerprints and the dull spatters of stray fingerpaints without wearing too hard on its own new paint coating. Leo focused now on the protruding sunrays; with a tissue just dampened with the cleaning solution, he swept over each and made certain the week's worth of old glitter and dust was removed, and each could retract and spring back out with a fingertip's pressure, applying, releasing. He groaned and sealed up the bottle before hauling himself to his feet.

"Well, you look half-decent again!" Leo sighed. Already a month and a half had flown by, and here he was still doing hygiene for the poor robot. It had been Moon who, after picking up on their handler's exhausted fumbling in the second week of November, suggested asking to have a small vanity mirror installed somewhere in its room—so it could attend to its own grime and glue stains. The request had been filed the next day. And here was the next month. Sheepish and waiting.

"Alright, I'm off," Leo stowed the remaindered Q-tips and the alcohol cleanser in one of the jumbled storage totes next to the tube to the exit. "Good night, buddy. See you in the morning."

Chica and Monty had almost stolen into the hallway between the back of the daycare storage and the theater when they heard the hidden doorway slide open and a man stumble out amidst a sigh and a jangle of keys. The bird grabbed onto the gator by his upper arm and yanked him back around the corner before the tall, lanky man with the scrubby ponytail passed them by through the double-doors. Thankfully for them, Leo's double shift that day had him unable to spot the two massive robots plastering the wall in the stairwell, trying not to move or blink or make the slightest of metallic creaks.

"He's gone," Monty came unglued from the corner, holding the door open for the both of them and poking his snout through in case of further exhausted daycare personnel. "Let's go."

"How do we get in there?"

"Watch this—" Monty's tone grinned and he swelled up his chest. Since the opening day, the plain pass-door into Sun/Moon's chambers had been disguised by an extra-large movie poster for Foxy's Pirate Adventure. The gator's claws skated over the thick canvas print, seeking out the hidden switches to press that would unlock access. These switches made no noise, no indication they were engaged, but all happened to fall under the four main characters' eyes. As the door beeped and slid back open, the big gator winked at Chica, "For future reference. In case you ever need to get back in here."

Chica clamped her beak shut, not wanting to disparage the idea in such proximity to the room's… occupant. She nodded and followed much more light-footed as Monty lumbered inside.

"Hey—my main man, Moonbug! You got a minute?"

"Um," Chica, glancing past Monty's obstructing shoulders, took stock of the jester's lair and noticed right away the lack of the jester. In comparison to her own "green room" in Rockstar Row, the place was a pointed contrast. And not entirely in a negative sense. The floors were plain wood, the walls were devoid of glitzy lighting features or branded posters but were far from being bare. Several children's drawings were hung on the wall above what looked like an extra segment of play place tubing embedded into the surface: Another smaller room seemed to be beyond it. Split into a lower section and a loft leading onto the high balcony, the elevation didn't seem to make much difference in the organization of the items within. That organization strategy was, she guessed, "immediately post-whirlwind". The "whirlwind" in question was likely the Daycare Attendant itself, and so despite what looked at first to be utter discord was after a moment's reflection the look of being lived-in. Not at all like the prim and sterile viewing boxes. Like her own and her friends' display cases.

Amongst the extra playpen sections and toddler chairs, bins of art supplies and semi-circles of various toys and plushies, Chica pointed out the obvious: "I don't think he's here…"

"Eh?" Monty tipped a miniature house forward so he could peer over past it, as if the gangly jester might be huddled back there. "It ain't closing time yet—Sunny's always somewhere in here until midnight…"

"Y'know, maybe this is fine," Chica fidgeted as her gaze wandered over some of the bins of paper, noticing some packets and soft booklets that just might be the sort of texts to contain sheet music. "We could just find something here and… like, leave a note for it."

"Well, it'd be easier t' just ask 'em." Monty picked at a jutting tooth. "But I don't think Moony'd mind so long as ya don't mix anything up. I'll leaf through some of this one if you'll find somethin' to write a note with…" With that, the gator crouched down by a bin containing a wide assortment of… matter, and began picking carefully through—seeking titles on small books and any indication of Christmas-y happenings on other items. Chica restrained a sigh, not in the slightest bit relaxed by her plan but at least calm enough to make her way towards a box on a tiny chair which looked stuffed with leftover scrap paper from some crafts project or other. She plucked out a somewhat off-center cut rectangle, figuring it would be enough space for a note but not an important piece, and was casting around on the floor nearby for any sign of something to write with. There had to be tape around here, too, or pushpins judging by the ones being used to pin up several childrens' crafts, though she didn't see any tape dispensers or pin containers yet. She'd just write down whatever music they could find first down along with a promise to return it and leave that stuck up somewhere the hypermobile creature could easily notice. As the bird robot scooped up a stray blue marker from behind a seated Bonnie plushie she flinched at the unexplainable prickle crawling down her metal spine. Paranoia—she rattled with a slight shudder and stood back up to hurry and be done.

Her head paused halfway to its towering destination; her vision had locked onto the form exactly level with her eyes, some instinct finding the eyes and sticking there. Still in solar attire, the Daycare Attendant looked to have been halfway emerged from the play-tube between this room and the next, but had paused in a few seconds of silent regard. Fully horizontal, disproportionally long hands and fingers grasped either side of the portal as it had stopped in mid-level-crawl, bizarre neck joints extended to arc over her and then to pull back and face her as she rose. It had become a staring contest that she knew she'd lose. Did it… have eyelids? Just thinking about that made her unable to blink and her beak hang open slightly.

"Aah, Chica..!"

When the lanky robot jester surged forward and its strange large hands planted against the floor a few feet from her, the band's guitarist was shocked out of her paralyzed state, reeling backwards and making a sound not unlike that of a flesh-and-blood chicken. As it brought its legs clear of the secret tunnel it also whipped them up over its head—standing up with a whirr of revolving joints from entirely the wrong direction. Understandably, Chica tried to gain more distance in the small room, and tripped backwards as her foot caught on a stray cushion block. She crashed back into a clustered barricade of several more of them—jarring one of the fold-out tables nearby in the process and spilling a mesh container of glue tubes.

"A-ack!" It threw up its hands in a flinch, the sun rays in its head giving a wave of twitches, before bounding over to where she was struggling to get upright against the padded, pliable prison. She looked up to see the dreaded daycare clown looming over her, hands outstretched, nightmarish grin right in her face. It twitched and shifted its weight, bird-like from the confusion of having its orderly chaos disturbed but also having one of its fellow entertainers still floundering in front of it. "Sorry, sorry! I thought you'd seen me and—and—Oh, geez, oh, what a mess, uh, uh—h-here, let me help you up!" The chicken cringed back by instinct as the long, creepy hands reached out to be within inches of her shoulders, halting just short of grabbing on and waiting. Waiting? For what? She jolted back into consciousness with a sound half-squeak and half-hiccup:

"U-uh… wha—?" Her eyes finally wandered to look past the jester and noted with a flare of anger and embarrassment what Monty was up to: Leaning on the steel railing of the upper "loft" area, the gator had one claw over the end of his snout, holding jaws together as if to hold back the snickering. Suddenly, her voice came back to her clearly: "Thank you…"

She had half-wondered how the spindly creature was going to make good on its offer when the digits clamped her upper arms and made a smooth pull upright. She was standing on her own two feet before her inertial stabilizers quite knew it; with a wobble, she faced the bizarre sun-faced entity, alarmed to find its eyes still level with hers. It had never quite sunk in before now how very similar in size the thing was to the large robotic animals. How diminutive children were not terrified into hiding from it on first meeting was a mystery to Chica.

"Sunny!" Monty came tromping down the narrow stairs back to the lower area, thick arms spread wide in greeting, "where ya been? Didn't see ya in here."

"Oh—I was still sleeping!" To Chica's relief, the Daycare Attendant's attention switched over to the huge gator. It pointed towards the section of tube it had crawled from before launching into a short skip towards the heftier robot and latching onto him in a vice-like hug. Monty grunted in surprise—though whether at being hugged itself or at the sheer power of the invited snuggle, Chica couldn't tell. Sun revolved its head as it disengaged, switching between the two in turn as it chattered on, "Ahh, if I'd known you'd be visiting me for a change I would've tidied up some. Did Leo let you in? Oh, wait, no, it's far too close to closing time, he'd have gone home by now. Oh well—so what's the occasion?"

"No problem, don't worry 'bout mess." Monty chuckled, "We don't get enough mess of our own, y'know. We were just comin' by to ask you a favor."

"A favor?" Its gaze flicked back over to Chica and she suppressed a shiver. Looking about for something to do that might excuse moving away from the daycare robot, she spied the spilled glue tubes and crouched down to begin scooping them up. "Oho—gladly! What is it you need, friends?" Its head tilted to a near ninety degrees, studying the chicken's nervous gathering of scattered crafts supplies, "… was it glue?"

"Naw, not glue. Music stuff actually." Monty tipped his head towards the avian robot as she finished setting the glue container back upright, its contents returned. "Staff sprung an extra bit to their show but didn't give 'em anything to practice with. You happen to have any sheet music or like… old albums of Christmas music tucked away that we could borrow?"

The Daycare Attendant straightened up, head ticking in concentration as its fingertips tapped together. "Yes, yes, Christmas music… I had some here," it sighed, voice turning about as disgruntled as it could in daytime mode.

"…Had?" Chica peeped, her shoulders starting to sink, "Er… what happened?"

"They took it yesterday," Sun sniffed, huddling over and propping an already heavily-played-with Freddy plush back onto the extra toddler stool by the corner, "Very rudely, I might add! Didn't ask for them, just came in and demanded it all. I assumed it would be given to you also… though, I guess not!"

"Shucks…" Monty stumped down one foot, watching the jester robot fiddle with the sitting postures of several plush toys—including one of himself.

"Is it—erk," Chica jumped in place as Sun's head revolved around backwards as she spoke. "Is it possible… you could get that stuff back for us? I-if it's not too much to ask—I know you're kinda b-busy after closing…"

"Too much to ask? No, no, dear Chica!" It chuckled warmly as it turned its torso around partway to match its head and made a placating wave of its hands, though seemed to detect her unease and did not bother with rotating its legs the proper way around in order to step nearer, "It'll be time for my rounds anyways very soon—I can get a few of the nicest music booklet thingies back for you." With a twitch and a craning of its neck, Sun paused to squint upwards at the string of bulb lighting overhead, wound through the rafters.

"You know where they are?" Monty picked at the base of his plastic mohawk, eyes open wide and impressed. In reply, the Daycare Attendant giggled and its head bobbed eagerly. At that moment, their internal clocks ticked over midnight. Each knew this internally by programming so complex it was all but robotic reflex—but externally the gator and bird were shown this was so rather directly: Sun's cheerful, pale yellow eye covers made a soft hum and click as the friendly lighting switched off, leaving nothing to brighten the dark mechanical voids of its ocular parts but two beady points of red over its visual sensors.

"Yes, yes—" It nodded again, movements much sharper, more focused as its security protocols kicked on. Chica shifted her weight as the red lights panned over her, "I know just where to look. Ah, and I really ought to be patrolling now! While I'm at it!—would you two do something for me?"

"D-do something for—?" Chica half-choked as she pulled herself together. This was the Daycare Attendant she was most familiar with, though with dark mode also on and at a much lower volume. Sun or Moon—there was no mistaking the calculation in the flickering red dots affixed in the frozen grinning mask when the midnight hour chimed.

"If you would," Sun bowed down lower as they indicated the persistent lighting, making itself appear much smaller but doing no favors in reducing the intimidation factor it held with the guitarist, "before you go, please shut off the lights in the daycare. Master switch's in the smaller room around the corner, towards the theater," it climbed at an alarming, skittering speed straight up the loft wall until it had perched like a bizarre cave animal on the narrow steel railing, a short throaty cackle accompanying its continued rambling, "Huhuhu, Leo must've forgotten to. Silly man. It's not a huge deal—I just prefer being Moon for after-hours! Sun settings plus Security is much too much, much too… restless, yes, that's it!"

"I… see what you mean," Chica muttered. "W-we'll do that for you."

"And thanks f'r sayin' hi, Moonbug!" The big gator winked, "We'll leave ya to it then."

The Daycare Attendant giggled, its neck joints arcing back over its lowered shoulders so it could shoot Chica a final smiling glance:

"I'll see you later on tonight, then~!"

Springing forward, the robotic caretaker pounced onto its balcony, landed on its palms, and pushed itself off the edge into the empty daycare's play zone. There was a clatter of hollow plastic and an echoing howl of laughter to announce it had landed in the ball pit, followed by receding jingles of it making its way towards the atrium. The avian robot shuddered, adjusting an earring, before the gator shook his head in amusement and patted her jutting shoulder-pad.

"C'mon now, let's hit those lights," he teased. "Don't wanna disappoint the almighty Clown Guardian, do we?"

Chica huffed and gave the gator a playful shove—barely moving him due to his tremendous weight: "Oh, shut up!"

Indeed, the robotic jester knew very well what had become of the three paperback songbooks from its varied collection. The day before was the day Fritz had walked in on it and Leo during the cleaning-up hours and been the middle man for the "robbery": Demanding the music that contained any of the Christmas-themed medleys and specials, he had at least grudgingly explained himself. On Dave's orders he was to retrieve these materials and hand them off to an employee by the name of Rylee.

And Rylee was the young handler in charge of the immense robotic DJ of the proportionately massive Fazcade, and Moon had correctly presumed the music was for the Music Man to scan and replicate; working techno and upbeat rock versions of the melodies of "Jingle Bells" and "Let It Snow" into his tracks during the roughly twelve days surrounding the holiday made sense. How this task overruled the task of training the center-of-attention Glamrock Band for the holiday special features Sun/Moon couldn't exactly compute—then again, management decisions did not have much of a pattern of being ideal arrangements or logical ones.

Regardless, the music had ended up where it would be appreciated most, and conveniently under the purview of one who wouldn't brush the Daycare Attendant off or give it grief about its collector's habits. As it clambered over the crowd-control barricades of the main stage's mosh pit area on the way to the arcade's entrance it uttered a deep, sardonic chuckle. It was healthy to have hobbies, yes? Oh well—the bitterest of the grown folk could get bent about the hobby. It would find its trinkets and toys again anyways, regardless of where Fritz kept hiding them.

Crawling beneath the roll-up door, the Daycare Attendant was greeted by the deep grumbling snores and the ropey trailing lights of lime green, yellow-orange and hot pink coiling up the staircases and between the rows of deactivated cabinets. DJ Music Man was like itself—powered by the more advanced sugar batteries and having a Sleep Mode to assist in keeping him charged up. Obviously from the dapper spider-bot's great size he had quite a few more batteries in its rounded torso carapace, and took significantly longer to fill them back up. Moon was across the dance floor at a light prance and up the platform on which the DJ typically stayed—shoes jingling as it came to a halt by a thick white gloved hand nearly its own size. The DJ was in a leggy heap, freshly dusted off and snoring away. The robotic caretaker blinked and made the sound of a clicking tongue. How could the poor fellow make do with no pillow? A whole mattress was the perfect size, even. Mid-ponder, it lifted a few of the limp, padded fingers and let them thunk back down lightly.

"Oh, big disc jockey friend~" It crooned up towards the spider's auditory receptors. Even in Security programs, this felt a bit contrary to its purpose. The absurdity cut into its attempts to rouse the giant robot, and it snickered aloud as it moved on to tapping out the "Shave and a Haircut" rhythm on the side of his head casing with a fingertip. "Uhuhuhu~ C'mon, wakey, wakey—it's only me. I just need a minute to chat."

DJ Music Man's eyes were unlike any of the others—being simple arrangements of compound lenses, stark, shiny and black like those of a jumping spider. Perhaps the jumping spider ocular proportions were the wisest choice from a stance of avoiding arachnophobia's worst ravages, but the blank orbs gave no indication of when they were active. Moon could tell he'd woken up only from the harsh snort of an interrupted snore before the musical arachnid's head lifted up. His piano-key-like "teeth" gnashed back and forth in their housing in a yawn before he turned to stare down at the celestial creature.

"Hello there~" The Daycare Attendant purred and hopped up onto the DJ's nearby hand as if it were a piece of playground equipment, "Sorry to interrupt your nap, but I've been set on a quest of sorts. It's for the band—and I know you are the one to go to about music."

Music Man, despite the character he was made to replicate having one, had not been given a voice-box of his own: Probably due to either sizing issues for the parts, or to make the DJ less "intense" for an audience. He was, however, an effective communicator, particularly to the perceptions of a fellow robot. His colossal head tilted in an intrigued manner as he lifted the robotic caretaker a bit off the floor, the swirling magenta LCDs of his inner mouth panel blinking in a pattern of binary.

"Why, yes~" Moon replied, leaning down on its elbows, "This is exactly to do with those songs Rylee brought you. Would you happen to still have those?"

One of Music Man's other arms raised up, pointing up the spiral staircase towards where the arcade's security office was located, then slapping yet another hand lightly against his right headphone.

"Hoo… well, that sounds like the work of staff." The Daycare Attendant groaned, shaking its head. It was just beginning to calculate how it could possibly intercept its precious packets before they could be ruined in the underground waste heaps when the DJ held up his hand again, waggling a finger with a hopeful energy. Reading the code, Moon perked up; the music had already been scanned into Music Man's memory, so he still technically had it, physical paper copy or no. The security office had a printer as well, for paperwork purposes. "Aww, you'd make a new copy for me? That would be lovely… Though…" Its head rotated and neck tilted up, giving the distant glimpse of the security door a suspicious look, "There is still a guard manning this station at this hour, is there not?"

Music Man acknowledged this as he lowered the Daycare Attendant back to ground level and let it backflip off. But the gigantic spider-bot's flashing screen and finger-wags grew cheekier as he pointed out that the guard would not be an obstacle if he was lured away to another place—say, if a certain notorious trickster were to distract him long enough the DJ could link up to the network and collect the freshly-printed sheets of music.

Moon wriggled its fingertips and bounced in place, "Uhuhuhu~ Hehehe!~ Excellent idea… ohoho, not getting any earlier, and I'm sure you want to get back to your charging, so let's do this!~"

With a deep whirr of mechanical motors, the huge arachnid stood and backed himself into the access tunnel to prepare for the "heist"—not capable of laughter but holding up one finger in front of his keyboard teeth as he slipped back into the shadows within the walls. Mirth spilling out in the form of a low, devious snickering, the much smaller robot made for the staircase. It leaped and climbed along the tops of the railings for half the journey on only its hands—before somersaulting up a ramp section and flipping back up into its usual sneaking crouch.

The darkened half of its face poked around a cabinet for Melon Felons as it surveilled the security door and its barred viewing window. It could feel the laborious thuds of its less agile friend making his way upwards to the tunnel outlet on this level, and while it waited for the DJ to get into position it spied on the target. The security guard looked barely old enough for this job: Skinny, pale, scruffy, dark under-eye bags characteristic of a young person balancing university study and a work shift, the white button-up shirt and dark hat fitting on him like a coat hanger. Currently, he was leaned back in the swivel chair and gawking at the ceiling—bored out of his mind in the final hours of his shift.

Internally, it beamed. It wriggled its shoulder in anticipation; the Daycare Attendant did indeed have a ready remedy for boredom!—whether the poor college kid was prepared or not.

Dylan first heard a dull bang from the outer wall, which he ignored—the ventilation often made the odd muffled pop and clunk at random intervals, just the metal contracting or expanding with the boiler cutting on or off. Then, after a silence, he swore the long hours were taking their toll on his mind as a faint tingling of little bells drifted into his ears. He rubbed his eyes, but it didn't snap the tinny noises from reality: In fact, a few lighter thunks joined them, and for a moment he swiveled around in his chair to study the monitors at his station in case the sounds were some intruder. A draft swirled around his head, which he thought nothing of until something deep blue and streaked with cool grey shot down by his head and swiftly retracted back overhead.

"Wh—what the—" Dylan bolted from his seat and by his young years of conditioning pawed at a spot on his desk for his cellphone. His hand slapped down onto empty tabletop, and with terror melting into confusion he glanced up to the vent grate opened just overhead. He'd had no time to even question where his phone had gone before the red-eyed figure grinning down at him answered it for him: Dangling from one of its hands was the guard's phone—which the vent jester made sure Dylan knew as it gave the device a teasing wiggle very much out of the kid's reach:

"Naughty, naughty… mustn't be engrossed in screens for too long~" Moon chuckled and rotated its face upside down as the guard began to frantically jump and reach after the pilfered phone. "You'll lose track of time. And you'll strain your poor eyes...!"

"Gimme that back, you little freaky fuck," Dylan scrambled for something to stand on that would bring him anywhere close to the height Moon was taunting him from.

"Ooohoohoohoo, bad word, bad word…" The Daycare Attendant's tone filled with glee as it replied not only with words, but with retracting back into the blackness inside the vent, "Guess where your phone's going!~"

"No! Bad robot! Bad! Give it back!"

Slithering backwards out into the arcade's top tier, Moon paused for a moment right outside the narrow viewing port to toss the guard's phone from hand to hand where it was sure Dylan could see it. The desired result was obtained—and Dylan crashed out the security door having just barely time to grab his flashlight—and leaving the heavy barrier wide open behind him. The jester robot dodged aside with a mischievous skipping gait and made like a three-legged squirrel along the spiral staircase's railing. The guard's curses echoes through the Pizzaplex as the Daycare Attendant led him along on a merry chase—well, merry for one of them. Crabwalking, jumping from ceiling beam to the roofs of ticket booths, and prancing along just fast enough to keep ahead of the hapless youngster. Moon was quick to vacate the Fazcade entirely but circled around the Main Stage's entry aisle several times before hopping backwards up a set of escalators and winding the path through the ice cream parlor and the bowling alley.

"Over here~!" It had found a new escape route. Dylan had lost track of the Daycare Attendant for a few seconds and was panning across the bowling lanes. The flashlight flickered over the final lane and stopped on the illuminated toothy grin—poking out from behind the pins, and its owner stretching out the hand lightly shaking the "prize" for catching it. Dylan yelped in dismay as the robot withdrew, back into the recesses of the bowling alley's machinery and backrooms, and the guard fumed as he charged along towards the employee's access. The long way around.

Flattening itself to crawl clear of the pin resetting arms, Moon allowed itself one more deep chortle as it peered about the shadowy corridor's crates and shelves, stepping over the gutter that looped down towards the ball return's treads with a hand tapping at its chin. Decisions, decisions… Where to hide the guard's flashy little toy? Somewhere fair! The Daycare Attendant was not that incorrigible of a prankster. Must do it quickly, as it could already hear the furious cussing of the security guard making his way through the bowling alley's storage areas. Rummaging in a shelf, it peeled away a length of thin ribbon meant for tying off party balloons and secured a bit of it in a proper gift-wrap style around the phone, leaving a few feet of extra length to secure it from one of the overhead lighting supports. It snickered as it both heard and felt the vibrations of the door at the far end of the hall slam open just in time to leave the phone spinning in empty space just an inch or so beyond average human arm's reach. That should take him some time to figure out!

"Augh, you little..!" Moon sprang away before the remainder of his insult could reverberate down the corridor. By this time, Music Man could have connected and printed a heap of music copies for the band, and the robotic caretaker was eager to deliver. Especially since it may convince poor Chica that when it seemed pleased to see her, it was with the fondness of a child rushing to hug the one and only Chica the Chicken—and not rushing to grab the last chicken nugget.

It was picking its way back across the shimmery floor tiles in front of the main stage, admiring the neon-pink and green play of reflections across the place in the dark from the mood lights, when the voice made it freeze:

"Hi!"

Almost on all-fours, Moon's head pivoted sharply back over its shoulder; the huge space's echoes confounded their auditory sensors a few moments, made it difficult to tell which direction the little voice originated from. The smallness of it was an instant priority—worthy of halting all worries about the band's troubles and drawing up every searching protocol in its processors. Though calm and friendly in tone, there was no doubt it belonged to a child, and of the same age range the Daycare Attendant dealt with on a daily basis. No human of that description belonged here at this late hour—and unattended.

"Hellooo~?" Moon clambered up to the top of a ticket taking booth near the elevators, scanning every which way with owl-like twists of the head. No matter where it looked, it found no sign of a pre-schooler, "Is somebody there? Come out, come out… it's well past your bedtime, so you ought to be home now."

The Daycare Attendant jolted in place, head snapping around directly behind as a mischievous giggle sounded close by. Scurrying to the edge, when it poked its head and fingertips over the awning Moon felt its nerves untighten—rewarded with the sight of the culprit. Flattened against the booth's side was a little one no older than six; wide smile and eyes creased in a cheeky expression meeting the robot's glowing sensors. Devoid of fear—even knowing she had been caught, and apparently unbothered by the childcare robot's kid-friendly facades being absent. It stretched its head out further for a better look. Something unusual about the unregistered child was her clothing: Moon had not yet encountered any kids wearing the flowery overalls and green plastic hairclips like hers, even with the Pizzaplex's 80s throwback energy.

It hesitated a half-second; nothing could make its confidence around the children waver much in the daytime hours, dark or light. It knew what it was doing and often knew the proper thing to do better than its human coworkers—or at least, was less willing to slack or be frustrated with the right procedures. But it had no metric to compare such an encounter to. They were not meant to come into contact with and nurture children after closing time ticked over at all. Interactions with adults and even some with its mechanical fellows gave it every hint its appearance was… perhaps not so fit for nurturing once the clock chimed. It must act as if walking on eggshells—or on a high wire—this little girl was smiling now, but that fortunate circumstance might change.

With its head tilt purposely slowed to be as natural and smooth as possible, Moon spoke in as soft a voice as it could muster without its normal dark setting to facilitate volume and tone for it: "There you are~ Goodness, you're up late, aren't you?"

She merely giggled, pushing herself flatter against the booth to better "hide". The tension in Moon's frame slackened further; seemed they still had it, the spark that (err, mostly) earned quick trust and/or fascination from the five-and-unders. Moon let out a low, husky chortle—there was perhaps no need to bother this child with any frightening, serious details. There was likely a way to coax her safely to the security personnel at the main office without such risk; leaning out from the booth's awning roof further, its blue fingertips waved in a little beckoning gesture.

"Come on now, no need to hide… What is your name, little lamb?"

With a truly devilish giggle now, the girl flounced out from the wall and into the open, stopping after a few feet and chirping up at the bewildered robot, "If you wanna know, you gotta catch me!"

"C… catch you?" Its head rocked back on its neck's joints; that was unexpected—cooperation, with a dash of complete carefree disregard for her precarious position, unclaimed and unsupervised in the Pizzaplex. Before Moon could put together further questions she had already tore off. Soft slaps of tiny sneakers squeaking across the freshly-cleaned, new floors accompanied the dull buzz of confused thoughts before the Daycare Attendant snapped back into precise modal focus. She mustn't be let wander. Dangerous. So, it would have to catch her, inadvertently playing her game. Come to think of it, if she was playing with it, then she was not wailing and shrinking away and crying for her parents to come get her. Anything was preferable to that.

Taking the space between the ticket booth and the dining area tables on the east side in a few acrobatic bounds, it very nearly forgot to slow itself up, soften the metallic klng! of its landing palms-first on tile and furniture alike. There was no rush. An adult human could not outpace it, so a small child should be easy to catch up to. And it reminded itself to scamper after the echoing giggles warily—lest it bolt too quickly and risk trampling the poor thing.

Moon rounded the corner and leaped up the stairway to the elevated lanes in front of attraction entryways, pausing to shift from foot to foot and gauge the escapee's direction. Puzzlement gripped it as the raised plaza area returned… nothing. That couldn't be right. The girl's trajectory would have her still in full view, probably not even to the Monty Golf doorway just yet. It dropped into a quadrupedal posture, head revolving to study the undersides of the few tables and confectionary carts still positioned here on the off chance it had missed a hiding form. Nothing.

"You're it!"

Moon's processor functions nearly hitched and froze for a split-second as the cheerful shout turned its head.

"You gotta catch me! C'mon, I'm in here!"

The Daycare Attendant blinked, swivelling sharply to give chase. The little girl was standing just inside one of the red double doors usually secured by a 3rd-level pass, but she somehow had it propped open and her head poking out to reveal herself. How had she gotten behind them? But there was no time. It lunged over the walkway railing, snickering as if under its breath. A sneaky one, this girl. She had ducked back into the dark corridor, and Moon lashed out to snag the edge of the door in time to avoid having to rescan its own security clearances. The door whipped fully open to unveil the blur of her dashing form already rounding a corner to the right.

"Slow down..!" Its chuckles were wheezy—truly out of shock and a new sprout of worry but with the sound of one out of breath from laughing, "Take it easy, little friend..! There hallways are not suited to running!"

Her response was a distant laugh, and the sound of tiny legs clambering up a utility stairwell. Moon tried to deduce where she was headed: The stairwell here led downwards into the connecting corridors between minigolf, daycare, and into the theater's basement storage—but upwards it opened into the halls of lockers used by employees at the MAZErcise and other elevated attractions on this side. Going up—the girl must be headed to the balcony at top level. The robotic caretaker vaulted the stair's railing and resorted to its swiftest means of rapid elevation; there was a soft hiss of the pressure building and releasing as it fired it wire up into the metal crossbars supporting the open column and a silky whirr as it reeled itself up to the balcony exit door in mere seconds. Once the grapnel spooled back in and latched back into its safe storage, Moon burst through once again expecting to be nearly on top of the young one.

The bead lights above the balcony twinkled above tables, chairs, and vending areas, throwing deep magenta and azure shadows over the empty tableau. A vent close by cut on, blowing a lukewarm air across the tiles and shifting a balled-up candy wrapper from where it had been wedged beside one of the Freddy-faced trash bins. It snatched the plastic tumbleweed and plunked it where it belonged by impulse as it scrutinized the area again. There must be an error—future Olympic sprinter or not, no child could run that fast.

"New friend?" At a low scuttle that wove between the seating areas, it began to cycle through a number of horrid possibilities. On this balcony it shouldn't be possible for a person so small to climb over the tall, sleek and solid railings, but… "I can't see where you went..! Please—play fairly..!"

"Down here!"

Moon panicked—hopping atop one of the end banisters by the balcony's corner and nearly overcorrecting backwards before it planted both palms alongside its slippers, grasping like a cat on a narrow fence. Assuming the worst it looked down, but was stunned and more relieved to find the little girl jumping in place and waving all the wall across the concert pit and main stage, very close to the Roxy Raceway ticket lines.

"You… you're awfully quick, little lamb!" It chose to say rather than add more heat to its processors.

"Thank you!" She made a bow. "Do the thing! Fly over to me!"

Humoring her seemed the best option still; Moon would have tried such a feat anyhow to close the tremendous distance, but now its head popped up with the hope that perhaps she'd be still for this and stop getting away from them. "Uhuhuhu~ Is that all? Alright—watch now!" It chose a crossbar of lighting scaffolding close by and hunched over tighter to angle the hook onto target. When it let fly this time, Moon tumbled forward from its perch and let the momentum of the swing carry it most of the way. The winch in its back whined and ratcheted as it let out more slack just as the tension in the wire increased: The illusion was that, at the apex of the Moon's rise its velocity slowed, appearing to float more and more lightly the closer it came to touching down. With a foot to go it unhooked the end of the cord and dropped to its feet, waiting a few long, anxious seconds as the winch rushed to draw the wire back where it belonged. Turning to the spot it had last spotted the girl it made a contented hum as it found her still there, rocking slightly on her heels and with a glint of playful energy still in her eye, but obedient at least.

"Well now, did you enjoy seeing that?" As she nodded the Daycare Attendant chanced another jingling pace closer, hands raising a touch in preparation to scoop the child into a firm hold, "Ah—ah—what about your name? I've caught you, just like you wanted."

"Have you?" She grinned, squatting in readiness to tear off again. Moon tensed a quarter-second later, arms outstretching in a lunge for her. Like one of the chittering heads in a whack-a-mole game she ducked down flat, and the Daycare Attendant tried to screech to a halt as it stumbled through the empty swipes, instantly afraid of the imminent trip hazard and possible fall on top of the poor thing. Throwing its extended arms forward to catch itself, it pivoted its hip joint over and rolled its entire torso to the side where it could not collide with her.

"Naughty little lamb…" it began to scold, but came to a sudden croaking stop as it peered back through the space between its arms. Below the arch of its body, where the kid must have dropped down, was shiny clean tile. Staying poised on its palms, its facial disc revolved twice around before jolting back to an upside-down position, "…little lamb? H-how..?"

With a half-suppressed snicker, the girl revealed herself by poking out from behind one of the trash bins next to the big rollup door leading into Rockstar Row. Its head spun a 180 just in time to catch the movement of her brown curls bobbing as she crawled under that door's gap. Flipping over to pursue, Moon scrambled on all-fours in its speedy, backwards-legged crabwalk in order to slide after her before the automatic door decided to start clanking back down.

"Ohoho, no you don't~" Moon spotted her flagging limbs as she darted around one of the bases of a display case to hide. They could hear the muffled giggles, even devolving into snorts, as it eyed the long rectangular case as they prowled along the side opposite the joyful noise—watchful for her to try bolting out from either end as it neared. "I can hear you, friend… and you are right… about…

"Here!~"

Moon's triumph transfigured in an instant to numb vexation—they loomed over the furthest corner of the display case, red-light pupils tracing over all the possible angles against which it should be seeing a huddled, diminutive form. But nothing—clean angles, and the child missing.

Until a soft snicker sounded from directly behind it.

"G-goodness…" The robotic caretaker turned itself about to face its odd playmate in slower, fluid movements, head ticking along a series of stopping points as it ruminated on physics—coming to the only remaining conclusion, "Goodness me… you are good at this, little one."

She clasped her hands behind her back, beaming and wiggling in place with pride. A healthy response to praise like this eased some of the puzzlement overclocking Moon's poor brain; at the very least she was well, if entirely outside the bounds of physical reality.

"I can't catch you, can I?" Intrigue joined the suppressed vexation in its voice as if lowered down into a squirrel-like squat, eye to eye with the lost child. "Though I hate to give up… I really must know your name, friend!"

"I'll tell you," she let her playful grin recede into a much gentler smile and held out her much-dwarfed hand to the jester, "if you follow me over there. I wanna show you something."

The Daycare Attendant didn't dare reject the offer of compromise. Clasping a few fingers almost twice over her curled palm was likely the only way to have any kind of hold on her; at a more ordinary, tottering pace she pulled it further along the inner curving wall of the museum, almost to the opposite end, before stopping near one of the sealed displays against the wall, between exit door and the Pirate Captain Foxy set pieces.

"This one," she pointed at the centermost item inside the case. "This one is my favorite."

Moon leaned further over her head to peer beyond the neon-color glare of the glass. Its eyes widened, recognizing a single remaining piece of its functional ancestor. A dull, eggshell-white mask lay now devoid of the fastenings and fabric and head armatures that once connected it to the head of the mechatronic puppet. The empty eyes and smile were joyful in shape—though the face itself was stained with what looked to be both age and soot, and the smooth finish on all the colored pieces of the rosy cheeks and under-eye stripes were spiderwebbed with cracks either from heat or pressure. Likely heat, as the char marks implied. Something about the disembodied face brought on a sense of interminable sadness. Perhaps it was the damage, and the sealed state of it. Being a museum piece implied it was kin with stuffed exotic animals, dry bones. Dead, and only a remnant. Or maybe it was that this piece was alone, the only signifier of the old Marionette character from the past decades.

"Oh," It was jostled from this pondering by the squeeze of the little arms enclosing its lower torso now in a hug. "You like the Marionette, hm?"

"So much," she nodded, squeezing tighter. "My dad made her, did you know that?"

"Did he?~" Moon gaze shifted over to her, processing new questions on mention of a parent, "I must say, I didn't know that. Hmm, is that why you're here after we're closed to the public? You're with your dad?"

"He's around here," she said glibly, looking up at it with utter childish confidence, "You don't have to worry—I'm not lost."

"Thank goodness…" As a robot, Moon did not breathe, but as it sighed it did appear to deflate as joints in its spine and neck loosened, "I'm glad you're not left alone here… though, I would feel much better knowing who you are," it gave a curious head-tilt, "and that you and your father check in with each other. It would be terribly irresponsible of me to not bring you somewhere safe!"

"I understand," she said, unlatching herself from the robotic caretaker in favor of interlacing her fingers with its own in a sure grip, "My name's Charlotte, but sometimes I go by Charlie too." As Moon stood back from the display, pleased to find her cooperative with being led along, she jerked her head towards the inner wall and interior of the complex in an excitable gesture, "You can just leave me at the main security room that's over there—I'll be okay there."

"Good, good…" It hummed, beginning with slow steps towards the red passcode doors which would take them both up a level, into the primary hub of nighttime employees. As they walked, it added, "Is your dad going to bring you along more in the future?"

"…He's here often." She said, though the jester could not miss the sly pause and vagueness in her tone. It blinked and considered she may not know that far in advance. Such was the planning usually afforded to children by their legal guardians.

"Well, if you happen to be over another time, feel free to come see me if you're bored, or especially if you end up by yourself." Moon smiled as it came to a halt at the top of the staircase, just outside one of the open magnetic doors, "Perhaps we can be good friends?"

"I'd like that," Charlotte tugged free of the handhold and scampered to the doorway, twisting to peek over her shoulder for a moment, "Bye for now!"

"Goodbye, Charlie~" It waved its fingertips, producing mechanical shucking noises, "See you soon..!~" With the mischievous giggle that she'd introduced herself with she disappeared into the central office.

The Daycare Attendant hummed to itself a few moments before it remembered with a start. Music Man, Chica, music sheets—not to mention the rest of its nighttime duties. It spied a vent it could use to make a shortcut back towards the sprawling West Arcade and sprang up the wall on its original mission.

It had not been long after her adventure into the seldom-seen Daycare area of the Pizzaplex that Chica's handler had stumbled across the avian robot trying to slip back to Parts and Services unnoticed. Despite what could not have been longer than a frantic five-minute runabout the middle-aged woman who called herself Candy all but exploded at the mechanical chicken towering a foot and a half over her, and Chica was led sheepishly back to her gilded cell without much chance—or much nerve—to come up with any excuse.

Hours later, the guitarist remained slumped inside the cotton-candy-pink hued box amongst the trappings of her fame. Amid the mic stands and amps, vanity counter and plush couch, single arcade cabinet and the adorable faux-neon "Chica Chicken" signature sign complete with a heart-shaped exterior were features the avian robot was less content with. Chief among them the Jenga tower of pizza boxes (clean and unused) in the corner with the wastebin, a decorative testament to Chica's adoration for all things consisting of tomato sauce, dough and shredded cheese. While true, the Chica present and physical sorely wished she were made with any capacity to act on those impulses, even feigning it safely for the benefit of guest witnesses. Any attempts she could make to taste pasta would be punished by her mechanical nature—her jaw joints gummed and locked, her voicebox sparked and threw out static garbage instead of clear notes. It might even lodge upwards, interfere with her ocular motors, and as little as she liked looking at some things in her space she considered it infinitely worse to be stuck looking at nothing at all. Hearing only—and still more than capable of olfactory detection, unable to escape the marinara and the mozzarella wafting through much of the central area of the complex.

Seated on her couch, she gave a jerky, worn-down blink as she struggled to concentrate on a tune to pick out on her guitar. Sound was bouncing through the ventilation passages winding through and between their rooms, and she found herself exhausted and distracted by figuring out whose noise was whose: Foxy was obvious—he was muttering words that were addled with electronic chirps and pops, words he was very much discouraged from saying by every inhibition chip in his memory boards. He was the designated "rebel" character, and the techs were now reaping the rewards of including such traits in a captive metal beast. Bonnie was who she was trying to focus on—noodling away at his bass in a similar manner to Chica. The slacker bunny was having a much easier time maintaining a rhythm of heavy G notes that on every fourth meter flowed up into Ds and Bs. He'd probably just stepped out of his recharging cylinder. He was good about topping himself off on the hour, whenever possible. The bassline was intermittently overpowered by the chimes and enthused grunts and growls of Freddy once again aggressively challenging the arcade hooked up in his room. He wasn't great at it—every few minutes a down-spiraling jingle announced another Game Over, usually paired with one of the forbidden words from the rockstar bear. He seemed routinely charged too. Chica felt one of her fingers slip off the neck of her guitar and made another arduous blink as she corrected. She'd charged after midnight, she was sure. How long ago was that, again? The chicken had never been great about remembering timed procedures—at least not without some eternal motivation. What normally inspired her more punctual adherence to recharge schedule was… the creature in the vents. A scuttle of fingers and soft slippers on the stainless steel, soft bells fluttering, and the two beads of red light staring out between the slats alongside the sing-song trill of the jester's usual greeting.

Through the mental fog, she suddenly recalled why the unsettling reminder was late this night. She set aside her guitar, no longer in the mood to practice. Now overdue, the Daycare Attendant's arrival was imminent, and unlike on the typical nights, this time it would come bearing gifts. Which meant it would not remain solely in the vent passage, speaking to her in passing, but would infiltrate the small case she called home.

It's okay though, she thought as she leaned upon her knees in her seat, shutting her eyes. I'm not really going to be alone. The others are right through that wall. It's not really dangerous, it doesn't mean to be scary, and it's only going to be in here for a minute. Her eyes cracked open, flicking over to the vent slats over the heavy security door into the back area, Maybe a minute. I think.

Her internal pep talk was interrupted. There it was, the barely audible shuffles and clicks in the vents. It was coming—and faster than usual.

"Huhuhuhu~" Despite the advance warning, Chica still jumped at the low chortle issuing from above her head. The vent behind her, rather than the one above the door; it had come in opposite order today. Chica assumed this was to better drop off the unsanctioned package before moving on to check in with the others.

"U-uh, h-hi again," the robotic guitarist planted her feet as she also turned to confirm the eerie robot's presence. Yes indeed—there was no mistaking the rounded blue fingers hooked over the grate's gaps or the red light tinting them. That should have been enough to propel her up from the couch, and at great speed, but instead she huffed and struggled to dredge up the energy before giving up, "M… Moondrop, right? I-I can call you Moondrop?"

"Oho, you may call me whatever you like, dear Chica," the Daycare Attendant's left hand came unhooked from the vent slat, and the avian robot pepped up as she made out the rustle of paper in the darkness, "I was a bit delayed, but I have a little something for you..!"

"Ah—the music," Chica stomped the crawling anxiety down for this, pulling herself up closer to the edge of the cushions. "You got it?"

"Yes, and then some." The glowing sensors turned askew. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"H—uh—no. Go ahead," she blurted, quite automatically, and realized with the squeak of screws coming loose and clattering into the duct that she was still very much directly in the agile creature's path. The grate flapped open; the Daycare Attendant twisted itself out from the shadows, a packet tucked tight under one arm and the other arm grabbing onto the back of the couch—a section over from Chica. With a flip forward, Moon landed with legs outstretched next to her.

"Hmm..!" It peered around at the plush red cushions, free hand smoothing over a slight wrinkle in the slick fabric before its head twitched back over to regard the frozen bird, "Ooh, this is nice… hmm, where were we? Right, right—your music..! How does this look?"

It passed the pamphlet, thick to the point of almost being a book and with fresh hole-punches tied with loops of the ribbons meant to tie off party balloons, and Chica flipped a few pages in to find several versions of instrumental parts for a song labelled "Freddy and Friends On Tour: Home for the Holidays Medley". "It's..!" She stammered, but not out of fear, "Oh, M-Moondrop, this is actually perfect..!"

"Uhu…uhuhu~" The robot caretaker might have turned pink—had it the circulatory system for it—and while its back arched tall its legs and fingers curled inwards. Chica made a mental note of this; praise was to this jester-bot as a break from the pizza smell was to the chicken. "I'm glad you like it!" Now," Head snapping around is it hopped from the couch, its lenses widened and narrowed in turn as it inspected the robot guitarist. It made a noise like clicking its tongue, "when was your last recharge? You look awfully low…"

"Uh… I'm not super sure—" She tried to remember again, one eyelid half closing. Her head slid to one side, too difficult to keep upright while her mind was on other things, "it was… a while after Monty and I came to see you… uhh…" Mid-thought she shook her head, trying to lean further forward to gain momentum to stand, but tilting a bit too far and having to catch herself against her knees.

"Ohh, Chica, Chica..!" Moon's fingers clamped around one of her arms as it sighed, "Come on, let me help you to your charging station. Let's leave the music here for now."

"I-I can walk, I swear!" She half-clucked, not quite awake enough to be fully panicking about the prospect of being hauled about by the grinning clown. It made no motion to drag her, but it did sidle closer and crouch down to wedge its shoulder beneath the arm it was holding. The full cluck was uttered as it straightened its legs—forcing Chica up onto her clawed feet with no obvious effort, "W—urh—ak! No no, really, you don't have to, I can get there myself..!"

"Shh, hush," The Daycare Attendant face the bird, dark mechanical eyelids half-hooded as their pupils hovered a foot apart, "Your battery levels are below fifteen percent, young lady. Any lower and you might hurt yourself. There we go, easy—" With the lankier being balancing for her, Chica clenched her beak and began to steer over to the security door, pausing to let the jester switch to one foot, extending the other to press the control like a slow-motion karate kick, "—time for a nap~"

"S-sorry," she muttered, once the plugs hooked into the slots hidden on her back, the hum of power running beginning to bring her cognitive abilities back, "I get… I get kinda cranky. I should really be thanking you better."

"It's fine~" It whispered, sliding the curved door shut in a swift motion, adding the new barrier between the two robots. "You are no trouble at all, especially compared to my usual. Uhuhu!~"

"Still, I should know better." She groaned, watching the jester retreat back a few paces through the plexiglass. It bounced up and perched itself on one of the storage crates, crosslegged, staring back until it cocked its head slowly, contemplative.

"You are afraid of me, yes?" It said, and she was stunned by how relaxed and matter-of-fact its tone stayed, "How could I blame you for that sort of behavior, knowing that?"

"You… you can tell that?"

Moon chuckled, momentarily closing its eyelids and blotting out the glowing points, "Your moods are not what I'd call subtle."

"Sorry…"

"No need. So long as I can assist you when you need it, this doesn't bother me. Though~" Its head bobbed up, revolving in the other direction, "At any other time, please do let me know if I'm being… too much..! I'll leave you be~"

"Oh. That's—that's very nice of you," Chica blinked. She checked her charge level. Barely over thirty percent. Surely it was not going to sit there and watch the entire time?—Perhaps she would have to exercise this type of request much sooner than expected, "Th-thank you."

"No problem." Fortunately for Chica's nerves, it seemed the Daycare Attendant was already on the move; straightening its posture suddenly and making the small bell on the end of its cap clink against its jointed neck, "I'd best be going to see the others now..!~ And perhaps check in on Charlotte before it gets too late, hm." It hopped down, pausing for a second to wave through the viewing port, "And do let me know if you ever need anything else! Goo—ood night~"

Chica's beak had been slack for several seconds as the vent creature disappeared up into one again. The two halves clacked together as she composed herself. Something had seemed off about what the jester had said—but then again, maybe there was a Charlotte here. Chica was not exactly well-versed in all employee names, especially not when trying to think under half-power. The Daycare Attendant was bizarrely acute at nearly all aspects of its functions, and knowing who was who, who was where, and how each who was faring was exactly what it was for.

Then again, bizarrely acute was not the only descriptor—plain bizarre also worked. With the personality settings introducing such goofy wit, who know if it had named some of the gaming features by this point? Chica put it in the back of her mind, choosing instead to dip her head down and succumb to the electric hum in her brain—the closest she could come to rest.