In which some World's Best Dad mugs are well-earned, and some are not.

September 30th, 1980

Charlie was not the kind of kid who waited for her birthday.

Other kids knew the routine. You made a list a few weeks before, sat in quietly (or loudly) mounting excitement while you tried to ignore your parents very obviously wrapping your presents, and then you opened them all in one glorious burst of surprise. Charlie knew that routine as well, in theory, but in her mind, 'routine' was just another word for 'that thing they do at school where they make everything boring'.

Charlie abhorred boring things. She learned the word 'abhor' two months ago, and, like any kid handed a new big word, put it to good use.

Her nearly-five years of life had been spent training, carefully honing the skills necessary to become a master of present-peeking. So far, she hadn't quite reached that point yet – last birthday, she had gotten as far as spying on her parents to find the hiding place, only for her quest to be tragically cut short by them choosing the top shelf of their closet, safely out of reach of curious toddler hands.

This time, though, things would be different.

She had waited patiently until midnight, which was quite the feat for her, when she was sure everyone else was asleep. Then, she silently slipped out of her bedroom, crept downstairs, and pilfered the garage keys from the kitchen counter.

Things would be different this time, because Charlie was already sure of what her present was. Dad was working on something in his workshop, something big. Whatever it was, from her eavesdropping she had discovered a few things – it was nearly complete, and would be done in about two weeks. Just in time for her birthday. He made her toys pretty often, but this was much bigger than any toy she'd ever seen. To her, there seemed to be only one option.

Dad was making her a robot.

Honestly, that revelation validated her effort pretty well, but present-peeking was a matter of principle. And anyway, she wanted to see what it looked like.

She put the keys into the lock, struggling to turn them. Dad always said not to go in the workshop unless he was there, since there was a lot of clutter and she could easily hurt herself on something, but she largely disregarded the warnings. To her, the garage was a magical place, like Santa's workshop all year round. The robots came from there, as did some of her friends' most treasured toys, and most of her own toys. Nothing bad could happen there.

Charlie quietly pushed open the door and stepped inside, flicking on the light switch. The clutter was even worse than the last time she had been inside. Empty boxes and discarded spare parts littered the floor around a person-sized wooden box, painted to look like a blue present. And standing inside the box -

For a moment, she couldn't help but be intimidated by just how much taller it was than her.

Its body was at least twice her height, and eerily slender. Its outer layer was black fabric, with three large, decorative white buttons on its chest, and a hypnotic pattern of white stripes along its thin arms. Instead of a face, it had a gleaming white porcelain mask, painted like a clown's makeup and frozen in a wide smile.

It was amazing.

In that moment, Charlie couldn't have waited for her birthday if you paid her. If this wasn't done yet, what would it look like when it was? What would it look like when it was moving, doing... whatever it was supposed to do?

She stepped forward in wonder. Her special green wristband, the one that, according to Dad, made it so his machines could see her properly, entered the one-meter detection range he had been using for testing.

The Puppet – she had no idea if it had an actual name, but that one popped into her head as soon as she saw it – hummed faintly as it activated. A pair of bright green LED lights flickered on in the black eye-holes of its mask, in place of pupils, and aimed themselves at her in an approximation of eye contact.

A very uncharacteristic thought fell into Charlie's head, slipped down her spine, and skidded to a halt somewhere around her stomach.

I'm going to get in so much trouble for this.

"Um, hello?"

Its head tilted to one side as it stared silently at her. The mask didn't allow for any change in expression, but she got the distinct feeling that it was regarding her with curiosity.

"Are you what Dad's been making?" The head-tilt angle increased a little, but it didn't say anything. "I'm Charlie. What's your name?"

No response. "Can you talk?" Still nothing, but the eyes dimmed a little.

"That's okay." Charlie smiled up at the Puppet, getting back into her stride, her original excitement beginning to reignite. "Sammy doesn't like to talk much, and everyone says I talk enough for both of us. Do you want to be friends?"

There was a pause. The girl and the machine stared at each other, and then it began to move.

It moved like an old-fashioned cartoon character, its limbs bending like rubber, without any obvious joints. It remained silent as it grasped the edge of the box with six long, black fingers, but as it bent over, the movement of its back made a faint tick-tick-tick, like a wind-up toy.

The clown-masked machine reached out to her...

… and a spider-like hand affectionately brushed the top of her head.

September 30th, 1983

It stood there, deactivated, lifeless.

It had no eyelids to close, because its eyes didn't need eyelids. Its eyes were a camera and a light, underneath a thin layer of white plastic, with a picture of a blue iris painted on.

This morning, the paint was blue. Now, the paint was a far more familiar green.

William Afton's disapproving frown didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I did warn you, Elizabeth."

A/N Guess who's back! I went through a whole damn character arc in my break, and reacquired an old hyperfixation. Probably a bad time, but hey, that's the intention of this fic – to beat canon with a stick until it gets better.