Chapter Text
Tall, tall, tall.
You thought Sun and Moon were tall, but the thing in your house was nothing short of a behemoth.
You’re quite sure that this animatronic would stand over a head taller than Sun and Moon.
You stand still in its shadow, your heart gone cold.
That’s not Sun or Moon. The thing before you is completely unfamiliar. Aside from looking uncannily like Sun in a way, that is.
It doesn’t say anything. You don’t either.
You just… stare.
It’s built like the Attendants. Tall, slim, but you’d hazard to say that this one looks almost sickly. Exactly how a robot looks sick, you’re not sure, but you can imagine that if it were a human it would be hardly anything but skin and bones.
It is dressed plainly. Much too human. A black turtleneck sweater and khaki pants, and on top of that a white lab coat with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. As for shoes, it wears a pair of what appear to be black leather loafers. Its clothes are singed in areas and grey with ash but overall very intact.
It’s bizarre for something from FazCo. Their animatronics were so bright and eccentric and colorful, but this one before was simply… dull.
You don’t want to look at its face. You don’t think you can face this mistake.
Its hands. The yellow casing is the tone of something you find hidden in a basement after years. Lines of silver show where the hands have been scratched and the paint has chipped to reveal the metallic material under it. The sharpened tips of the fingers are without paint. You cannot tell if it is intentional or if the paint was meticulously picked off.
You can’t face it. You can’t face it. You can’t face it.
Looking at its face will prove it, you feel. Prove that you did not rescue your friends. You can’t, you cant, you can’t.
You abandoned them.
You got the wrong robot.
“...Are you alright?” You flinch as you hear its voicebox crackle to life. Softspoken, the voice itself is higher pitched than you would have expected from an animatronic so large. Much like Sun’s voice, you think, albeit lacking his volume or the nasally quality he tended to speak with. It talks. Of course it talks.
Are you cruel for calling it an it?
You don’t answer it, but you do finally crane your neck up to look at its face.
Its rays are torn up, chips and dents littering them, especially the lower ones. One ray even has the tip of it broken off. They are sharp and jagged and you cannot help but think of how many times Sun was kept from getting his rays in such a state.
Red is such a pretty color, but you cannot help but feel sickened by it as bloated red irises with pinprick pupils gleam down at you like some awful mockery of your Moonie.
Moon, oh Moon, god he must still be trapped in the fire. Your throat constricts, and the hands of fault only squeeze tighter and tighter as the seconds tick by.
How could you do that to them?
The animatronic’s face is just as scratched up as its hands are. The crescent pattern is that same sullen, sad shade of yellow, while the other half seems to have had any paint chipped off to reveal silver. But you are keenly aware that it is not metal.
Its face moves. You had once heard discussions of giving the Attendants new faces, silicone and able to emote. Mouths and tongues so they could mime eating with the children. All to make them less frightening.
The animatronic before you is the most frightening thing you could have seen.
Strapped to its face is a muzzle. Leather, four straps going between rays where the bases had been broken enough that the straps can sit flush with the faceplate’s edges. On the front is an opening with metal bars like you’d see on a dog’s muzzle.
You can see its mouth, pulled into an awkward line, and really all you can do is stare.
You got the wrong robot.
Sun and Moon are still in the Pizzaplex. They’re still in the building that is actively in flames. They aren’t safe, you didn’t save them, your friends are effectively dead.
Can you even do anything? It’s much too late for you to go back. You doubt you could get in safely or even successfully get them out.
You…
You left them to die.
All because of a mistake. A mere accident. Something that, in any other situation, could have been so small and insignificant.
The animatronic merely waits for your response.
It does not get one.
It shuffles in place, hands coming together as it starts to fiddle. The movement is too familiar. How many times did you see Sun do just that when he started getting nervous?
Really, in the worst of ways, the robot before you looks like Sun. The rays, the fidgeting, the color of its casing. It looked like if someone had taken Sunny, made him scarier, and just… forgotten him somewhere.
Neglected.
Your heart is pounding.
You feel like prey under the garnet gaze of the thing in front of you.
Something, some part of you screams that you need to run.
It isn’t Sun. It isn’t Moon. It isn’t even some weird version of Eclipse. Because of it, because of you your friends are dead or dying and there isn’t anything you can do about it other than stand there and shake while white noise screams in your ears.
The animatronic’s brows pinch. It’s not your Sunny. Sunny can’t move his face like that.
Sunny is dead.
Something in you blares when the animatronic bends down, taking a slight step closer to you.
You’re very sure you let out some kind of scream, but all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears as you bolt to your room.
You feel like prey.
Sunny is dead.
Sunny is dead.
Sunny is dead.
===
The sound of a door slamming is entirely unfamiliar to him. He is careful with doors. Careful, careful, careful, as one must be with all things, no matter how poorly the situation may seem.
Delicacy is the key to success. Patience is the love of the delicate.
He is… worried, though.
He’d never seen fire. Never seen such a large expanse of space, either, much less that much space filled up with smoke and flame and the tender smell of ash.
He’d never been grabbed by the hand. He’d never been pulled out of danger. He’d never been under the seemingly infinite expanse of the sky where he felt he could stand and stare for the rest of his days.
He knew what a car was, vaguely. He’d never seen one. Never been in one. He’s sure he must have spent the entire ride keenly listening to the inner workings of it. He’d love to see a diagram. Or perhaps look through the vehicle himself, should he be given permission.
If not, there are other things in which he can learn about.
Knowledge is so very limited when your space is limited.
Ah, but knowledge should not take precedence at the moment.
He was saved from a fire. He is built to be rather resistant but silicone and metal can melt, 392-degrees Fahrenheit for the silicone. A shame he does not know the exact composition of the metal used to make him, then he would know his melting point entirely.
A fire allowed him to escape his enclosure. He was saved from a fire. A fire in which he likely would have died or at least been severely damaged in, if he stayed. He was put into a car and driven away from the establishment that he had never exited, and had never even seen outside of his given space. He was brought into what he can only presume is your home and was promptly stared at in horror.
There are many factors that could have caused that last event.
He shall list his theories.
- His appearance. He is aware he is shocking, at the very least.
- Post-Traumatic Stress. Not necessarily the disorder, but he might need to keep an eye out for further symptoms. Humans are fragile and fire is dangerous, thus rushing into a fire is most likely quite traumatic.
He is tempted to make another point to list another theory, but truthfully he has run out of ideas.
A very rare case for Doctor-
Doctor… Doctor -...
He shakes his head.
Communication is key. He shall make an effort to communicate.
Hearing his steps on wooden flooring is interesting. He has long been used to the sound of his shoes on concrete or tile. The sound is nice.
He looks at the door you had disappeared behind, the one you had slammed. He has decided he does not like the sound of slamming doors.
Raising his knuckles up to the door, he lightly taps them twice. Just enough to create a soft sound against the wood. The sounds are uneven, one slightly louder than the other. It is a foreign action. Perhaps he will need to practice it.
There is no answer.
He expected as much.
“Go-Good evening.” He grimaces at his stutter. He is more well-spoken than that. He should not be stuttering. “I extend my gratitude to you for your actions today. I appre- appreciate your kindness. Thank you.”
He must have sustained some damage. He hates to stutter.
At least he can remain polite, as one should be. He is a polite man, he knows his manners and how to act. Doctor-...
Doctor-...
His fingers twitch. He must have sustained some damage.
There is no answer to his gratitude. He does not express any disappointment, he has no business expecting anything from you after a traumatic event.
“I shall remain in the… living room.” He believes that is what it is called. He’s heard the term a time or two. “You needn’t hesitate if you have anything to ask of me.”
That should be good, yes? This is not his area of expertise, believe it or not.
He almost snorts at that little joke of his. Of course he should be believed, he is a trustworthy source, after all.
With that he trods back into the living room. He wonders what the origins of such a term are. Perhaps he will be able to learn
Your living room is quite nice. He must admit he is fond of the space already. Shelves carry an array of books, many titles he has heard in passing. 1984. The Alchemist. Animal Farm. Inferno. There are a handful of poetry books, as well. He wonders if he could read any by Edgar Allan Poe. He has heard the name a time or two before followed by praise.
His access to literature was… limited. There was certain knowledge he was programmed with but a learning AI was rather determined to learn. That learning only really occurred through his own experimentation and through the small amount of books he had been given by an intern who had recently graduated high school and wanted to be rid of their textbooks.
He wondered if you would let him read any of yours. He would truly love to do so. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It catches his eye. He’d like to read that one, too.
You have a couch, as well. It faces a large screen mounted upon your wall. He does not make the assumption that he is allowed to sit on your furniture.
He was content to sit on the floor, anyways. It had never bothered him in the past, it will not bother him now.
Though, he does wonder if you will let him sit there. But perhaps it will be easiest for him to sit on the floor, if only because of the height difference. Surely he is much less intimidating at a lesser height.
Your living room has windows. He is most excited about that. Windows.
He has never seen birds before. He would really, really love to watch them. He can hope you will not take such joy from him. There are plenty of reasons you may decide he cannot look at the birds, but he may make the choice to avoid giving you those reasons lest you see how he is a trustworthy source and thus listen to his reasons. A lie of omission makes him cringe much less than a more blatant sort of lie.
Perhaps tomorrow you can both introduce yourselves. He would like to know your name. He will make sure to write it down, lest he forget.
Not that he ever forgets.
He shall introduce himself formally for you are strangers and he does not want to be impolite by being informal.
Good morning, my name is Doctor-...
His mouth pulls into a line.
My name is Doctor-...
Not that he ever forgets.
My name is Doctor-... Good morning, my name is Doctor-...
His hands itch at where the straps of his muzzle sit between chipped rays. He’s careful not to chip them again, though, if only to avoid getting shards of metal on your floor.
He… he needs to sit down. He was in a fire. He has no doubt suffered some kind of damage.
With a sigh, he settles on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest.
A fire let him out of his enclosure. He was rescued from a fire. He was put in a car. He was brought to your house. You looked at him in horror. Those are the events of today.
Not entirely, no. Before that, before that, before that. Seven roaches. American cockroaches. Periplaneta americana. All collected and removed from his enclosure. Roaches get boring after the fourth dissection. Roaches do not taste good either.
Fifteen full paces around his given space. No visits from the interns. No extra enrichment.
Two reads through his own notebook. Boredom had truly caught up with him, if he was doing that.
His notebook is in the inner pocket of his coat. He would never leave it behind.
Ah, something he should remember to ask for, a new notebook. Pages are finite and diagrams take up space.
He remembers his day. He remembers yesterday. The day before. All of it, exactly, with timestamps in his system too.
He flits through each page of memory, and one thing is starting to stand out. He is very rarely referred to. But he knows, he knows, that people call him something. He has a name beyond his title and beyond his name he has a nickname.
Flit. Flit. Flit. Memory and memory and memory. Day. Day. Day.
Seconds are lost. He is missing things.
The pattern is the same. Names, names, names, and never his own. No, he knows names very well. There are not many he was ever told but he remembers the ones he was very well. Sibon. Andrew. Sara. Carter. Tom.
Hello, my name is Doctor-
Good afternoon, my name is Doctor-
Good evening, my name is Doctor-
Good morning, my name is Doctor-
My name is Doctor-
My name is Doctor-
My name is Doctor-
What is his name?
