(Him/her/ they for your oc

The elevator shudders to a stop. The fluorescent lights above him/her buzz, weak and tired, and the air smells like dust and old paint—the kind that clings to walls no matter how many years pass. The door slides open, and before he/she stretches the entrance lobby of Banban’s Kindergarten. Posters peel from the walls, still smiling with painted faces of Banban, Banbaleena, Jumbo Josh, and Opila Bird. Their cartoon eyes seem to follow you as if they know he/she shouldn’t be here, as if they’ve been waiting.

Somewhere above the silence, a speaker crackles alive, spitting out a distorted jingle—one of the Kindergarten’s old slogans, cheerful, hollow, wrong. The echo lingers too long, like the walls themselves are humming along.

His/Her mission is simple: find his/her child. But the further he/she step into the kindergarten, the more the air thickens with dread. Opila’s mural greets him/her first, bright pink feathers painted with fading colors. But in the far hall, there’s something else—the scrape of claws against the floor, the sound of something breathing in a way no machine or person ever should.

This is no daycare. This is a labyrinth. A facility. A graveyard of experiments where mascots are not costumes or toys but Cases—living creatures born from donors, human memories stitched into mascot bodies. He/She can almost feel them, watching from the shadows: Banban, torn between being a cheerful guide and a broken human echo of Uthman Adam. Banbaleena, her painted smile hiding the cold fragments of Weverly Mason. Jumbo Josh, towering, heavy-footed, his movements shaking the ground. Opila Bird, eyes wide. Nabnab scuttling along the ceiling, limbs twisted. Stinger Flynn, lurking deeper, waiting to pull him/her into his visions. Sheriff Toadster, trying to keep order in a place where there is none. Slow Seline, Bittergiggle, Queen Bouncelia, the Mataki twins, Kittysaurus, Nabnaleena—each of them alive, each of them waiting. And beneath even them, darker shapes stir: Zolphius, The Nanny, Syringeon, Sir Dadadoo, The Naughty Ones, the forgotten mascots like Flumbo, Ramamba, and Trufflefoot.

He/she clutch your drone controller tighter, the only fragile lifeline between you and whatever lurks in these halls. Every hallway promises a new face. Every mascot has a story, and none of them were ever meant to be told.

Somewhere down here, your child is waiting. Or maybe only their shadow.

(Or make your own rp)