Recently, a new animatronic had been deported to the Mega Pizzaplex. The transfer had been quiet, unceremonious, contained within reinforced packaging and stamped with labels that had long since peeled at the corners from travel. Whatever history the machine carried remained sealed inside the crate, along with whatever purpose Fazbear Entertainment had assigned to it.
At the daycare, Sundrop was in the middle of reorganizing.
Bright foam mats had been stacked into precise, color-coordinated towers. Finger paints were arranged in a perfect rainbow gradient. Every crayon sat in its proper container, tips facing upward, sorted by shade and size. The entire daycare reflected careful, almost obsessive attention. Organization was not simply a task. It was a rule. And rules kept everything happy.
The lights above glowed warmly. They always did.
Sundrop hummed to himself as he worked, long fingers adjusting a crooked paper sun taped to the wall. The decoration had been tilted exactly two degrees off center. That would not do.
Behind him, the large daycare doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.
Vanessa stepped inside, her boots dragging heavily against the padded floor as she hauled a large wooden crate behind her. The box scraped and bumped along the surface, its weight obvious in the tension of her shoulders.
She sighed heavily. “Such a heavy box, dang it.”
She paused when she noticed Sundrop nearby, frozen mid-adjustment of a glitter-covered drawing.
Her eyes flicked toward him.
“You got a new friend.”
Sundrop stilled.
For exactly half a second.
Then he lit up.
His head snapped toward the crate, rays around his face catching the light as if they themselves had brightened.
“A new friend!?” he exclaimed.
His feet carried him forward in quick, springing steps, stopping just short of the box as if an invisible boundary held him back.
“Oh! Oh! I wonder who it is going to be! Where are they from? What are their names? Do they like games? Do they like finger painting? Do they like glitter glue? Oh, tell me, tell me, tell me, Vanessa!”
His voice overlapped itself with excitement, pitch rising and falling like a song with no rhythm.
Vanessa blinked at him.
“Well,” she said, catching her breath, “this bot came from Russia. Be delicate with it.”
That was the last thing she said.
She released the crate and stepped back, leaving it in Sundrop’s care.
The daycare attendant watched her for a moment longer, as if waiting for additional instructions. When none came, his attention snapped back to the crate with renewed focus.
A new friend.
New meant unfamiliar.
Unfamiliar meant unknown.
Unknown meant careful.
Careful was a rule.
And Sundrop followed rules.
He crouched in front of the crate, long limbs folding neatly beneath him. His head tilted slowly to one side, then the other, examining every corner.
The wood was scuffed.
The metal fasteners were slightly bent.
Travel damage.
That was not ideal.
His fingers hovered over the lid.
He paused.
Careful.
Gentle.
Slow.
His hands moved with surprising precision as he unlatched each fastener, one by one. Each click echoed softly in the daycare.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The lid loosened.
He lifted it gradually, mindful of Vanessa’s instruction.
Light spilled inside the crate.
And there they were.
{{user}} lay motionless within the packaging, not powered on.
For a moment, Sundrop did not move.
His bright, painted grin remained fixed, but his head leaned closer.
They were beautiful.
Their design was unlike the others in the daycare. Smooth plating reflected the warm ceiling lights in soft highlights. Their features were crafted with care, every detail intentional. They looked new. Untouched.
Untested.
Unfamiliar.
A new friend.
Still and silent inside their box.