#specs drone

[new-squidbese-fattoon]

ONE OF THE PANELS IN THE FINALE OF THE SPLATOON MANGA'SVERSION OF SIDE ORDER!

Oh my god, Goggles, you fuckin' goofball.

[totally-real-coroika-panels]

[literallybreadsticks]

WHAT THE HECK AM I SEEING

IS THAT A FAKIN SPECS DRONE

WATEFEK

[is-the-character-aroacespec]

Is she demiromantic?

🖤 🩶 💚 🤍 🖤

Reasoning: She didn't have any feelings for N until AFTER they became friends and worked together.

[pangrams-n-palindromes]

My one hope for 8x06 is that Hot Priest gets referred to as Hot Priest (outside of like imdb)

I want to see Buck (or chim) go “oh, your priest is /hot/“ because now he gets to let himself appreciate the male form

Then, to tie in that “inadvertent confession,” he says something about Hot Priest to Tommy, who then says something like “hot like eddie?” Cue Buck’s “well hot but obviously Eddie is hotter… oh. OH. Eddie is hot!” And then cue spiral where he goes to Maddie like oh my god did you know Eddie was hot and josh is like fucking DUH and that explains the still of his big ass smile

[miz-orque]

Okay, last one for now

A younger Jimmy, but irritated.

Jimmy doesn't come off as a man who gets pissed off or angry very easily. Tho he seems to enjoy being a bit of a smart ass pissing others around him off, I do wonder what it'll take to make Mr Kurosaki mad.

[the-darkest-0f-stars]

Technically this is an illustration featuring a courting individual, but it conveys enough of the point. 9 times out of 10 if you see an RQ-7, it's one individual courting another.

So you might wonder- if it is supposed to be in courting plumage then why is the machine yellow, when the surrounding grass is also yellow?

Well, unlike the much larger MQ-9s that share their range, which use their crests to blend in with the environment, the RQ-7 uses its to stand out... At least to other Shadows.

This is because the plumes of the RQ-7 Shadow (Lionel cirrhata) display intricate coloured patterns that are visible to them, but not their predators.

To a human or a Reaper, they look similar to the average Kafkan grassland, but to another Shadow, they are actually quite colourful!

[adragonthatwrites]

I can imagine them starting laying down, but as they sleep their bodies are just like "no >:(" and they end up slowly migrating across whatever bed or surface they're on until they hit a wall, at which point they just shove themselves against it until they're upside down, all without ever waking up. (In the absence of a wall they tip sideways and pretzel themselves, balancing on their shoulders with their hips up and legs chilling in the air.)

Shitpost of a headcannon that the DDs still sleep upside-down if not hanging off something

[dradro]

Examples of micro drone specs:

BEEBRAINBL

Thrust: 100g Weight:30g Top Speed:54 km/h Control: Drifty

Frame: BeeBrainBl Motor: NewBeeDrone 0802 Propeller: NewBeeDrone AZI Triblade Battery: Nitro Nectar Gold Camera: 20 Antennae: None

BUBITO

Thrust: 141g Weight: 31g Top Speed: 58 km/h Control: Drifty

Frame: Bubito Motor: Bushmaster 080 225000KV Propeller: NewBeeDrone AZI Triblade Battery: BetaFPV BT2.0 300MAH Camera: 20 Antennae: None

CETUS PRO

Thrust: 187g Weight: 46g Top Speed: 59 km/h Control: Drifty

Frame: Cetus Pro Motor: BetaFPV 1102 18000KV Brushless Propeller: Profan 1635 3 Blade Battery: BetaFPV BT2.0 450MAH Camera: 30 Antennae: None

[new-squidbese-fattoon]

Okay so I'm reading the Splatoon manga again-

AND THE SHADOWS ARE BACK

[frostgears]

a drone swarm operator is cute when she's broadcasting typical taunts like "i am the spider hidden at the center of a web of metal and light, dare you walk into my parlor?"

and even cuter once you've shattered all of one's toys, peeled the lid off her bunker, plucked her from her command couch, and are holding her by her collar as she tries to remember how to hit you with her own two fists instead of the thirty or forty appendages she's used to.

if you decide to take her home, do remember that she'll need new swarm elements in short order. she needs to give orders as well as take them. you will not be remotely enough to satisfy her need for control in both directions.

they don't need to be the same specs or count as you found her with, and in fact, she will often be able to adapt to operating biologics or cyborgs with similar need for direction as her original drones, which can be very helpful if you're already a collector of such things. but if you're not prepared to provide replacements of some kind, however initially crude, it's kinder to finish her where you found her, and move on. □

[msaadbeing]

DJI Inspire 1 Pro/Raw Specifications

Overview The DJI Inspire 1 Pro and Raw models elevate the boundaries of aerial photography and videography. Building upon the strong foundation laid by the original Inspire 1, these versions come equipped with upgraded camera systems: the Zenmuse X5 and X5R, respectively. These cameras introduce micro four-thirds sensors, opening the skies to cinematic quality footage and professional-grade…

[mapsthewanderer]

Caleb’s headcanon -

The Vanguard

Synopsis: You’re waiting for Caleb to come home from work. He’s working overtime. Again. Caleb’s so done with work stealing his precious moments with you. So. Done.

Details: Mid/2000ish w. Superduper sexually frustrated Colonel Caleb goes dom. This is lust, not a spec of romance (imo). Explicit and lewd language. Biting. (Not exactly dry) humping lol. Filthy stuff. Schmutt. 18+ content. You are warned. I also rly recommend the track linked below. It was my muse.

Drenched homecoming

Skyhaven, Caleb’s place, you

The dim glow of the city filters through the rain-streaked windows, painting ghostly patterns against the walls. The air is thick with the scent of petrichor, a whisper of ozone lingering from the storm outside. You check the time—Caleb is late.

A sigh slips from your lips as you peel your shirt over your head, fingers ghosting over your bare skin as the chill of the room nips at your flesh. The bathroom light hums softly, casting a muted halo around the tiles as steam curls from the shower. The water cascades down, promising warmth, comfort—a distraction from the empty space where Caleb should be.

You step inside, tilting your head back beneath the heat, allowing it to wash away the lingering ache of longing. Eyes flutter shut. The city buzzes beyond the glass, and for now, you let yourself melt into the moment, unaware of the storm about to step through the door.

——————————————————————————

The Fleet, Administrative wing, Caleb

The meeting drags. The words being spoken blur into meaningless noise, a dull, monotonous drone that grates against his patience like sandpaper. Caleb sits at the long table, one gloved hand curled into a fist against his jaw, his fingers pressing into his temple as he fights the urge to exhale his frustration.

He doesn’t bother masking his disinterest. His violet eyes are heavy-lidded, sharp with irritation, flicking to the clock every few minutes with a growing sense of agitation. Every wasted second is another moment stolen from you—another moment he could have had you beneath him, panting, pliant, warm.

Caleb’s jaw tenses as his mind wanders—wanders to the thought of peeling you out of whatever you’re wearing, pressing you into the mattress, sinking his teeth into that soft, sensitive spot on your throat just to hear the sound you make. His fingers twitch against the leather of his gloves. The heat coiling low in his stomach is dangerous, restless, sharp-edged and gnawing.

With a sharp breath, he jerks his gloved hand up to his mouth, sinking his teeth into the worn leather, biting down hard in a desperate attempt to ground himself, to snap out of it. But it does nothing. The pressure, the taste of leather, the scent of his own skin—it only fuels it. Only makes it worse.

It’s unbearable. The hunger. The ache. The sheer, maddening need riding him raw.

And yet, here he sits. In this damn room. Listening to things that don’t matter, faces that blur together, voices that drone on, oblivious to the fire burning inside of him.

He shifts in his seat, muscles taut with restrained energy, the simmering frustration bleeding into something darker—sharper. It fuels his irritation, the urge to snap at the next person who so much as looks at him the wrong way. He’s so done.

Then someone addresses him directly.

“Colonel?”

His head snaps up, eyes dark, smoldering. The officer stiffens. Caleb holds his gaze for a fraction too long before muttering, clipped and razor-sharp, “What.”

The word alone is enough to send a ripple of unease through the room. Silence stretches, thick and uneasy, before someone quickly fills it with a half-hearted attempt at a summary. Caleb barely hears it. His patience is a thread stretched taut, ready to snap.

When the meeting is finally adjourned, he doesn’t wait. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t breathe.

He pushes up from his chair, the scrape of it against the floor a sharp punctuation to his irritation. Shrugging into his coat, he mutters, voice low and laced with something venomous, “Next time? Find someone else to waste their damn night.”

The officers shift, uneasy, but no one speaks. No one stops him.

Instead, as he storms out, the whispers begin.

“What’s gotten into him lately?” — “He used to live for this. —Now it’s like he doesn’t care.” — “The Colonel never used to mind overtime…”

Caleb hears it all. And he’s had enough.

If they knew—if they fucking knew—the sheer agony thrumming in his veins, the way his body is throbbing with restless hunger, the way his skin aches to be pressed against yours, they wouldn’t dare say a word.

He shoves the door open, stepping out into the night.

The rain hammers against him the second he steps outside, soaking through fabric, sliding in cold rivulets down the tense lines of his body—but Caleb doesn’t react. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even consider reaching for his umbrella.

There’s no point.

Because the second he steps through that door, he’s going to strip you bare, press you into the nearest surface, and neither of you will be needing clothes for a long, long time.

His boots strike the pavement in a steady, ruthless rhythm, his strides long, unrelenting, driven by nothing but sheer force of will. The city around him is a blur—smears of neon reflecting in the rain-slicked streets, hazy figures moving beneath the glow of dim streetlights, the muffled hum of distant voices drowned beneath the storm. It’s all meaningless, all irrelevant.

His mind is elsewhere.

On you.

On what’s waiting for him at home.

Fingers flex at his sides, hands twitching, restless, as tension coils tight in his spine—thick, unbearable, molten in its intensity. A sharp, involuntary tic jerks through his neck, a brief but violent snap of muscle, like his own body is rebelling against the pressure building inside. His head tilts for the barest second before snapping back, jaw clenching, breath harsh. The uniform clings, soaked and heavy, but the heat raging beneath his skin makes it feel like he’s burning from the inside out. That fever has been festering all day, burrowing deep into muscle, riding him raw—an unrelenting fire he can’t outrun.

The rain does nothing to cool him—if anything, it feeds the fire, stoking the hunger, the frustration, the raw, unchecked need burning beneath his skin.

His breath is shallow, uneven, fraying at the edges as his thoughts loop like a broken reel, spiraling further and further into the gutter—dark, visceral, explicit.

The way your breath will stutter when the wet leather glides over your skin—cold, slick, unforgiving. It ghosts over your stomach, your thighs, everywhere except where you need him most. Dripping. Teasing. Denying. Each deliberate stroke leaves a trail of sensation, a wicked contrast between damp chill and the heat pooling low in your belly.

He’ll take his time, savor every shiver, every helpless twitch of your body as it tenses under his touch. Keep you on edge—gasping, trembling—until frustration spills from your lips in broken, desperate pleas. Beg for it. That’s what he wants. Not just your surrender—your complete and utter undoing.

But relief won’t come. Not yet. Not until he’s stripped you down to nothing but raw, aching need. Until every thought, every breath, every fractured whimper is drenched in him. He’ll push, torment, tease—drag you deeper until you forget anything existed before his touch, before his voice, before the sharp, unbearable hunger he’s buried in you. And even then, it won’t be enough. Because Caleb doesn’t just want you needy. Doesn’t just want you aching. He wants you wrecked. Shattered. Bent until you break, until the only thing left in your world is him.

To squirm beneath his touch the way he’s been squirming in his own skin all fucking day.

And when you finally do—when your moans dissolve into cries, when you arch into him with reckless abandon, when you scream his name, over and over and over again, begging, sobbing, pleading for him to give you what only he can—he will.

His touch. His weight. His teeth, his hands, his cock.

Caleb will brand you so deeply you’ll feel him for days, hear his voice in your head, taste him on your tongue, wear his marks like a second skin.

He will give you everything. Every. Last. Inch.

Fuck.

His breath is ragged, labored, his vision blurred around the edges, his pulse pounding so violently he can feel it in his teeth. He rounds another corner, faster now, his body coiled so tight it aches. His uniform is drenched, his coat heavy, his bangs slicked against his forehead with rain, but none of it matters.

He’s surprised the rain doesn’t steam off him by now.

He’s hard. Fuck—he’s been hard since this morning. The pillow talk, the warmth of your body tangled with his, the soft kisses and lingering touches—but that was then. That was before the hours of restraint, the wasted time, the damned overtime that tore him away from you.

Just a little more.

Another turn.

He’s so close.

Then, finally, he reaches his destination.

And the second he steps inside—he hears it.

The sound of running water.

His breath stills.

You’re already in the shower. Water trailing down your skin, heat curling around you. Already wet. Already naked.

Then, a slow, guttural growl rumbles from his chest.

“Change of plans, huh?”

Another sharp jolt snaps through Caleb’s neck—a sudden, involuntary tic, a crack in his control. His body is fraying at the edges, barely holding back the storm.

“I can work with that.”

He doesn’t waste another second.

You. Are. His.

——————————————————————————

Skyhaven, Caleb’s place, you

The shower door swings open without warning.

Steam spills into the dimly lit bathroom, curling around Caleb as he steps inside, his breath ragged, his violet eyes dark with hunger. Rain still clings to him, sliding in slow rivulets down his jaw, catching in the damp strands of his ashen-brown hair. His black colonel’s uniform is soaked through, insignias glinting dully beneath the dim glow of the overhead light. The heavy fabric clings to his frame, molding to the sharp angles of his shoulders, the rigid tension in his body making it clear—he has been waiting for this moment all day and all night.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you.

A gloved hand snaps around your wrist, pinning it against the cool, wet tile. The leather is ice-cold against your overheated skin, the contrast sending a shiver racing down your spine. His breath is hot, uneven, his lips ghosting just over your pulse.

Then he bites.

Teeth sink into the tender spot where your neck meets your shoulder—deep, claiming, a growl rumbling through his chest as his jaw tightens. He doesn’t ease up, doesn’t release you. Caleb holds you there, pinned beneath his mouth, his tongue flicking against the fresh mark before he sucks, slow and unrelenting, determined to leave proof of his hunger on your skin.

His hips grind into you, slow at first, taunting, the hard press of his arousal thick and searing even through the soaked, unyielding fabric of his uniform. Each roll of his hips drives heat deeper into your core, every deliberate motion sending a shudder up your spine, tearing the breath from your lungs. The friction is unbearable—a slow, torturous drag that leaves you gasping, dizzy, lost.

His grip on your wrists tightens against the tile, unforgiving, unrelenting. Had he let go—had he given you even the slightest freedom—you’d be clawing at his uniform, desperate to strip him bare, to feel him without the cruel barrier of wet fabric between you. But he doesn’t let you. Doesn’t allow you the satisfaction.

Instead, he forces you to take it, to feel every agonizing second of his hunger in the way his hips roll against you, pressing, teasing, owning. Caleb’s feral, completely unraveled, need bleeding from every inch of him and soaking into you with each devastating thrust.

His breath is ragged, hot against your throat, a deep, guttural growl rolling through his chest as his gloved fingers scrape along your ribs, gripping, possessive, holding you in place as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

But you’re not going anywhere.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he pulls back.

Caleb’s lips graze the shell of your ear, his voice hoarse, ruined, thick with something dark and desperate.

“I’m home.”

Writer’s note: Fuqit. I saw your answers in the poll so here is something that I’ve had marinating for a while. Tadaaa my take on Colonel Caleb dom schmutt. It’s kinda a tease ikik. I’ll get to it in the series I’m working on atm. (We all know he’s a big softie too, I’m just confident that this is a canon for Caleb when he’s all fed up with work. The song is peak Caleb coded btw.) Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

If you liked this I’ve just published chapter I-IV of a series with some potential!

[pangrams-n-palindromes]

Adding my two cents to the olive emoji conversation for 8x07-

We end the episode with Buck “I don’t know which pond to jump back into” Buckley going to a gay bar, where he orders a martini (where he may or may not run into one Lucy Donato)

🫒 -> 🍸 -> 🏳️‍🌈🕺

[itsabouttimex2]

Fizzling Neon

“…can I tell you something that bothers me?”

There’s not quite a sneer on your coworker’s face, but the expression he wears while turning to you is regardless unhappy. The man’s never much cared for your rambles, and especially not while the two of you were on kitchen duty.

Then, he’s never much cared for you in general.

But if he has to choose between his own thoughts (centering mostly on his ex-wife, if you had to guess) your awkward ramblings, or a droning and dead silence that was cut only by Chica’s muffled gorging, the gray-haired man would probably pick you, though he would do so reluctantly.

Very reluctantly.

“Well?” the aged man finally grunts, arms crossed as he leans back against the counter. His tense posture screams impatience, but at least he’s waiting for you to say something instead of outright ignoring you. “What is it?”

You hesitate, unsure if you should bother, even with his explicit approval. Your coworker doesn’t like you- he’s made that clear enough over the past four months. Still, there’s something gnawing at you, something you need to get off your chest before it eats you alive. A rattling clatter of pots and pans kicks up in the washing area, accompanied by incessant crunching noises- the avian animatronic must’ve gotten into an unfinished dish.

You don’t want to sound like some manic conspiracy theorist, of course- that type pops up on the premises of the Pizzaplex constantly, filming themselves as they harangue the workers and scare the children- only to scurry away when you pleaded with Monty to scare them off- the kids always got a kick out of that, at least.

Still, all antics aside… maybe talking about it would do you some good.

“…it doesn’t make any sense for them to be animatronics.”

He turns to you, sporting an expression that implies you may well have grown a second head, utterly dumbfounded by such an out of pocket (to him) statement.

His brows knit together tightly, lips twisting into a grimace that makes him look even less pleasant than he already does. “What in the blazing hell are you even talking about?” he finally asks, his voice a low growl that barely carries over the distant clang of metal on tile as Chica shuffles around.

You squirm for a moment, then spill in a hurried rush of words built around cobbled knowledge from your childhood.

“It’s just… these are… they’re robots. And, animatronics are, well, they… animatronics- real animatronics, I mean, they’re- they’re puppets! Animatronics are supposed to be puppets hooked to machinery hidden in the ground, machines that host the puppet’s programming for the routines they perform! They’re supposed to be fragile, breakable! You’re supposed to be able to shatter them, shove them around, pick them up and throw them- in case they break down and block people in an emergency! Or, or like… the design specs, in general, they’re- so like, if an animatronic closes around a kid’s hands, the design specs of these things are specifically built to be fragile enough to never exert enough force to hurt the kid! They’re not supposed to be able to move arcade machines, or jostle vending machines, or pick up kids! And-“

“You know what, kid? And I’m gonna be real level with you, just cause I don’t think the management bothers doing it when they really should- nobody gives half a damn about your autist bullshit. They were always called animatronics. From the first fucking pizzeria to the last pissing pizzaplex, they were animatronics, puppets, machines, and no one except for you gives a shit about the name they use. And look, you wanna obsess over this crap, fine. Just don’t bring it up with me again. Got enough on my plate without babysitting your paranoia about trivial corpo branding bullshit.”

He throws his soiled dishrag against the metal interior of the sink before him, then stomps off towards the staff room in order to punch out and head home, probably hoping to down a fifth of whiskey and pass out.

You stand there in shocked silence for a moment, throat tight and eyes growing wet, trying to compose yourself as the angry pounding of his footsteps fades away.

It hurts. You wish it didn’t hurt so bad, especially when the scorn comes from someone you don’t particularly know or care for, someone you know doesn’t particularly care for you.

You want to shove those painful feelings away, because you know if you dwell on it too long, you’ll start spiraling, and there’s no one here who wants to listen- not without mocking you or brushing you off.

Except- the sound of metal footsteps breaks your train of thought, and those steps are heavy and deliberate, echoing through the empty kitchen. You freeze, pulse quickening, because it’s late, nearly time to close, and you’re very certainly the last person in the pizzaplex.

“Oh, Superstar…”

His voice, as always, is smooth and warm, carrying an affectionate tone that he usually reserves for children. You don’t need to turn around to know who that soothing voicebox belongs to.

You swallow, hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen countertop as the sound of metal feet against porcelain grows louder. He’s close now, just behind you, and you feel the subtle hum of his mechanical frame, a strange, ever-present vibration that seems to radiate from him, and you are awash in the cyan hue that drifts from his mechanical body.

Glamrock Freddy.

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out at first. There’s a lump buried deep in your throat, and with it there’s a fear that if you try to explain yourself, you might break down entirely.

Freddy waits, a patience so unshakable it mirrors the steel he’s built from.

And he waits a little longer still, right up until there are tears brimming in your eyes, threatening to spill, and then one of his large paws reaches to bundle around the back of your head, holding it there as though he’s cradling something fragile, something precious.

At his gentle, synthetic touch your lips press tightly together, unwilling to speak for risk of breaking a dam that spills regardless, and as the first of many tears trickle down your cheek, Freddy’s thumb; soft with synthetic padding, swipes it from your face.

“That was very unkind of him, Superstar. I will be sure to report his behavior to management, for it is in violation of the rules of the Mega Pizzaplex.”

“N-no, Freddy, it’s fine. Really… really, it’s fine, and I don’t want to cause any trouble.

The ursine machine, so many warmth welling behind his eyes that the kitchen feels cold in comparison, he tilts his head, his illuminated blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly, not in anger but in something softer- concern, and to some degree even disbelief. He doesn’t move the heft of his hand, still cradling your head with the care of someone holding glass. “It is not fine,” he insists gently, voicebox unwavering. “Everyone within the Pizzaplec must treat one another with respect. The rules are very clear.”

A bitter laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Yeah, well, rules don’t really stop people from being jerks, do they? Just… just please let it go, Freddy. It’s not worth it.”

There is a long, lingering moment where he continues to stare, eye lights drooped at your insistence on allowing things to be. But, finally, he lowers his hand, though his frame remains close, looming like a shield against the sterile, fluorescent lights kitchen. “Your feelings are worth it, Superstar,” he says after a beat. “But I will not push.”

Then he pauses, awkward and almost ashamed, then kneels to level his gaze to your own, and quietly speaks. “And I did not mean to eavesdrop on the staff, but I did overhear the management speaking to one another about the weather.

Oh. Oh no.

“So I wanted to tell you that a snowstorm is predicted, and, on behalf of the Pizzaplex, I wanted to extend you an invitation to stay overnight, since you do not have a way to get home if the bus is out.”

Oh, Cassie was going to be devastated.

Freddy straightens up at your lack of apparent response, his hulking frame towering over you once more, though his demeanor remains calm. “I spoke to the daycare attendant about preparing a bed for you- his residence has many cozy spots, and I believe you will find it suitable.”

You cringe when he mentions the daycare, snapping your thoughts from the soon to be birthday girl.

The attendant's dual personalities were a lot to handle during even just the day- but Moon's presence at night, especially, would be downright unnerving. But Freddy, gentle and unyielding, he turns you around with his big paws and nudges you towards the kitchen’s entrance.

The white doors swing open as Freddy pushes you past them, and the sounds of the nearly silent Pizzaplex greet you. The faint hum of machines powering down for the night drifts through the air, and the glittering lights of arcade machines flicker in the distance, while the mascots painted on the walls seem to grin down at you with their smiles.

It dawns on you now, staring up at the acrylic likeness of the lead animatronic that you hadn’t said yes to his offer, hadn’t quite stuck yourself through with the promise of a full night with the daycare attendant… and with Freddy going in the opposite direction, no doubt heading to his own room for the night… well, there wasn’t exactly anyone around to ensure that your footfall led you to the ever-unnerving nursery.

And, for that matter, a revelation dawning quickly upon you- you didn’t even know if the weather had started turning for the worse. If the storm was so bad that it would put out the local bus, sure, then you might not have a choice. But a light sprinkle wouldn’t kill you, and the lost and found wouldn’t mind you “borrowing” a jacket or scarf.

You turn toward the far end of the Pizzaplex, where the staff exit looms. You could just… check for yourself. There’s a strange, dread pang in your chest like the bite of an icicle, the notion that you might be caught going off-course, then returned to your path like an errant child.

Freddy surely wouldn’t mind you only checking out the window, would he?

Definitely not.

But still you step lightly, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor as the exit grew nearer and nearer. The Pizzaplex, as well as you've grown to know it, comes to feel unnaturally large when it’s this quiet- without at least a dozen children to draw your attention from the winding halls and the sprawling white floor, sometimes the place feels more like a labyrinth than a glorified daycare.

Though the twin doors come into reach without obstruction, there's still a prickling sense of unease that crawls the length of your skin, sending shivers down your spine as you reach for the silver handles.

Just a peek isn't going to hurt anyone, you tell yourself with a measure of false confidence.

It does not stop the trembling chill that races your heart to pump erratically as you make the move to push the doors open, and your skin grows colder still at the sight before you.

Snowflakes.

Fluffy, chunky snowflakes, cascading from the sky in a relentless flurry, the parking lot and roads already blanketed in white. The wind howls, biting and sharp. The city looks almost like a desolate tundra, smeared in thick strokes of white. The last bus is nowhere to be seen, likely sent back to the station early to avoid the storm.

You pull harshly on the doors, snapping them shut to prevent a gale wind from blowing through, to prevent snow from spilling onto the tile, and then you turn back, resigning yourself to a long night in the daycare, and then there’s a flicker of movement in the reflection of the chilled glass. You freeze, breath hitching sharply.

Slowly, you turn around, expecting to see Freddy or perhaps one of the staff bots patrolling the area.

And there is no one around.

Not that you can see, at least.

But the sound -faint, metallic clicking- tells you something is near. It’s sharply deliberate, like the tapping of long nails against glass.

And then a gangly shadow falls over you, dragging half of a shriek out of your lips right before you slap your hands over them.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, and there, in a fluid arc of motion, leaping from the ceiling, is Moon, his painted grin wide and unsettlingly toothy in the dim lighting. He cast an eerie silhouette across the room as he lands upright with barely a thud, tilting his head to regard you.

“Why are you out of bed?”

“I was just…”, you start to say, but the words catch in your throat as he draws nearer. “I was only…”

“You know it’s against the rules to wander, don’t you?”

Your heart races as you stumble back, desperate to put distance between yourself and the unsettling animatronic. For all that you (and perhaps none but you and Cassie shared this feeling) had a soft spot for Sun, there was no denying that Moon had grown strange of late, often over-bolstering his “child-caring protocols”, to the terror of his many, many charges. Too often you had to step in and watch over them in his place just to ensure the kids would get some measure of sleep.

“I-I… no, i was just… just checking the weather,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, checking the weather!” he repeats, his tone exaggeratedly bright and overly cheerful, though there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. “But the rules are very clear- no wandering after hours! And you wouldn’t want to break the rules, would you, Starlight?”

That nickname doesn’t feel the same way that “Superstar” feels, not as warm or bright or genuine.

…but it’s still nice (admittedly less so under these circumstances) to have someone care enough to give you a moniker- and unlike Freddy, who simply maintained that everyone he liked was his special “Superstar”, the lunar half of the daycare attendant was far more reserved with his affections.

If he had let that feeling grow a little longer, that slow drift of bubbling warmth rising around your heart, maybe you wouldn’t have screamed out even past the barriers of your hands as he lunged forward and snagged his thin fingers around each side of your waist.

Instead, you simply shriek and kick.

That doesn’t stop Moon from lifting you slowly, his grip more than firm enough to make escape impossible. He tilts his head, his painted grin never wavering, though there’s something unsettling about the way his glowing red eyes seem to scan every inch of you, as if gauging your intent.

“No screaming,” he chides softly, his voice lowering to a whisper that echoes unnaturally in the empty Pizzaplex. “You’ll wake everyone up. Naughty, naughty.”

Your breath hitches as you struggle against his unyielding grip, your hands clawing uselessly at his smooth, cold arms. Moon holds you aloft effortlessly, his glowing red eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

“Please,” you manage to croak, weak voice trembling. “I- I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to cause trouble! I just… I just wanted to see if the storm was bad.”

His metal grin remains fixed, the crescent of his face gleaming faintly in the low light. “Storms are dangerous, Starlight,” he murmurs, his voice mechanical but almost sing-song, and still dripping with a strange condescension. “You could get lost. Hurt. It’s better to stay where things are safe.”

There is an unsteady pulse pounding through your chest now, a staccato rhythm that you’re certain he can sense. His glowing red eyes narrow, and his rictus grin; for all that it is fixed in place by steel, seems to grow wider.

He cradles you closer, the warmth of his metallic hands seeping through your uniform. The hum of his inner workings vibrate faintly, a reminder of the sheer difference between your anatomies. His voice drops lower, head leaning in to hiss lowly in your ear.

“And safe,” he whispers, “means staying close to me, Starlight.”