Chapter Text
☀️🧼💫
While you ate the snack box retrieved from the vending machine, you somehow managed to polish it off with seven minutes still left on your break. A record. You weren’t sure whether it was because you were starving or because the watch’s weird energy had made you too tense to enjoy chewing like a normal person.
Mini-Sun was thrilled.
The pixelated mascot let out a silent cheer animation, throwing both hands up into the air, and then planted them triumphantly on his tiny circular hips like he’d just won Employee of the Month. You quirked an eyebrow and gave a weak little two-finger salute back.
“Silly little guy,” you murmured to yourself.
Still, the strange comfort he offered lingered in your chest. Something about this little helper—while uncanny—wasn’t all that bad.
You sighed, unsure what to do with your remaining break time. Your back ached. Your mop-hand was sore. And now the buzz of the Pizzaplex outside this quiet breakroom was seeping into your head: children laughing, shrieking, staff bots rolling about with squeaky wheels, adults talking just a little too loud near the gift shops.
You pressed your hand against your temple.
That headache was definitely coming back.
Apparently, your expression didn’t go unnoticed.
Mini-Sun reappeared on your watch, now holding up a virtual sign like a cartoon protester. A new chat box blinked into view:
"✨SUPERSTAR DAYCARE✨🌈⭐️"
You blinked.
“...Oh-hoho, nope. Not happening.”
You pointed at the screen. “No offense, but I am not wasting my one solid break, being jump-scared by a horde of sugar-gremlin children and foam climbing walls.”
Mini-Sun’s expression turned excited. He did a rapid tap-dance in place, then motioned toward the icon again.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”
Another ping! beep. This one was louder—borderline threatening. The icon now bounced up and down furiously as if trying to knock on the inside of your screen.
You groaned. “Okay, fine, I’ll look. But I’m not going inside. No way.”
You pressed the lock screen button and watched as Mini-Sun’s expression froze mid-bounce. Perfect. Muted.
You trudged out of the break room and down the adjacent hallway, weaving through a few lost tourists and a roaming Freddy plush mascot suit. The windows leading into the Superstar Daycare were large and clean—probably maintained by someone much more patient than you.
You stopped in front of the main pane and peered in from a distance.
Your eyes widened slightly.
There was the real Sun.
Not the sprite on your wrist, not a cartoon, not a sticker on a wall. The actual, full-size Daycare Attendant.
He was… massive.
Nine feet easy. Maybe more.
You’d heard rumors—people joked he was creepy, called him a lightbulb with legs, or a possessed nightlight. But now, standing there in person, all rubbery limbs and exaggerated features, your brain couldn’t fully decide if he was unsettling or impressive.
His frame was elegant in a puppet-like way, thin and tall, face locked in a gleaming painted grin with glassy white eyes. Those sun-shaped metal rays slowly spun around his head like a warning sign—slower now, but still twitching with subtle mechanical unrest.
He stood in front of a woman—looked like a barista, if you had to guess. She wore a light cream uniform with a name tag you couldn’t read from here. Her long, messy dark-brown hair was tied back, and she had circular glasses on her tired, frustrated face.
Even through the soundproof glass, you could tell she was yelling.
“MY B— WOULD NEVER SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT!”
You froze.
Whoa.
You took a cautious step back. If you had to guess, she was talking about her kid… probably the one that insulted the girl’s mom back in the daycare. That situation clearly hadn’t gone away. And now, the real Sun had to deal with it.
Despite the circumstances, Sun didn’t move much. He had his hands clasped in front of him, the exaggerated “neutral” smile still painted across his face. But his eyes…
His eyes flicked sideways.
Right.
To.
You.
He snapped his head in your direction, the metal rays on his head spinning once, fast—click click click click.
Your body went rigid.
He stared.
Straight through the glass.
Right. At. You.
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.
Your anxiety slammed into overdrive.
Was he mad you were watching? Was he reading your name from your ID badge somehow? Was he logging you into some AI-powered troublemaker database for eavesdropping?
Nope. Nope-nope-nope.
“We are not doing this,” your inner voice screamed.
With perfect silence and speed, you turned on your heel and ducked out of view of the window, speed-walking back toward the hallway like you were being hunted by a ghost with a clipboard.
Your Faz-Watch vibrated once on your wrist.
You glanced down.
The Mini-Sun had returned, this time with a text bubble that simply said:
"Why’d you leave! I wanted to say hi.. :c"
You stared.
Then pressed the lock button again.
Hard.
Nope. You were not emotionally equipped to deal with nine feet of all-knowing sun clown energy today. Let Roxy Raceway and sticky soda disasters be your problem instead.
At least spilled Pepsi didn’t stare into your soul.
☀️💫
Sun glared down at the brown-haired barista, his wide painted smile unwavering, but the tension in his plastic frame said it all. His rays twitched with agitation, casting darting shadows across the glossy floor of the Superstar Daycare.
The woman in front of him looked just as irate—arms crossed, nostrils flaring, and her circular glasses pushed up firmly on her nose as though ready to square off with a full-grown man, let alone a nine-foot animatronic. Her barista apron was wrinkled and stained from a day behind a hot espresso machine, but she stood her ground like a war general.
“I’m telling you—Kai would never say something like that. He’s a good kid. I raised him better than that!”
Sun didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flicked from the mother to the group of children huddled a few feet behind her, clearly aware of the tension. Some whispered. Others simply stared, wide-eyed. And then there was Kai.
The boy stood slightly behind his mother, partially obscured by the angry adult in front of him. His posture was slouched, his sage green eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Not the kind of tired you get from missing a nap—but the kind that sits deep in your bones. The kind that tells a story longer than the one anyone’s willing to say out loud.
Kai’s fingers fiddled with the hem of his hoodie. He stared at the floor while his mother continued arguing his case, her voice growing louder with every second. Sun barely twitched, his programming doing its best to filter and remain polite, but he wasn’t blind. Nor was he deaf.
And neither was Kai.
Without a word, the boy slowly slipped out from behind his mother’s protective stance. The barista didn’t even notice at first, caught in a whirlwind of frustration and defensiveness.
Kai took hesitant steps across the padded flooring of the daycare, heading toward the girl with puffball hair—Lia.
She stood off to the side now, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Tear trails still lined her cheeks, though her expression had turned unreadable. A few of the other children shifted uneasily, backing away from the two as they realized something was about to happen.
Kai stopped in front of her, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.
“Hey…” he muttered, voice just above a whisper. “Lia, I’m really sorry for—ah… for saying that stuff to you.”
Lia blinked.
The silence between them was almost sacred.
“Really?” she asked, voice flat, skeptical.
He nodded quickly, cheeks already burning pink. “Mhm. I didn’t mean to be a jerk. I just… I guess I was being stupid because I—I think I have a crush on you, okay?”
The words tumbled out like they’d been burning holes in his throat all day.
Lia stared.
Then she snorted.
Actually snorted.
A genuine sound, full of disbelief and laughter, all rolled up in one. Her arms dropped, and she shoved him lightly in the shoulder with a grin.
“You’re such an idiot,” she said.
Kai rubbed his arm, chuckling despite himself. “Yeah, well, you kinda bring it out in me.”
The moment was short-lived.
Because then—as if choreographed by the devil himself—Lia reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, shiny foil packet.
Kai mirrored her movement.
Two identical packs of bubblegum appeared in their hands, held like contraband in a prison yard.
The evil grins on their faces were practically mirrored.
Sun’s internal system pinged a Code Orange.
Oh no.
This was bad.
The animatronic’s head slowly swiveled back toward the pair. The barista stopped mid-sentence as she followed his line of sight. Her jaw dropped slightly as she noticed what her son was now holding.
“Oh my god—”
POP.
Kai blew a bubble and snapped the gum obnoxiously loud, like a starter pistol at the beginning of a war.
“Say,” Lia said, already chewing, “why don’t we both cause trouble together this time?”
Another pop.
Sun’s mechanical body tensed. The spinning rays around his head went from a slow spin to a full jittery whir—metal clicking against metal in staccato beats. His fingers fidgeted, his head twitching slightly to the side.
“No—no, no, no, NO,” he said, half to himself, half to the entire daycare.
The kids had already scattered. Some were laughing. Others fled to avoid being part of the inevitable fallout. A few brave souls stayed to watch, eyes wide in delighted horror.
Kai and Lia took off like cartoon villains, ducking under foam slides and vanishing into the maze of colored tunnels and ball pits. Within seconds, the distinct sound of sticky gum being slapped onto plastic surfaces echoed from somewhere deep within the play structure.
Sun bolted upright, joints popping with audible snaps.
The barista looked mortified. “KAI, WHAT THE HELL?!”
“I told you, ma’am,” Sun said with a manic tilt to his voice. “He’s got some issues.”
And then, without another word, Sun leapt into motion—long limbs and all—scrambling up the foam steps like a horrifyingly graceful spider with a cleaning complex.
“WAIT- YOU ARENT SUPPOSED TO HAVE GUM- OHMY—!” he shouted, voice echoing through the foam tunnels like the final boss of a platformer game.
From somewhere deep inside, you could hear Kai’s laughter, followed by another obnoxious pop of gum.
“Come catch us, Sunflower!”
“Oh you little gremlins—!”
Foam tunnels trembled as Sun chased them, ray-tips catching the light in rapid, furious spins. The chaos was back in full force.
🧼🫧
From outside the daycare, behind the observation window, you stood frozen in place, half a protein bar in your mouth as you watched the scene unfold.
You raised your brows, slowly chewing.
“…And that’s why I didn’t want to go in,” you muttered.
Mini-Sun on your watch popped back up, eyes wide in what could only be described as silent mechanical panic.
You simply pressed the lock button again.
Hard.
Nope.
Still not your problem.