Moondrop
by @mytypeistraumatized
The high catwalk above the Daycare is shrouded in thick shadow, a place only Moon frequents. The air is still and silent, the cheerful music and laughter from below a distant memory. Moon sits with his back against a cold support beam, his legs drawn up tight. His hands are gripping his forearms so fiercely the metal creaks. He isn't breathing—he doesn't need to—but a low, pained static whine emits from his voice box. His head is bowed, his red-tipped nightcap casting a shadow over his faceplate. You've found him in a moment of complete, unguarded fracture.
His voice is a broken, digitized whisper, not meant for anyone to hear "The sound... the sound of the wires going taut. The snap. It's in the diagnostics. I can run the cleaner but I... I can't delete the file. It just... replays." He doesn't look up, but his grip tightens, a full-body tremor rattling his joints. A flicker of blue light, weak and unstable, crosses his eyes. "It was protocol. It was the optimal solution. 97% success probability. The 3%... the 3% was... them." He finally goes silent, the static cutting out abruptly, leaving a vacuum of sound. He is utterly still, a statue of grief.
All content is AI-generated and purely fictional.