#pom writes

You jump a little when Moon's face appears right next to yours. The small jump is a drastic improvement from your previous shrieks and scrambles away, as you've grown accustomed to his naturally 2000s jumpscare-esque approach.

Moon has diligently climbed across the counter. At least he is wearing house slippers, but it still agitates you to have him up on tables. 

“are you s- scared?” Moon giggles, voice synth crackling in delight. 

You sigh and set the plate down, letting it clink in the soapy water. With trepidation, you offer, “one. And you’ll leave me alone?” 

Moon says nothing in response. His permanent grin stretches all too wide. Rows of piano teeth and sharp, jagged metal fangs.  

But his faceplate clicks a degree to the left, and you accept the small gesture as confirmation enough for a truce.

Fine then. 

You lean across the counter to place a quick peck on Moon’s cheek.

The robot patiently waits, faceplate swiveled on its hinge to give you optimal access.

The moment before you reach him, its faceplate snaps and changes direction.

So that you kiss him.

On their fucked up teeth, sculpted into an eerie grin.

Technically. On the mouth. 

Heat floods to your face in embarrassment at the attention-seeking prank. “Moon!” 

You jump back while their head continues to spin and spin, click-click-click of inhuman laughter, rolling on the counter like it's the funniest thing.

"Happy?" you huff. Unwisely turning your back on the shadowy abomination to resume your futile task of washing the remaining plates.

The frigid bite of a metal digit presses underneath your chin.

You freeze, shoulders tensing.

The spindly claw tilts your head so that your eyes bore into the intense gleam of digital red ones. The color illuminates across your face in a ruby hue.

"very," the metallic contraption giggles, and you feel your heartbeat trapped inside your throat, rendering you silent.

You suppose — for now — the dishes can wait.

To rewind, and recap: there was waking up and wandering out to your car to drag out the rest of your belongings. Puddles and mud stained the bottoms of your pants, leaving your once shined shoes a wreck. For some reason, the dirty shoes really, really pissed you off — the final straw in the string of inconveniences and near-death scenarios with mysterious bots in the midst of the night.

You hardly slept a wink, if the red-rings underneath your too-wide eyes was any indication. Or, perhaps the sign of your exhaustion was that you kicked the tires of your car, then apologized to your beloved vehicle, after you recovered from the immense pain of stubbing your toe.

So. Yeah. Some may say you're in a bad mood, but it's no chip on your shoulder, right? You're used to shorter ends of the stick than this. Life keeps dealing you a bad hand, so you've needed to get clever with your use of misfortune.

Turning your head, you realize that in the sobering tinge of daylight, the hotel looked even more dingy and shady than it had at night; but in a far more forlorn, abandoned attraction sort of way. Like watching the most popular toy store in town slowly go out of business, as you aged right alongside it. Something being held onto for far too long for nostalgia's sake.

Or at least that's the impression you got.

Striding inside with your dignity barely in tact (and your suitcase kept in the car, no thanks, you just need to quit at this point & not try to drag it through the mud.) With a heavy heart, you yield that you'll need to borrow a phone line from the smiley, uppity creep at the front desk. Gloss through the yellow pages, if they even had enough sense to hold onto them, for the nearest mechanic you can call to get out here. If you even have the damn funds to fix the thing!

Whatever. Whatever! Dinner first, the piling hailstorm of tasks you're accruing, like debt at a casino, later. Maybe you'll order something strong from the bar to wash it all away. If you are losing every penny here in an effort to make a big break, you might as well go all-in, if dirty, cheap tricks are on the table.

The lobby is eerily devoid of the receptionist — Sun, was it? — and you consider if that is another bad omen, or perhaps the first break of many to come. The storm had cleared up, so maybe your bad luck will, too.

Though you'd attribute slashed tires to a little more than bad luck.

You ring for the elevator, because three pointless flights of stairs might just be your breaking point. Impatient, you rock back and forth on your heels, mildly irritated by the squeak! the motion makes, drenched by the puddles of fallen rain.

The elevator dings! and opens right up, faux golden metal elegantly puzzling apart to reveal a regal interior. With shitty carpeting choices. You must admire the consistency to be gaudy. You take a step forward, and then grind to a halt.

There is no statue in the elevator — it's Sun.

Of course it's Sun.

You freeze like a dear in the headlights, staring up at the metal-man, whose lanky arms are politely folded behind his back in a stiff pose.

"Going up, esteemed guest?" His eternal grin is damning. A knowing sort of smirk, or at least that's the emotions your hangry-angry mind project onto the unusual receptionist. In the end, you had no evidence to prove that this guy did anything to mess with you, other than the fact you are quickly finding you hate him and the way he smiles.

"Yes. And! It looks like my stay will be extending," you lightly offer. "So. I need something filling to warm up." Your eyes go into slits with how hard you are smiling, so fake it'd embarrass you if you weren't seconds away from rolling up your sleeves and letting this twig have it.

"Oh?" The cheery lilt to his tone is scratchy, warm as a honey-tinted vinyl record. "How positively delightful! Then, with your extended stay, perhaps I can convince you — esteemed thousandth guest of El Astro Hotel! —to upgrade your stay to one of our far more luxurious suites, in the Southern Wing! An upgraded suite even comes with a discount to the laundromat, and room service that could easily launder your—"

"No thanks on the promotional offer. I'm strapped for cash as-is." You cut the smiley-freaklet off before he can continue his tediously long speech.

At being unable to finish his grand sales pitch, you see the slightest twitch to his mechanisms. A brief reset, then peachy-keen and all smiles once more! So. Unnervingly. Friendly. There has to be a cult brainwashing going on here, but that would take more than one member.

The robot scrutinizes your attire with a quick, seamless, easy to miss up-down of his pupils. If you hadn't been scrutinizing him in turn, wary of his well-pressed and ironed outfit, not a single pleat or wrinkle out of place on his richly, obnoxiously bright attire. The robot quite literally seems to shine, the garishly bright lights all around dancing off the bronze of his make. Like he aimed countless spotlights at himself, soaking in the excess of lumens.

"Why, I'd never be able to tell!" Sun lies outright, bastardly grin tugging to grow ever-wider, and thus ever-thinner stretched over the synthetic smile. You look, and feel, like shit. And you are starved. So you decide to keep this charade nice and short. At least until you can recoup and get your wits about you, too frazzled to even question why he is manning the elevator tonight.

"The dining room," you remind the sunshine bot.

"Oh!" Sun exclaims, clasping his hands together. Making a pointed effort to look at the panel of buttons he is practically body-blocking. Seriously, why is he in here and not creeping around the oddly complex tunnels downstairs like some sort of ancient sentinel? You have used this elevator plenty of times before without his intervention.

"Ever-so-sorry, dear guest. Allow me," he hums as he presses the button to call the elevator. Paranoia continues to prickle through you, making your senses alight from anger to pissed-off curiosity. There are only like, three floors. You just didn't want to take the stairs from how your legs burn after hiking through the surrounding area, failing to find any slightest indication of civilization nearby.

As if to answer your unspoken questions, the elevator stops mid-way.

You quirk a brow, gazing to the bellhop with a pointed stare.

"Ah, a mere hiccup. Surely it will be fixed in no-no-no time at all, dear guest." He hums, swaying as his gaze goes up to the nearly-exposed mechanisms that pull the elevator up through the shaft. You blink. Slowly.

It took several hours for the elevator to miraculously "unstuck" itself. By then, your stomach was not only growling, but actively trying to tear itself to shreds, like hungry wolves to a single lamb.

During this time, you heard enough prerecorded propaganda for the Southern Wing stay at the El Astro Hotel, and its long list of injury waivers so that the owners could never possibly be sued, to fill several volumes of a novel series. It was worse than eating dry-wall or watching paint dry. It was watching a knowing, insidiously polite attendant yammer on and on about his job, knowing damn well he trapped you in this purgatory with the barest raise of his gloved fingertips.

You wanted to claw your eyes out, or maybe rip out Sun's voice box, but the entire time you managed a pleasant smile with a far-off, dissociated & defeated stare.

By the time the elevator dings, and the doors slide open, you are a mere husk, a shell of the person you once were.

Like a soul-sucked zombie, you stumble out, remembering at last to blink as your head rings with the tinny sound of Sun's voice.

"Enjoy your meal, our most humble guest! You have — oh, dear, five minutes 'til kitchens close. Goodbye!" The robot feigns innocence as he waves you off like a lover to sea, and the doors slam shut before you can bolt back in — yet you do try.

Out of utter frustration, you slam a fist against the elevator door. Unable to even wallow or curse out the bot, too depleted of all energy to give a shit anymore.

“Does it taste good? Oh, dear, is it too sweet? I picked this one out special, because it reminded me of you! ♡”