As the clock struck 3:00 AM, the power flickered. Parker reached for the maintenance panel. He had to balance the oxygen levels with the camera feed. If he looked away for too long, the vents would hiss open. If he stared too hard, the air would run out.
The screens turned white. The mechanical roars were drowned out by the roar of the self-destruct sequence. As the countdown hit zero, the static on the monitors cleared for one brief second, showing the four tubby-bots standing perfectly still, staring into the lens. "Big hug," the speaker crackled.
The air in the bunker felt heavy, tasting of ozone and old grease. Parker checked the radar; the signatures were moving faster than the previous nights. These weren't just malfunctioning robots; they were vessels for a decades-old grudge.
By 5:55 AM, the bunker was a pressure cooker. The ventilation was failing, and the hallway was filled with the scrap-metal screeches of the approaching animatronics. Parker realized the truth: this place wasn't built to keep them out; it was built to bury them all together. He initiated the final override.