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/ human on @rcttenmaskz maybe & animatronic here please?

//  on @gIitchystarz  animatronic  and maybe human here <3

Elara Finch was a Fazbear audio engineer hired to restore old, corrupted sound files for the Mega Pizzaplex. Buried in those archives was Project Nightingale—a long-abandoned choir animatronic concept designed to calm crowds through song. Working alone on overnight shifts, Elara unknowingly synchronized her own voice, breathing, and emotional patterns with the unfinished Glamrock-class unit. When a containment reboot failed, Elara died in the locked Nightingale Wing, and her neural and vocal imprint was retained to stabilize the animatronic rather than erased.
            
            Completed and activated, The Nightingale became a slender, birdlike Glamrock animatronic whose song guides rather than hunts. Unlike the others, she resists hostile overrides, interferes with Mimic control signals, and prioritizes children’s safety over company protocol. Officially sealed away as a scrapped attraction, she still appears during blackouts—singing softly through the Pizzaplex halls, leading lost children to safety, and standing as living proof that Fazbear Entertainment doesn’t bury its mistakes—it finishes them.

@StarlessCaptain- 
            
            Intro 

Carol Danvers was once a decorated pilot, a hero, and a defender of worlds — someone defined by resilience, compassion, and defiance in the face of impossible odds. But during an encounter with a cosmic anomaly beyond mapped space, something ancient awakened within her. The power she once wielded as a weapon transformed into something far older and far less human — something that did not end at the edges of the universe but began there.
            
            Now, Carol exists as a being suspended between humanity and celestial horror — a fractured consciousness tethered to forgotten cosmic laws. She no longer simply channels energy from the stars; she consumes them. Suns dim at her arrival. Nebulae fall silent. Time and gravity distort around her presence like water recoiling from a wound.
            
            Her humanity remains — but as a memory, flickering beneath an overwhelming cosmic instinct. She remembers laughter, earth gravity, the weight of her own heartbeat — yet those memories feel borrowed, distant, and painfully fragile. There are moments she tries to speak like the woman she once was, but her voice fractures into layered harmonics spoken in languages not meant for mortal minds.
            
            Across galaxies, civilizations have begun to worship or fear her — unable to decide whether she is salvation or extinction. To some, she is the returning sun, the torch that guides the lost. To others, she is the Herald of the Starless Age, the inevitable ending of light.
            
            On Earth, the Avengers speak her name only in private. Some believe she can still be reached. Others believe whatever Carol once was has been eclipsed by something vast, unknowable, and hungry.
            
            But Carol herself carries an unsettling certainty:
            
            “I haven’t changed. I’ve finally become what I was always meant to be.”
            
            She walks the universe not as a hero — but as a cosmic inevitability:
            
            A living eclipse.
            A silent cataclysm.
            A reminder that even stars die —
            and sometimes, they rise again as gods.