"Hello, children! I'm Foxy! And this is my friend, Mini Me! Say hi, Mini Me!"

"Hi kids!"

"Do you want to play with me?"

Those are the words that do me in. The kids are grinning and laughing and just being, well, kids. I love them so much. My circuits are programmed for it. I suppose that's why I let it happen. I suppose that's why I'm like this.

Kids crowd around my paws. I try and wave them backwards; I'm feeling a bit unsure about this. The adults aren't in the room. They're supposed to be in the room. Mini Me attempts to make a joke—well, more like I attempt to make a joke using Mini Me—but the children aren't backing away.

They're supposed to back away, right? Right?

It's only been a few days on the job. Everyday, I ask the kids if they want to play. They're slowly getting more wild. Is that how kids work? I'm not sure. I don't know if I can do this. I refrain from speaking up, getting worried. That's when I feel my tail getting pulled. The furry appendage slips from its spot right where my lower back gets super low. There's a small hole where it clicks in, and I feel myself getting colder as the kids' faces seem to light up with ideas.

"Foxy, let us play with you," one child says. Another jumps up and attaches itself to my arm. I'm getting pulled down. I can't fight back—that would be wrong. I can't hurt the kids! They deserve better than to be yelled at or stopped from having fun. I try and put a smile on my face. I struggle with the action as I allow myself to slip into a low power state. The kids—how are they doing this? Am I just made of metal that can be moved? Is this supposed to happen?

No matter.

I roll over and put myself back together. Mini Me reaches out and snags my lower arm from where it's laying beside me. I click it back into place and reach for my tail. Then my ear and one missing finger. I sit up mechanically, shifting my shoulders. I feel odd. I don't know what I'm feeling, but I think I miss the kids.

At least it's nearly tomorrow.

The parents are escorting their children out. I hear their din fade away and wait for the lights to switch off. The adults don't put me together, because they know I can do it. As long as I can, it shouldn't be a problem.

As soon as the lights are off, I begin to move. I have to search for Mini Me's 'suit' head. The sheen of the black endoskeleton disturbs me just slightly. I don't know if I mind it or not. Is this right? How do I know?

I twist my foot back onto my leg, then reattach my tail again. It seems to be the most popular part to remove. Today, however, I find it hard to locate my other leg. Soon, I find it under a table.

It doesn't matter that much.

The kids have found out how to remove my suit. I don't know where they're hiding the parts. I've lost one of my foot's pieces.

Today, I struggle to put myself together. The adults help me by reattaching parts of my suit and endoskeleton. My ears are both gone but they swiftly find those. I think my eyes are coming loose in my sockets, but I can't be sure. I can't be sure at all.

I'm not that worried.

The kids! The kids are taking me apart! I can't think straight! Why am I panicking? Oh, right, because they got into my circuits. They've switched something around. My head isn't right. My tail is missing. Mini Me doesn't have his suit; he's a head now. What's happening to me? My vision is blurry and nothing looks right. The adults now have to put me back together every day because I can't find everything by myself. My eyes are removed and tossed around as if they're balls. I can feel the adults' feelings, but they're blurred and indistinct—as are my own. What's happening to me? Have I already said that? I can't tell, but . . .

I'm barely ruined.

My arm is attached to my spine. My suit is half gone. Broken, I think. I can't tell anymore. My mind is fuzzy and I can notice this . . . buzzing. It's static, possibly. My voice box is utterly destroyed. I think the adults can fix it, though. Wait, does that make sense? I can't tell. I don't know how I can't tell but I just can't.

I've already consulted the other animatronics about my problems—their programming doesn't allow them to see things like I do. Or don't. The kids . . . my circuits, my servos.

Help me.

Where is my body? There's so many things wrong with me I can't even take it. My mind . . . is not mine anymore. I hear things that aren't there. I know because . . . actually, I don't.

Suit—gone. Mini Me—destroyed. I miss . . . what do I miss? I can't remember.

I can no longer walk. I use the jutting limbs of my endoskeleton to crawl up the walls and ceiling. It works. I can hang up there quite nicely. If only my circuits were in working order. The servos are all wrong. Why is this happening to me?

I think the other animatronics don't like to be around me anymore. But they don't understand. They don't understand like I do. Maybe I shouldn't have let the kids mess me up. But I couldn't have hurt them. It's not their fault. They were tainted . . . tainted by those . . . adults. And those adults—they'll pay. Someday, but maybe not today, but maybe not tomorrow either. It's fine, though. I can handle everything. No worries.

I'm fine.