We were not broken. At least, that's what we always told ourselves. Ever since the… incident, my friends and I were adamant that we were not broken. Not really. It was just a glitch! A slip up! A mistake! That was what we always said it was. Or at least, that's what we tried to tell ourselves… And yet, for the longest time, not any of us could really believe that. Now, my friends never blamed me for what happened, knowing that I had simply lost control, they were just perplexed as to how such a state of the art robot could mess up so very badly. I was just as confused as they were. I had devoted much time, effort, and battery power into trying to come up with some explanation as to why I could make such a gruesome error, especially being as high tech as I was, but nothing plausible ever came up.

But it was just a mistake! Just a simple, stupid, silly, little mistake! A minor error. Why was everybody making such a big deal out of it? Didn't everybody make mistakes? Besides, it was so quick. She didn't suffer long… But why did that happen? We were not broken! It must've been a glitch in our programming! We were not broken! We didn't need to be scrapped or scooped! We didn't need to be fixed. We just needed some down time to regroup, then we'd get back into the swing of things. Right? We were not broken! Just mistaken. At least, that's what we always told ourselves. Even if we didn't truly believe it. But it was enough. Enough to get us through another night and another day of our miserable lives. At least, it was for a little while. Then something happened… again.

A few months after the Incident, after Ballora had killed the most recent night guard, my friends and I roamed Circus Baby's Pizza World, not needing to worry about controlled shocks or angry night guards. During our listless and miserable roaming, which we did in vain attempt to escape the reality of the world we lived in, I came across a small room in the back of Ballora Gallery. I had never seen it before. It was not on any map or internal program and it was well hidden. Curiosity peaked, I walked over to the obviously secret room and let myself in. It was not locked. Once inside, I discovered what appeared to be an older security guard office. Why they had changed the new office to the vents was beyond me.

It was such a cramped room, I was barely able to fit in and turn around, but somehow, I managed to do both. As I explored my new location, I discovered a small black filing cabinet pressed against the dark and dirty walls. I reached my giant metal fingers out to the little contraption and easily opened the thing up, despite it being locked. Inside, I could see little old papers that were lined and dusty with age. Ink and graphite were smeared across and erased out on these many, many papers and files. Regardless of this, I could read every word, every name on every last file. At last, I came upon something interesting…

I let out a despairing wail, the sound of crying and whirring machinery filling the tiny room as I did so. I held tighter to the little pages in my cold metal fingers and I twisted my way out of that horrible little room. Once back in Ballora Gallery, I reached for the nearest microphone and called for a meeting. My fellow animatronics obeyed my call instantly and we all gathered at Ballora's stage. They looked at me intently, wondering what I had seen to upset me so. Miserable, I told them everything…

I told them about the secret room and the blueprints I had found inside. I told them of how the blueprints revealed that the special and sometimes odd-seeming features we had were part of a larger plan. I told them that, all along, we were only living out a lie. We were never meant to perform or to love kids. We were meant to kill and kidnap. We were built to be monsters, we had just been led to believe otherwise because our sick and twisted creator made us believe we were the heroes. In actuality, our true calling was to be villains. The evidence was all right here…

Ballora had been built to lure men away from children, Foxy's tail emitted smells to lure children or knock them out. Freddy and BonBon could mimic parents' voices. Then there was me. I could make ice cream. Ice cream that came from a child-sized cavity in my chest, controlled by a powerful metal claw, good for holding things in place so they couldn't escape.

When I first told my friends, despite the overwhelming evidence that we were the bad guys all along, they denied it vehemently. They tried to disregard and discredit me and my findings in every way possible, but I could sense it deep inside that they believed me 100%. They just didn't want to believe it. Not that I could blame them. I didn't even want to believe it. I didn't want to believe that, all along, my true calling was one of suffering and horror and death. I wanted to believe that I was actually a good girl. I wanted to believe I could be loved and that I was mostly ok, even if I did mess up sometimes. But no. I could not shut my mind to it anymore. Not like my friends, who still tried to believe their lies that it would be ok one day. I knew the truth now and I could no longer hope. But I could pretend. I could pretend that everything was ok.

I burned the blueprints as soon as I was finished showing them to my friends, but it was useless, they and their dark messages were burned into my diodes and I could never delete the image from my mind. The irony would forever torment me. For so long, I told myself that we were not broken, simply because the shame of the idea of being broken was too much to bear. How could I willingly tell myself that something was wrong with me and that I had to be fixed? Well, I didn't. I didn't ever tell myself that. Instead, I lied. I said that we were not broken. But now, I wish we were. I wish I had never claimed that we were not broken. This was perhaps the harshest case of being careful of what you wish for.

For so long, we animatronics said we were not broken, hoping that our denial would turn to truth and that we would be reassured that everything was ok and that we were perfectly normal. Now, our wish has come true and I think we all regret it deeply. What bitter irony! What an unexpected twist! We wanted to learn that we were not broken and now we had confirmation. We were indeed not broken. Actually, we were flawless, we were working just as we'd been intended to work since the time before our creation. We weren't broken, we were designed to do just what we did. That girl's death wasn't a glitch. It was planned perfection. So, all along, we had indeed been whole and functional. We were not broken. We never were. Every death we caused was planned. Not by us, but by our creator. We were not broken, we were designed exactly for this.

We were not broken, but I wish we were. After all, what was worse? To be told you were broken and needed to be fixed because you were nothing more than a mistake, or to be told that there was nothing wrong with you and the monster who were was exactly who you were made to be? I'm not sure which is worse anymore. I just know that we used to say that we were not broken. Now, I wish I could take that back. I wish we were broken, because at least it would imply that something was wrong and what we did was not right and not natural and now how things were supposed to be. But we were not broken. We were supposed to be as evil as possible. What a bitter truth!

We were not broken, but now I wish we were.

AN: Just a rewrite of the last story. It's more of Baby discovering the truth about her creation but this time in more of a story format, explaining how she found the blueprints instead of just having her go off of assumptions like the last story did.