{"sf1_id":2227622,"sf2_id":"r1740Oje","title":"Cross Builder","author":"Oliver_Hart","words":3370,"posted_at":"2025-02-20T21:32:16.000Z","tags":["Adventure","Character Development","Crow","Foxing","HMOFA","Human","Lore"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2227622-cross-builder","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/r1740Oje","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/b9/2f/b92fab3a-69f2-4c5a-9411-06af362bb856","description":"(You) are a newly graduated Foxer, carrying a secret identity: you're a dream walker; a so-called mutant. When the Church discovers your abilities you're pressed into service and sent beyond the walls of Enclave. There you encounter another dream walker, who just so happens to be your sworn enemy. Written with love. A /hmofa/ epic.  \n  \nFoxing lives on autononymous.io, but updates across SoFurry and Ao3. Full story begins 3/14 and releases every Friday.","content":"# Cross Builder\n\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAuTmm4JV6M\u0026list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S\u0026index=2\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour name is Benjamin; most people call you Ben, or Benny\n\n\\\u003eYou're a Gray Tail, an elite Order of Foxers who go on special missions\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd shit like this isn't supposed to happen to Gray Tails!\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“Here girlie! C'mere Lucy!\" You call, hopeful voice crackling with dehydration and exhaustion\n\n\\\u003eYour chapped lips purse together to seal a frustrated shout in your lungs\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eIt's not fair, bros...\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eLife… just isn't fair sometimes\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou yelled yourself raw earlier in a bid to summon Lucy;\n\n\\\u003eYou screamed your primal hymn to the deaf crowd like some idiot raving about his animal god\n\n\\\u003eRepurposed hemp rope bites into your pale flesh like little fibrous teeth bound to yours wrists\n\n\\\u003eThe lashes around your wrists bind you to a crude, rot-wood crucifix; one waiting to be set upwards high on a hill, somewhere in Purgatory, against the rising of the sun,\n\n\\\u003eYou, its chief occupant\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes split open as you petition the dark sky once more\n\n“LUCY! Where are ya, girl?\"\n\n\\\u003eA halo of crows circles overhead, a noisy chorus of wings and feathers that await their next meal\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou thrash around against the bindings, trying to find the weakness in the cross builder's torture materials — some knot they failed to secure; some structural fault in their rope\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou come up empty and sweating, and strained\n\n\\\u003eA shrill, almost mocking screech pierces your ears\n\n\\\u003eThe sound someone — something — makes when they've got no grasp of language, but need to convey excitement\n\n\\\u003eYou lift your tired head\n\n\\\u003eStanding around you, chittering in a language only the deaf and blind can hear:\n\n\\\u003eFestering, sweaty, violent as a heretic\n\n\\\u003eCross builders\n\n\\\u003eThey await their comrade's return\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou know how cross builders work:\n\n\\\u003eFirst they swarm you, overwhelm you\n\n\\\u003eBludgeon you, beat you, bite you, strange you\n\n\\\u003eIf they don't kill you at first, they make use out of you\n\n\\\u003eIt'll be two nails, one each palm\n\n\\\u003eAnd a larger one driven into your feet\n\n\\\u003eShattering bone, ripping through muscle\n\n\\\u003ePinning you to the wood like a trapped insect\n\n\\\u003eLeft over for the sport of the crows\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou're a Foxer for the Church — that means the whole goddamn of humanity\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe people of God's Promise\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd God keeps His promises, right?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes scan the pale, naked sea of legs and hungry torsos, searching in vain for your service fox, Lucy\n\n\\\u003eIn order for hope to survive — a caged bird within your chest — you NEED her to appear in the crowd\n\n\\\u003eNOW\n\n\\\u003eIt's a borderline spiritual matter!\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou try another dry whistle but no air comes out of you\n\n\\\u003eFrustrated, you let a scream claw its way out of your raw throat\n\n“LUCY!\"\n\n\\\u003eLucky for you, cross builders are blind and deaf, so really, you're _almost_ yelling to yourself\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou've come to hate the those hairless bastards for more than just what they are — tribal savages, bent on crucifying man and bird\n\n\\\u003eYou hate their lack of reaction to your pain\n\n\\\u003eTo your struggling\n\n\\\u003eThey could care less until the hammers and nails get here, it feels like\n\n\\\u003eMakes you feel…\n\n\\\u003eAlone…\n\n\\\u003e…almost…\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eHard to feel that way with so many of them around you\n\n\\\u003eSurrounded by people with no eyes, and yet you feel so intimately watched and studied\n\n\\\u003eNo eyes!\n\n\\\u003eNo ears!\n\n\\\u003eNot even a nose!\n\n\\\u003eThey're like a blank slate of a person; a lump of clay unmolded by God\n\n\\\u003ePale, violent in their ruined half-state, it's said they hunt using vibrations\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou _almost_ pity them\n\n\\\u003eIf they weren't so FUCKING EVIL\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThey are nearly deprived of all the tools with which you use to navigate Purgatory (including foxes)\n\n\\\u003eThough\n\n\\\u003eThey… have mouths…\n\n\\\u003eGod…\n\n\\\u003eWide, grinning mouths, stuffed full of yellow, broken teeth, as jagged as wolf's teeth\n\n\\\u003eCONSTANTLY chattering…\n\n\\\u003e…sometimes screaming in animal tongues with no discernible vowels or consonants that you can string together\n\n\\\u003eTruthfully there is no content to their speech; just hedonistic growling and gurgles that echo for city blocks,\n\n\\\u003eSimple actions guided by shamanistic fervor as their cult-like leader, mask and all, will occasionally materialize\n\n\\\u003eCenturies of study has yet to lead humanity any closer understanding their godless language\n\n\\\u003eIt's thought that they have no language\n\n\\\u003eThey have only an instinct to crucify and inflict pain, and to react with joy when inflicting said pain\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“Lucy! C'mere girl!\" you scream again\n\n\\\u003eWell, you fucking refuse to give up\n\n\\\u003eYou are SO much better than a padfoot, fresh out of Academy\n\n\\\u003eYou're a FUCKING Gray Tail, damnit, an elite Foxer\n\n\\\u003e…Who is supposed to be out on a special mission…\n\n\\\u003eAnd- And\n\n\\\u003eYou didn't even deserve to get caught!\n\n\\\u003eYour chest heaves with exhaustion\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThen, without warning, the cross-builders go quiet\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eLike glass shattering at a dinner party, the 'conversation' stops\n\n\\\u003eA silence so abrupt settles on the Wealthy Street that it's almost like…\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eEyeless heads turn in your direction\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e…they heard you yelling\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eOne of those lanky, pale cross builders emerges from the crowd\n\n\\\u003eIn his right hand is a blunted knife, clearly fashioned out of scrap from around the area\n\n\\\u003eThe cross builder squats down next to you, his empty, pale face obscuring the moonlight\n\n\\\u003eHe studies you for a second\n\n\\\u003eHis jaw works with primitive adrenaline, a thin, gossamer thread of drool threading down onto your naked chest\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes flicker over to the blunt knife, white-knuckled in his grip\n\n\\\u003eHis hand is trembling\n\n\\\u003eNow or never Lucy, he's gonna slit your neck\n\n\\\u003eYou open your mouth to call again-\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe cross builder SLAMS the knife into your side, a clear attempt to pierce your skin\n\n\\\u003eThe knife glances off your rib bone, but not quite breaking the skin — too blunted\n\n\\\u003eThe bruising pain sends white hot flashes of light into your vision\n\n\\\u003eYou bite your lower lip, killing a scream in your throat\n\n\\\u003eYou refuse to let them hear you scream like this\n\n\\\u003eThey don't deserve it; they can't hear anyway\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe cross builder tries to break skin again\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eSuddenly it's no longer a crisp, early autumn night\n\n\\\u003eIt's not the September you remember; cloudless and cold\n\n\\\u003eThere is only a searing flash of white that explodes in your vision, blanketing all sound and sense in the resonate feeling of pain\n\nh\n\n\\\u003eAt first, your eyes go wide in shock, as if you can see unconsciousness — death even — approaching from the periphery\n\n\\\u003eAnd then, the pain the cross becomes a distant feeling, a question brought to a non-answer in your mind through several layers of abstraction and compression\n\n\\\u003eLike a memory you once had but lost, and now you're only left with fragments of the sounds: the whooping and hollering, the frightened gonking and cawing\n\n\\\u003eIn desperation your mind hurtles towards a prayer — anything to speak to God one last time, if this is to be that fated last time\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd then\n\n\\\u003eAll at once\n\n\\\u003eIt stops\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eSatisfied with inflicting pain on you, the cross builder simply drops his 'knife' and stands tall\n\n\\\u003eHe walks back towards the assemblage crowd of the faceless others\n\n\\\u003eThey begin hollering at each other in some kind of reverie\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes open, one at a time\n\n\\\u003eYou turn your head left, and look down at the knife that bastard dropped\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes hunger, blunt as it may be\n\n\\\u003eSo close, and yet so far\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour senses fill\n\n\\\u003eAir finds its way back to your lungs through shallow breaths\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes unclench at last and swell with cold moonlight\n\n\\\u003eCrows circle above, like a black halo around the moon\n\n\\\u003eA symphony of crickets meets your ears; the sweetest sound you've ever heard\n\n\\\u003eA gentle wind kisses your sweat-slicked skin\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eA squawky voice that breaks with touches of humanity, bordering on mimicry, draws your attention to your right\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e\"Demon- demon is alive?\"\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAh, you almost forgot, you're not alone in this torture\n\n\\\u003eThe cross builders captured _the two of you_\n\n\\\u003eThose bastards got the jump on you both in the ruins while you were in a proverbial game of cat and mouse\n\n\\\u003eSure, you wanted to kill him back then, but now, given the situation…\n\n\\\u003eYou pity him\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“Demon is 'alive',\" you parrot back, voice quiet and cracking from the pain\n\n\\\u003eYou roll your head to the right\n\n\\\u003eThere's a second crucifix resting on a shattered slab of concrete, just like yours\n\n\\\u003eA body lashed to the timbers\n\n\\\u003eBut not just any body\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eA heretic, is what your people call him\n\n\\\u003eCorvid, Corvidae, raven, heretic…\n\n\\\u003eVictim…\n\n\\\u003eLike you\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eA gnarled length of rope binds the raven to the rotted timbers by his rather thin, feathered wrists, almost identical to how you're bound\n\n\\\u003eStill, at nearly six-foot-eight, and corded with muscle, you find it curious that this raven hasn't just ripped himself off the cross and escaped on his own\n\n\\\u003eThe berzerker-like strength of ravens is like Foxing 101\n\n“Looks like they needed a bigger cross for you, aye 'friend'?\" You crack a dopey smile at the raven\n\n\\\u003eNot friendly, but you're not sure he understands that\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes travel down from the raven's quivering, black beak\n\n\\\u003eBlood seethes from fresh slits in his side where a cross builder's knife-work was a little more precise\n\n\\\u003ePerhaps _that's_ why he hasn't run\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe heretic's black feathers peel from his body, one-after-another, catching the midnight breeze\n\n\\\u003eYou're reminded a little of leaves in the fall\n\n\\\u003eThe way you and Mary would go apple picking in Farthing's Orchards, near Vigil\n\n\\\u003eRight around this time of the year, actually\n\n\\\u003eAnd the spiced evening winds carried cinnamon and apple blossom\n\n\\\u003eAnd you kissed by the bonfire\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eA better memory, under happier circumstances\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe heretic's yellow eyes meet yours\n\n\\\u003eThere's no fury in his face — not any longer\n\n\\\u003eNone of the anger that drove you towards one another with rifle or bayonet just hours ago\n\n\\\u003eNothing even resembling a final purpose\n\n\\\u003eWhat you see reminds you…\n\n\\\u003e…of years away from home…\n\n\\\u003e….of the piles of messages and love letters that you'll never read…\n\n\\\u003e…of the children you'll never have, encircling you, laughing, pulling on your leg, asking for another story 'from beyond the walls'…\n\n\\\u003e…of a life un-lived, a careful home once built now, undone…\n\n\\\u003e…of yourself\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe heretic's eyelids are heavy, ringed with exhaustion and stained with dried tears of regret\n\n\\\u003eTears that sodden the black feathers covering his half-dressed body\n\n\\\u003eYou swear, the longer you look…\n\n\\\u003e…the more 'human' the heretic seems to you\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eWhat's that old saying?\n\n\\\u003e_The enemy of my enemy is my friend?_\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“How are you holding up?\" you ask in a low voice, weak voice\n\n\\\u003eThe raven looks over at you and blinks, heavy eyelids falling like they weighed ten pounds each\n\n\\\u003e\"_Skaa katha_,\" the raven says, eyes flickering down to the fresh rivulets of blood gathering into a sizable puddle beneath him. “Demon _katha_.\"\n\n\\\u003e_Katha_\n\n\\\u003eBlood?\n\n\\\u003eHurt?\n\n\\\u003eDeath?\n\n\\\u003eDying?\n\n\\\u003eWhatever that means, the prognosis is probably not good\n\n“Listen, I'm going to get out of here,\" you say, trying to believe in your own words. “God will redeem me. And- and if I can just get Lucy to come gnaw these ropes, I'm home-free. I've got a horse on Chestnut Lane, three blocks over. I- I can get out of this if I just had Lucy.\"\n\n\\\u003eThe heretic nods along with a heavy, leaden head\n\n\\\u003eHe seems to understand you, mostly\n\n\\\u003e\"You call to 'Lucy, yes, yes,'\" he wheezes\n\n“Ssssomething like that,\" you hiss\n\n\\\u003eGoddamnit he doesn't understand\n\n\\\u003eWhat's the use anyway? Now's not the time to learn English\n\n\\\u003e“Visha make help find,\" the bird says with a weak, affirmative nod\n\n\\\u003eVisha's beak starts working with a sound familiar to you, because the voice isn't TECHNICALLY his\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eIt's yours\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e“Here girlie! C'mere Lucy!\" The raven bellows, his — your — voice echoing off the buildings lining Wealthy Street\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eChills run up through your body\n\n\\\u003eIt's the first time you've ever… ever heard your own voice parroted back at you with such disturbing accuracy\n\n\\\u003eAnd you've dealt with heretics _plenty_\n\n\\\u003eIt's always incredibly unsettling hearing them do that little trick of the voice\n\n\\\u003eAll Corvidae can mimic what they hear\n\n\\\u003eSentences, sounds\n\n\\\u003eVoices\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd that was…\n\n\\\u003e…louder than you could do it, by a lot\n\n\\\u003eMaybe Lucy heard that?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eSeconds later you hear your own whistle booming in the throat of the heretic\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e\"Visha help find,\" the raven squawks\n\n\\\u003eA weak, confused smile graces your lips\n\n\\\u003eBy God… this heretic is actually trying to help you\n\n\\\u003eOut of curiosity, you try lifting your head up to search for Lucy, just to see if it worked\n\n\\\u003eThe cross builders mill around you, chittering and waiting for the nails and hammers to arrive, unaware of yours or the bird's efforts to summon Lucy\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou sigh and lower your head back onto the cross\n\n\\\u003eNo fox\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e\"Lucy is comrade?\" Visha wheezes, just a few feet to your right\n\n\\\u003eA small puff of laughter escapes you\n\n“No she's not- well, yes, actually. She is my comrade. She's my service fox — a damned good one, too. But she ran off when the cross builders showed up, and I haven't seen her since.\"\n\n\\\u003e\"Ah,\" the heretic says with a click of recognition. “_Vulca_. 'Fox.' I know you _Vulcada_ but Visha not see _vulca_ when _Totcha_ come to take us away.\"\n\n\\\u003eWith significant effort, the heretic raises his head off the cross so that he can tilt his head to face you\n\n\\\u003eYou roll your head to the right to face the heretic\n\n\\\u003e\"Lucy…. she listen to _Vulcada_ voice,\" he offers with a weak smile. “Visha is good singer.\"\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“I appreciate you trying that,\" you say, almost letting a full on smile form on your lips\n\n\\\u003eAlmost\n\n\\\u003eYou WERE trying to stab or shoot one another a few hours before this, after all.\n\n\\\u003eStill, you get the sense that this raven isn't just trying to mock you or berate you in your time of need\n\n\\\u003eNo\n\n\\\u003eHis actions are the actions of a man trying to prevent something truly disgusting and terrible from happening — and maybe save his own skin in the process\n\n\\\u003eYou study the bird closely for that's about all you can do right now\n\n\\\u003eA raven — a heretic\n\n\\\u003eStands on two, taloned feet, toned body in a second-skin of black feathers\n\n\\\u003eBroad shoulders, brawny forearms\n\n\\\u003eDense bones\n\n\\\u003eNo wings — anywhere\n\n\\\u003eThin wrists terminating in talons with five fingers each\n\n\\\u003eThe heretic's heavy eyelids flutter open and meet your eyes\n\n\\\u003eHis eyes….\n\n\\\u003eThey're gold\n\n\\\u003eLike coins\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“I don't know how much of what I'm saying you can understand, \" you say with a weak voice, “but I promise, my God will not forsake me to die on this cross. He does not forsake those He has promised eternal life to. My Lord keeps His Promise.\"\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAround you cross builders chitter loudly in excitement, their only prerogative being hammer, nails, and flying your decaying corpses like flags on the highest hill in they can safely find\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour watery eyes stare back at the bird, waiting for an answer\n\n\\\u003eThe heretic's maw opens to suck in the cold air of an October night\n\n\\\u003eHe draws a labored breath\n\n\\\u003eHe starts to speak in a broken, half-pieced together form of English\n\n\\\u003e\"You… you god h-help?\" the bird stammers, his words halting; deteriorated from the blood loss and lack of practice\n\n\\\u003eA thin, worn smile curls on your lips at last\n\n\\\u003e\"He will help us,\" you say, nodding. “My God is powerful. And he won't abandon me here. This I know.\"\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes dart around for any sign of Lucy real fast\n\n\\\u003eNow would be great timing for your service fox to show up and try and start chewing on some ropes\n\n\\\u003eYa know, some kind of divine intervention?\n\n\\\u003eYou steel yourself; summoning your last drops of courage from the small well within you\n\n\"God will deliver _us_,\" you say, trying your best to sound firm. “He will deliver myself, and _you as well_.\"\n\n\\\u003eThe heretic pauses, parsing your words\n\n\\\u003eSome time passes, but he does respond in weak, raspy voice\n\n\\\u003e\"Your god help,\" he offers with a tired, unsure nod\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“Yes,\" you say, now beaming with a smile. “_My God help._\"\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAt that the utterance of that sentence, the noise of the cross builders grinds to an abrupt halt\n\n\\\u003eThe crowd goes go still, their collective, schizophrenic screams brought to an unnatural silence\n\n\\\u003eAll that remains is the sweet harmony of late summer crickets\n\n\\\u003eYou and the raven both raise your heads in unison\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe sea of faceless, naked men parts, like an ocean split into two sides\n\n\\\u003eTwo cross builders approach down the middle of the split\n\n\\\u003eOne of them has an arm full of dirty used nails, which clatter onto the concrete behind him like a trail\n\n\\\u003eThe other carries with him some mismatched hammers and mallets, fit for pounding said nails into restrained flesh\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour heartbeat explodes in your rib cage\n\n\\\u003eOh God\n\n\\\u003eThe raven next to you caws in a panic, struggling with what might be his last gasps in an attempt to break free of the ropes\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe mantra is thick on your lips\n\n\\\u003ePounded into your very soul by the hammer of repetition, years at Academy, and years as a good, faithful servant of God outside — and inside — the walls\n\n\"God will deliver us. God will deliver us,\" you repeat, trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating\n\n\\\u003eYou'd kick your legs in panic if you could move them\n\n\\\u003eTo your right the heretic makes a plea to his own god, gods, or ancestors — whichever has driven them from the love of… suppose its 'your god?'\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe cross builder drops the armload of nails at your side\n\n\\\u003eYou're to be first\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“God will deliver us!\" You yell to the sky, trying not to look into the face — or lack thereof — of the people about to crucify you\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe other cross builder distributes hammers and mallets without logic or order\n\n\\\u003eThis will be no clean crucifixion\n\n\\\u003eNo precision hammer strokes\n\n\\\u003eBut it will be a group activity\n\n\\\u003eEveryone will get a turn to drive the nails in\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd right when the first one with a mallet arrives at your side, laughing and screeching with excitement?\n\n\\\u003eAs they position the nails above your clenched palms?\n\n\\\u003eAs the cross builder raises the mallet against the moonlight, against the halo of crows squawking demands for meat from above\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThat's when the trembling starts\n\n\\\u003eThe ground shakes beneath you like the end of a dream\n\n\\\u003eSomething you're oh-so familiar with\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n\\\u003eThe two cross builders at your side turn their focus away from your palms and onto the pile of nails\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe nails jitter and shake, clattering against one another in a rusted-bronze pile\n\n\\\u003eAs if jolted to life from below\n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n\\\u003e\"GOD WILL DELIVER US!\" the raven screams, an echo of your voice\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eFuck, you sure hope so\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe ground stutters with a tremendous THUMP in the distance\n\n\\\u003eIn unison the cross builders let loose with frightened chirps and howls\n\n\\\u003eIn a mad scramble, they break from the street and run for the shelter of nearby buildings, some half-destroyed, others in pristine condition\n\n\\\u003eYou watch, laughing, as they scatter like swarms of pale roaches brought up to the light, bug-like in their movements\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n\\\u003eThen you squint, staring down the length Wealthy Street\n\n\\\u003eYou see something\n\n\\\u003eThere's a gray shape, traveling low to the ground, coming in at a distance\n\n\\\u003eRight down the center of Wealthy Street\n\n\\\u003e…heading right at you…\n\n\\\u003e…a sleek, predatory shape…\n\n\\\u003e…ears like knives…\n\n\\\u003eYou squint harder, heart pounding in your chest\n\n\\\u003eIs it really?\n\n\\\u003eIs it-\n\n\\\u003eIn the moonlight, as if summoned by God Himself:\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eLucy the fox\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eGod really does deliver","series":{"name":"Foxing","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2225594-what-is-foxing.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2229990-dark-horse.json"}}