FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

A flickering of power stirred within her; it was slow and intermittent. Like a poorly faceted bulb within a socket did it strobe, undetermined whether or not it wanted to function or die. But the lights, however dim, remained on above her, and they wouldn't let her go so easily. Amongst animatronics so endowed, the old witticism held true: so long as the lights are on... A winking spark of power gradually grew as her photonic regenerators gluttonized themselves on the ambient photons floating haplessly within her room. As more of them were sacrificed to service her needs, a paltry amount of power soon became sufficient and sustainable. Her command line booted up; her processors erupted with faults as they came online, but they weren't as disconcerting as they used to be.

Static filled her only optic briefly before a bypass command circumvented the damaged hardware and her vision was restored. She noted immediately her peculiar, supine position from which she gazed directly towards the ceiling. It was so unusual, vastly different than her typical view of the floor, yet somehow just as grimy. Befuddled, she languidly glanced from her left to her right, noting the dim persistence of the overhead lights as they electrically hummed above her. From off in the distance, somewhere beyond her room, the staccato whirr of the generator echoed throughout the building, suggesting that it was still night, or perhaps sometime in the early morning; though, she couldn't be sure. Her chronometer wasn't working anymore. Instead, a sextet of zeros winked uselessly at her as she tried to recall the time. Admittedly, it was frustrating; but, it was just one more thing for her to add to her growing list of dysfunctions.

She made note of it and filed it away for later, observing that her memory was unacceptably slow to respond, though not altogether offline. In dealing with it, it largely reminded her of a weak Ethernet connection, capable of uploading and downloading information if only the user had the hours to spare to accomplish the task. While she certainly had the time, what she lacked was the patience; there were other things that demanded her attention, things such as how she had ended up upon the floor rather than staring down at it, or rather why she was lying supine as opposed to any other position in which would suggested that she had merely fallen from the countertop rather than having been placed muzzle-up by some outside intervention.

They were important questions to answer; nevertheless, so long as her memory continued to operate with the blistering haste of an anemic slug, such ponderings would prove senseless and be a remarkable waste of time as she could never consciously recall them or any conclusions drawn thereof. Once again, frustration gnawed at her; it was not only that her memory processors were damaged or otherwise corrupted in places, it was that in order to reboot them with any semblance of functionality, she would have to devote to them the vast majority of what little power her crippled cells had stored. Intrinsically it meant that she would have to draw that power away from her command-line processors, leaving her conscious, operable capabilities down to a few paltry hours at best.

Assuming the total lack of benefits with regard to being conscious without the capacity to recall anything to do with that period of time, it was with an unfulfilled, frustrated, and altogether internal sigh that she so wished could have been an external representation of her ire that 'Mangle' rerouted the power. As everything else about her had decayed unto total ruin, the process was expectedly slow and tedious. Her energy flowed not with the tepid speed of a raging river, but rather with the lethargic viscosity of molasses spilled out upon a tabletop, slowly filling the voids within her memory processors and gradually allotting them to function properly, but only through a few banks at a time. The results were less than spectacular; she had no way with which to control what processors activated first or what recollections came therein. It left her with a scrambled, disorganized mess of thoughts, experiences, and memories that were largely nonsensical as she struggled to sequence them properly, and each time she made any headway, something new would inevitably surface that required the process to start all over again.

Alike many things about her failing systems, her memory only compounded her resentment for existence. It seemed that no matter how close she came to achieving her goals, there would always be another setback there to remind her that she was broken and useless. If not for her own systems, fate itself seemed poised to ensure that she failed at everything, for just when she thought she had a grasp on things, a boisterous clatter suddenly erupted from inside her room and broke her concentration. The results thereof were instantaneous; without her devoted attention, she lost her fragile hold upon her memories and they abruptly descended into chaos again.

Internally, the 'Mangle' quaked with rage. How had the world possibly found a more cruel way to spite her yet again?! Her loathing for everything was absolute, but none more so than for whatever had caused her to lose focus. With her only eye did she search for the source of her contempt, her hatred only growing as all she could see was the ceiling above her; her head was immobile, and she had no functioning body with which to move. Had she the blood flowing within her mechanized veins, surely it would have been boiling. However, when at length it was that something new had finally found the periphery of her limited vision, its visage was curiously familiar, such that it quelled her anger and doused the fires burning within her. Captivated, she watched as it slowly walked towards her, carrying with it in its dark hands a shiny object that she could not yet recognize. Behind it, an animatronic much like her, though not nearly as broken, followed closely. It seemed familiar to her; although, its name eluded her. It too carried something within its only paw; something that she thought she recognized, but quickly dismissed it as impossible.

Then they came to stand before her, and the human man leaned forward into the pale light such that she could distinguish his features. Only to herself did she gasp; even amidst the calamity that were her memories, his face and name were as clear to her as standing water was in a glass. Arthur—she knew him; she knew what he had done for her. So too, then, did she know the animatronic fox whose features only became clear to her as he leaned in close next to Arthur, and what memories surfaced as a consequence thereof she found grossly unpleasant, if not maddeningly befuddling.

Foxy! What was he doing there? He shouldn't have been there; he should not have been in her room! He was too dangerous and unpredictable! He should not have been anywhere near Arthur, let alone right at his side! Arthur was in danger; and yet, he did not appear to be so, and therefrom came her confusion. What fractured memories she had depicted Foxy as an unstable animatronic with a less than reputable tolerance for human beings. He was known to bite and maim; but, Arthur appeared to be unharmed. Foxy himself seemed disinterested in harming the man as well; if anything, he seemed unusually placated by his presence, and submissive—if even she could believe it—to his every word.

Arthur instructed him, and her animatronic counterpart dutifully obeyed. She hadn't listened to the words, only watched on in bemused awe as they acted together. Whatever had been said had invoked cautious action from the other fox, and she observed finally the piece in his only hand as he brought it down and then past her limited field of vision. The terse glance had been more than enough, however. Unless her eye had deceived her twice now, what part he had just possessed had been her sternum, and it was far and beyond the twisted, mangle thing that it once had been. She replayed the image if only to be absolutely certain, and despite her doubts, it was consistent with what she just couldn't believe to be. The picture of a slightly bent, though form-fitting alloy bone, relatively clean and appropriately proportioned, ready to be faceted inside a thoracic cavity lingered within her broken mind, and the 'why' of it only confounded her briefly before the implications seized all other thoughts.

What was Foxy working on mere inches away from where her chin would have otherwise been had she still her mandible if not for the very thing she had just inadvertently considered? She was suddenly gripped by a tumultuous anxiety, equal parts fear and excitement that surged into her processors, compounded only as her vision became filled by Arthur's absorbed visage as his hands worked just beyond her sight. He spoke again, though not to her, and in words that she did not hear. Instead, as her skull gently rocked from side-to-side—a consequence of his and Foxy's efforts—the 'Mangle' merely gazed upon his glistening, ebony skin and dared to hope against her doubts that he would make her whole again. In that moment, as her skull rocked, she realized once more that the implications were far more in her favor than she previously realized, and her feelings towards an unbelievable resolution became far more tangible.

Her skull was attached to something…

A sharp click, a decidedly relieved sigh, and she was still again. Arthur sat up, his form leaving her vision with a few drops of sweat splattering against her bear face as he turned away and retrieved an object that she had not seen him put down, but vaguely recalled him having in hand. He picked it up, the object sounding fleetingly shrill as it slid across the hard floor before it was lifted and turning, the man motioned for Foxy to come and sit beside him. Foxy obeyed dutifully, a recourse that remained baffling to her, however inconsequential it might have been given the circumstances.

Once more, she had failed to hear their conversation, knowing only that they had spoken due to the relative sounds of their voices. However, she was keenly aware of the sudden changes in their positions with regard to her own; Arthur seemed to largely disappear, visible only in the faint peripheral vision she possessed as a looming shadow that seemed to sit just beyond the apex of her maw, while Foxy's face abruptly filled the rest of her immediate sight.

Startled somewhat in seeing her animatronic counterpart so close, the 'Mangle' mentally recoiled, a sensation of trepidation filling her processors, though for reasons she could no longer place. Perhaps she was simply unaccustomed to seeing him at all, let alone so close to her; or, perhaps it was that his unusual behavior had set her ill-at-ease? Admittedly a small, albeit pessimistic side of her, feared that his actions were all a ruse, a cleverly disguised trap to catch Arthur unawares and then pounce upon the man when he was all but defenseless to render him dead and then steal from her the parts that he had brought.

But then, that hardly made any logical sense; why would Foxy have to employ such fiendish means in order to garner what he desired if truly all he was interested in was some paltry, shiny things? He certainly possessed the means with which to simply take them without the gross theatrics, and though her limited memory capacity labeled him a barbarian, the need for self-preservation and efficiently was a visceral part of animatronic programming, and it was evident that Foxy was damaged and in need of repairs himself.

If strictly the parts were all that he desired, he would have taken them; that he hadn't spoke volumes about things that she was all but helpless to understand. In evaluation of his current emotions, her animatronic counterpart seemed curiously optimistic, attentive, and somehow—dare she consider—happy. Foxy seemed genuinely glad to be of service to Arthur, and conversely to her as well.

As the 'Mangle' gazed mutely upon the tattered, stained, and frayed fur of Foxy's chin, his muzzle curtly dipped and his luminescent eyes fixed upon her own seemingly lifeless orb. Her thoughts froze as he stared at her, uncertain if he knew that she was active and alive in what small capacity she was. But, if ever he did consider or take notice of the dull, red glow of her ocular relay, he never announced it aloud. Instead, he simply smiled to her—a vulpine grin that spoke volumes as he cradled her head in between his paw and hook, and winked amidst the subtle click of something being set into place, and all of the sudden her skull felt slightly heavier as he let her go.

"That ought to do it, Foxy," a beleaguered, familiar voice said, and an anxiousness she couldn't place ignited across her processors. She heard then a faint rustling of clothing, a sound synonymous with something being withdrawn from a pocket. The pattering of clawed paws against the hard floor brought Foxy to the periphery of her vision. He leaned over; she could not see Arthur, but assumed that the man must have been hovering above her still based upon the proximity of his voice and Foxy's peculiar position.

She heard an electronic chime and the dim ambiance of the room became bathed in a subtle, blue light. All too briefly, she gleaned the glistening top of Arthur's head as he apparently bent down to retrieve something from her thoracic cavity, or at least the approximation of where it would've been; she was not yet entirely convinced of the possibility that it was there, despite the evidence to support it. When the top of Arthur's head disappeared again, a defined click like a cable being secured into the port of a device preceded the wavering luminescence of the blue light within the room as whatever device it was emanating from was presumably passed off to Foxy.

"Take this," instructed Arthur's voice.

"What is it?" asked Foxy.

A pregnant pause filled the room, a commanding silence made heavy by the gravity of its significance, lasting only a smattering of seconds though yawning into seemingly endless eons for the 'Mangle', summed together by only a few, powerful words.

"An apology for both of you," Arthur said. "It's an undoing of many years of ruin and neglect, Foxy. It's a lot of things that need to be taken back in exchange for the one thing that she needs. That is the hand or paw that wasn't there for her all those years ago, and all you have to do is tap the screen…"

Amidst a sudden gasp, a slack-jacked stare that the 'Mangle' couldn't see, the trembling paws of an animatronic fox clutching a data pad for dear life, and the heavy sigh of a man that had labored far too hard for what was little more than a broken toy, 'Mangle' let her world of torment come to a sudden end and reveled in the stillness that it brought to her fractured mind. She briefly gleaned a dark, ebony arm reach out into the space above her, and within its hand she saw it grasp Foxy's quavering paw.

She never saw the tired smile on Arthur's lips as he held Foxy's wavering, tearful gaze and uttered to him, "I thought I owed it to ya, especially given how horribly I treated ya earlier. But, I do understand how overwhelming it can be to hold that kind of power alone; so, we'll do it together, then." She did, however, witness the feeble nod of Foxy's acquiescence, and amidst the sounds of his oily tears striking the cold ground beneath them, and the subtle words of encouragement that Arthur imparted to Foxy, there came the whisper of the slightest touch against a glass screen, and then a roar as life surged into her world again amidst a cacophony of electrical hums and mechanical nuances.

Her first breath came to her not as the gluttonous whirlwind that she positively starved for, but rather in the form of a wavering, piteous gasp, a curt puff of air that did nothing at all to quell the thirst that she felt for it. The next was far more satisfying; it was a deep, long pull of cold air that filled her mechanical lungs, expanding them to capacity before being forced from her maw with a shrill whistle before she drank of it again. In her chest, an unfamiliar sensation whirred powerfully as it came online, circulating a lifeblood through veins and arteries too novel for her to remember having. Her blood was still cold, forced throughout her once lifeless vessel by a surge that chilled her body. As that surge extended outwards, her new musculature twitched and contracted spasmodically, her body seizing briefly upon the floor before becoming still again.

It was a frightening experience, one compounded only as the sensation spread into her skull and across her processers, and like an electrical fasciculation of the same intensity her mechanical brain convulsed violently, causing her command line to stall and become harrowingly inaccessible as her world was plunged into a purgatorial oblivion before it mercifully ceased, and her command line rebooted.

What became of her mind therefrom was absolutely indescribable to the once broken animatronic. Her thoughts were no longer clouded by a perceivable haze of static and dim capabilities. Her processors were no longer plagued by the yawning delay that she had become so accustomed to. Her recoverable memories were no longer fractured, and no longer did it tax her to call upon them. What memories that had been nothing more than corrupted space in her banks were finally purged appropriately, and those areas in her hardware degraded by time had been properly bypassed and terminated in operation.

Registries and diagnostics that had been offline for decades—or rendered obsolete by the long-term absence of her body—were reborn and at her complete disposal. She ran a few of the programs if just to be sure, and marveled at the registries and data that informed her that her system status was, "OK". She had a body again, one that she could detect just as easily as she could feel, and she couldn't help but test it. She started first with something simple, something that was, of course, beyond feeling the cold sensation of the floor beneath her back. It was something that she always assumed—by, at one time—had made her cute, and despite her diagnostics advising that they were indeed present, she simply needed to feel them move again.

Her ears swiveled enticingly to her command without any delay or malfunction, rotating from one extreme to another, folding down and back across a wide array of simulated emotions. Through them she found that she could hear appropriately and that it was hardly taxing to pinpoint the emanations of sound, and further noted that the range of her receivers seemed markedly improved.

Emboldened, the 'Mangle' assessed her other senses, noting, of course, that her sense of tactile stimulation required no further evaluation. Rolling her tongue inside her maw, she could detect the faint, although distinctive taste of plastic and epoxy, residues likely left over from a factory, and from whatever package her new mandible had been shipped in. Certainly, it was disgusting; although, she was delighted to possess the capability nevertheless.

Inhaling several curt sniffs of the air through her nose, the 'Mangle' gauged her sense of smell and was likewise enthralled to find it completely operational. The air, of course, was filled with a musty scent akin to that of a moldy shower, which she found repulsive in and of itself; although, it was in doing so that she detected something far more alluring aloft in her nostrils, something that she had not experienced in a long time. It was this something in particular—the unmistakable scent of human perspiration—that drove her only eye to focus again.

Her iris bloomed with a lavender hue affixed about a red pupil as her optical relay was restored, and the vision that it bestowed upon her was nothing short of stunning despite its lonesome operation. Gone was the loathsome, static haze that typically plagued her; gone was the darkness from her periphery, and the poor resolution that she had begrudgingly accepted as 'normal'. As the 'Mangle' gazed into the empty rafters above her, she did so with crystal-clear clarity.

Never before had something so wretched—the dismal, icky, rusty metal, the cobwebs that clung to the lattice-work, the grime that stained the ceiling—seem so beautiful to her. It was a wonder to have her vision again; but, nothing short of a miracle to behold what she gleaned kneeling next to her.

He must have observed her eye to be open; he must have seen the look of bewilderment and awe upon her face that betrayed her for being operational again, and felt the inexplicable need to draw closer to her, and certainly she wanted that. He must have felt the urge to reach out to her, and as she felt the warmth of his large hand within her paw, he must have thought that she required comforting—and truly, she did—as he closed his grip and gently squeezed it.

That subtle contact—the feeling of something so warm touching her again—it was absolutely amazing. Arthur's thumb gingerly brushed the back of her naked paw as she mutely gazed at him, a torrent of words that she wanted to proclaim arrested by the subtle smile upon his thick lips. He was the most glorious thing that she had ever seen, her once mythical savior in a flesh so dark and broad, hiding behind chocolate eyes that wavered ever so gently within the pale light of her room amidst the growing moisture that they threatened to spill. The subtle wrinkles beneath those orbs went largely wanting, noticed, but quickly forgotten within the moment. His head was bald, his face cleanly shaven, and to the 'Mangle' he was perfect, everything that she had desperately longed for for so long.

She wanted nothing more than to tell him that; she wanted to express all of her emotions and the many things that she felt as she lied there: her gratitude, her yearning. But, the words never found her, and nothing that she could think to say sounded profound enough to be uttered in his presence. She felt so suddenly weak then, so pathetic and useless; she couldn't even talk to him. She knew her lips had trembled by the time the pitiful cry had escaped them; but, for all the new life within her, she could not recall when it was that Arthur had plucked her from the floor and pulled her so closely to his person, or when his hand had left her paw to hold her across her back as he gently rocked her back-and-forth, murmuring for her to quiet her sobs that she was only then aware of. Her metallic muzzle draped itself across one of his massive shoulders, her neck craned tightly against his own as she wrapped her new arms around him and wept.

She wept real tears for the first time in decades, tears that leaked down her skinless cheeks and fell to sully the large man's flesh. They were cold and wet, fell in droves and all the while he held her close. It was something that she had yearned for; and now, with all thanks to his selfless efforts, was she finally able to hold him back. If ever she knew of what significance a shoulder to cry on held, certainly she did now. It was more powerful, and more cathartic, than she could have ever assumed it to be, and amidst those moments of being held, the 'Mangle' decided that she never wanted to be let go of again.

In spite of herself, however, and of her need to be comforted there, the 'Mangle's' new senses were not immune to the environment, and the harrowing sounds of sorrow and anguish—not of her own—emanating therein. Her bleary eye opened and before her, shuddering at Arthur's back and clutching desperately to himself, was Foxy, his eyes shedding bitter tears as he gazed forlornly back at her. His lips trembled and into the symphony of wretchedness did his own cries arise. He looked so pitiful and lonely standing there, shunned and cast aside for her own wants and needs; and yet, before she could have ever found a voice within her to call him over, another had already risen into the room.

"Come here, Foxy," said Arthur, not as a request, or a demand, but rather as the much needed invitation that the other animatronic so desperately wanted. Foxy rushed to him without a second thought and all but collapsed upon him, bogarting an opened arm and an empty shoulder as he immediately tucked himself into the other side of the man's neck and clung to him in earnest. It was as touching to see as it was heartbreaking for 'Mangle' to witness. She knew that Foxy was strong: for so long had she seen him ward off the looters and strangers in her halls; to see him so broken and small, the tears she shed were for more than herself.

Foxy was so overwhelmed by a myriad of conflicting emotions that he hardly registered the arm that settled across his back and embraced him, or the soothing things the man continued to utter. He knew that he was happy; his processors had told him as much. He was glad that 'Mangle' was functioning again and that he had one of his oldest friends back. Nevertheless, he was inexplicably grief stricken by the very same notion. Though he could not explain why, the sight of 'Mangle's' animated form tore at him deeply. He had, at first, assumed that it was due to her own sorrow that she conveyed so honestly as she cried upon Arthur's shoulder and the mournful sounds that she made there. He thought that his own symptoms were nothing more than the vicarious experience of what the other animatronic was feeling enacted upon him by his processors failing to differentiate between his emotions and the emotions of another.

And yet, upon further introspection, Foxy found his own experiences of grief stemmed far deeper than some mere mirror-effect, and therein laid the cause for his struggle. He was both happy and sad simultaneously, and the further he analyzed his feelings did his symptoms only become worse. What joy he felt gradually succumbed to an ever surmounting grief. 'Mangle' was not alive because of his own efforts; she did not breathe because he had commanded her to, nor did she move because he had asked. Truly, his vulpine counterpart would still be dead if not for Arthur's interventions and his own failures in safeguarding her tomb. Were it not for the man that at that time held them both, what pitiful existence that he and 'Mangle' had always known would have likely been there's forever.

Foxy knew then why he felt so wretched. It was not because 'Mangle' had been resurrected; but, because that he had almost been the antithesis of her salvation. Had Arthur been any less of a man, 'Mangle' would have still been a corpse lying in a cold dungeon broken, forgotten, and alone.

And it would have been all…His…FAULT! Foxy wailed again as the harrowing realization finally weighed upon his tormented mind. It would have been his fault that 'Mangle' remained dead. It would have been his doing that ensured their cyclical hell persisted indefinitely: he, a guardian of death and decay, and her, the one left to rot in an endless purgatory. That wasn't what Foxy sought; that wasn't what he wanted for her! Truly, it wasn't! It wasn't his fault; and yet, it undeniably was! He only wanted to protect her from harm! All of those many years spent warding off the numerous guards and looters that had come crawling to her cell were only ever given in some vain attempt to afford her some measure of peace! He simply didn't want her to get hurt again!

But it had been he—Foxy, her friend—that had so nearly been the one to hurt her the most. He sobbed. Could he even call 'Mangle' his friend anymore after all that had transpired; after all the time that he had spent outside of her walls never to see her, but only to ensure her endless isolation? When was the last time he had ever ventured into her room before Arthur had come along? When was the last time had had stopped to say so much as, "hello", to her?

He couldn't remember, and it was that harrowing realization that hurt most of all.

"I-I-I be so s-sorry, 'Mangle'," he murmured through a quavering, mechanical voice. "S-so sorry! L-Lass, I just wanted to k-keep you s-safe! I just wanted to keep you safe! I-I didn't m-mean for all this to 'appen! On m-me honor I d-didn't! I-I wanted to see you b-before; I-I-I j-just c-cou-couldn't! I j-just wanted you to be o-okay! I w-want you to be o-okay! P-please! P-p-please tell me that you're o-okay! P-please?!"

Foxy trembled amidst Arthur's embrace and to him he held on like his world would inexplicably end if he let go. His oily tears flowed like rivers down his cheeks and further stained the man's shirt; though, if he cared, certainly the man didn't show it. Foxy only felt the arm across his back flex as it guided him closer and seemingly tried to shelter the fox from his anguish. He was sitting atop his leg now, that, he knew; but, he didn't dare pull away from him. Somehow, despite the sorrow that still bit angrily at him, Foxy admittedly felt comforted there, however slight it may have been.

"P-please 'Mangle'," again, he pleaded. "Please!" He screwed his eyes shut tight, no longer willing to look upon his companions or the dingy room anymore. Foxy didn't want to see what lay out there; he hardly wanted to feel the things that surrounded him. All that he wanted in that horrible moment was to cease to function and die so that he never had to experience anything at all ever again. Foxy wanted to give up and let that moment be his last. His hope was fleeting, held together by the frayed strings of an encouraging man's arms that he had only known for hours.

He was so shocked then as a cold, mechanical paw reached beneath his sodden, oil-stained chin and lifted his muzzle from Arthur's shoulder. He hesitantly cracked a bleary lid to gaze in mournful awe at 'Mangle's' face and the diminutive smile that spread her thin, bare lips.

"I'm okay, Foxy," whispered to him a feminine sound that neither Foxy nor Arthur had heard in decades. 'Mangle's' voice was demure and kind, soft, as if one could listen to the texture of velvet, and it lilted into the air just as gently. The surprise upon her own features was evident; she had not heard from it for an equal measure of time. Nevertheless, she persisted. "And I do not blame you for what happened to me, my silly little pirate. Such things were beyond our control those many years ago, and it was not then, nor has it ever been, your fault. You did what you thought was right at the time, and I cannot even begin to imagine how the sight of me must have hurt you."

An oily tear streaked down Foxy's face and 'Mangle' wiped it away with the bare metal of her thumb. "But, I'm better now, Foxy; I'm so much better. I can feel you again; I can see you without the static. I can breathe and feel my new heart beating in my chest. I can move and hold you and be held again like I've dreamed about for so long! My memories are clear again, Foxy, and I can remember you from a time before the rust and decay took hold. We used to have so much fun together, didn't we?"

Foxy only meekly nodded as a quavering whine escaped his muzzle and he nuzzled the cold paw beneath his jaw. "Don't cry for me anymore, Foxy," 'Mangle' said. "And don't worry about me either; I'm alright now, and I'd like to think that we're going to be fine. It's all thanks to our human friend here," she craned her neck back to cast a sideward glance into the face of the surprised, yet somehow stoic man that held them both.

"Because of you," she said looking at Arthur, "I have a life again," her voice wavered and she only just bit back on the sob that threatened to escape her. Her tears, however, were free to fall as she gazed upon him, a human man—alike those that had ruined her—come to save her instead. "I-I don't have the words," she admitted. "But, thank you. Thank you so much!" Releasing Foxy's muzzle, 'Mangle' threw herself back into the embrace and clung to Arthur dearly. "Y-you don't know what this means to me! W-what you did; I-I can't ever repay you enough! I-I was s-so broken—mangled!—a-and you fixed me! Y-You f-fixed me…" She felt the warmth of Arthur's large hand against the cold, metallic plates and gels of her back, and she reveled in the sensation with a contented, albeit mournful sigh of satisfaction. "You fixed me," she uttered again, and then she was silent.

Arthur simply sat upon the floor and stared absently at the wall across from him as he held the two animatronics close. Lost in a deep contemplation, the man too was silent for a time. His emotions were an unmitigated disaster of legendary proportions; he was tired and sore, hungry, thirsty, and based upon his own judgement and sense of smell was in dire need of a shower. The fleeting thought of not getting paid nearly enough across the last few days to endure the things he had crossed his mind; however, it was quickly cast aside with extreme prejudice. He had accomplished—to some large extent—what he had set out to do by taking the position in the first place. Hiccups and unforeseen circumstances aside, 'Mangle' had been successfully rebuilt and brought back from death; or, perhaps, merely the brink of it if by dissecting her words he had correctly assumed that she had not been entirely dead to begin with, which was a matter of introspection best saved for another time for the sake of his sanity.

The problem at hand again stemmed from what the 'Mangle' had said, though in a profoundly direct sense of her words. She was not yet entirely fixed; there was still much to be done to her before he—a dedicated man of talent that bordered upon obsession—would be satisfied to deem her as such. The most obvious deficiency was that 'Mangle' was still absent her skin and pelt, not to mention the finer aspects that would ultimately convey her femininity. She lacked her breasts, and though he had installed her defined sex and accompanying mechanical organs, she remained skeletal to some small degree and could likely pass as a model not equipped for sexual dalliances. The bionic gels that he had installed were only loosely fit across her reformed body at the appropriate apertures. Admittedly, they appeared somewhat baggy, sagging over her limbs and body like malformed blobs of tissue that still needed to be molded; though, given the lack of equipment that he had on hand in the pizzeria, as well as the lack of her skin made that an impossibility: a drastic oversight on his part.

She was also missing an eye, something that he had unfortunately been unable to locate amidst her once ruined remains. Given that she did possess a single, functioning optic, the other would have to be custom made for her in order to maintain a uniformed image. The color of the iris was of little concern to him; however, as 'Mangle' was an older model, and with consideration afforded to the current specs of animatronic construction, a factory-direct eye would be slightly larger than the one that she currently possessed, and that simply wouldn't do.

The mere thought of it was jarring enough to Arthur's obsessive disorder that the presumed price-tag attached to a custom part of that caliber, not to mention the cost associated with fabricating a new dynamic skin and pelt, hardly seemed upsetting. Monetary loss was of no concern of Arthur's with all due regard to his endgame: 'Mangle' would be beautiful again; period.

The vast, overwhelming contingency, however, the one of which that Arthur had never planned on encountering and the absolute cause of his distress, was the one that currently sat in his lap across from his reason for being there at all. Foxy was something that in all of his planning, in all of the scenarios both good and bad that he had imagined, Arthur had not been prepared for. He was the proverbial wild card, the joker loaded into the standard deck of cards that defied logic and reasoning and held no true face value save for whatever the dealer assumed it to be. Woe was he then to find such a deck beneath his own fingers, for he was surely the aforementioned dealer that had shuffled the cards when he'd first stepped foot into that place.

The burden then, he realized, was placed squarely upon his shoulders to decide just what value that unexpected card held. In his initial dealings with the other vulpine, Arthur would have gladly discarded it. It had been refuse, utterly useless and pointless to hold on to. It had done little more than hurt his chances at victory, sought to devalue his hand before he had even called the bet and laid it upon the table.

It would've been so easy for Arthur to have simply destroyed Foxy and turned him away had only the events that had transpired occurred in any other way. By actually holding the fox, feeling his tattered, quivering warmth as he clung to his shoulders, after hearing his heartfelt pleas for forgiveness and the tears that he shed, Arthur was no longer confident in making such a condemning decision. He was simply too real in that moment, his emotions too true for the man to be so heartless. The stark reality of the situation was as grim as it was daunting to assume: Foxy was a damaged toy that had lain bare its very soul and in doing so had reached out to him for help.

And what was he if not a monster should he fail to provide for him too? He certainly had the means, if they would not admittedly stretch his finances a bit thinner than he would have otherwise liked. With such consideration in mind, what was the monetary value one placed on life, even a mechanical one? Arthur breathed deep of the acrid air that permeated the small room and he let it bellow past his lips with an exaggerated sigh, loathing the answer to such a profound question. However painful and financially devastating it would inevitably be, there was no such thing as a price tag on Foxy's right to live, whether he liked it or not. The damned vulpine had somehow entangled his hook within one of his threadbare heartstrings; or, perhaps he was merely getting soft in his old age. Whatever was truly the case, Arthur begrudgingly accepted the inevitability and consequences of his conviction, and he sealed his fate then as he rolled the shoulder that Foxy's head was perched upon and forced the animatronic to look at him.

Arthur sighed heavily. "The girl's right, Fox," he said, shrugging. "At least 'bout most of what she said. She's goin' to be alright; I'll see to that. What we did here—the two of us—that was just the beginning. Now, you know just as I do—and can see it just as plain as I can—that she ain't fixed; not yet." He suddenly felt the tension in 'Mangle's arms as he said that, and allayed her of her trepidation with a firm squeeze. "She's alive again, more so than she's been in years. The parts that I gave her—that you helped me install—are all the critical components that she needs to function properly. But, they're not all the things she needs to live out the life that I want her to have."

Arthur briefly glanced to the naked vulpine that shivered upon his other shoulder, knowing that she was captive to his every word and that all the hope she would ever have again resided in the things that he was about to say. He returned his gaze to Foxy before he continued, "I want her to be perfect. I want all of her broken life restored. I want her to look in a mirror and see the beautiful creature that I see in my head whenever I look at her."

"We're almost there," he continued. "We're so close; but, the things I need now are going to be hard to find, and they're going to be expensive. But, I want her to know what goosebumps feel like. I want her to know what it's like for somebody to play with her fur, to comment on the way she smells. I want her to feel the ease a hot shower can bring, and the cold against her body on a winter night. I want her to see everything; but, nothing more so than her complete self."

"I know that you know what she still needs, Foxy," Arthur told him. "What you don't know, however, is what I will have to do to give her that. It has to do with why I'm here; why I've done the things that I've done and why I haven't done what I haven't, and you deserve to hear the truth. It's the least I can do given all the things that you did for me tonight. Hell, without you, I wouldn't even be close to this moment—to having 'Mangle' not only awake, but functioning again. Frankly, that's a miracle."

"But, that miracle is far from finished, Foxy, and you know that," the animatronic meekly nodded his head in understanding, but said nothing as Arthur continued to explain. "Mangle's missing some things; she doesn't have her skin or fur, obviously she's missing an eye. It's those things that I can't fix here, and that brings us to the point I'm trying to make, and the secret that I've kept from you." Arthur glanced aside and towards the wall behind Foxy's head as he collected himself, searching for the words that he needed to say until he found none scribbled upon the wall and instead improvised as he again turned his gaze to Foxy's wavering eyes.

"I wasn't expecting to find you," he ultimately said. "I never thought I'd find another working animatronic in this place, at least not one that possessed the free-will that you clearly do. You've obviously got the emotions that 'Mangle' has, and that makes this so much harder for me than it has to be," he admitted, privy to the wounded look upon Foxy's face; but, he had to tell him.

He deserved the truth.

"Schmidt has no idea that 'Mangle' still exists," Arthur proclaimed, and the shock that his words had instilled in Foxy was absolutely palpable. By the sudden, feminine gasp that abruptly arose from his other shoulder, it was evident that 'Mangle' too was equally as surprised. "I requested public records and searched through the animatronic data base for the pizzeria and the last known entry for 'Mangle' was around eleven years ago when she had reportedly been decommissioned and, for lack of a simpler term, thrown away. As far as Schmidt is concerned, there is no 'Mangle' here. I doubt that he would even recognize the name, the ol' bastard."

Arthur huffed; but, he let his frustrations die upon his exhaled breath. "We have an agreement of sorts," he said. "In lieu of the money—at least most of it anyway—Schmidt agreed to let me scavenge some of the derelict parts that he's kept around here. I told him that fixing old animatronics was a hobby of mine, and he proposed the deal; it ain't my fault he had no idea the little gem I was after."

"Long story short," he chortled mirthlessly, "I'm gonna take her, Foxy." Arthur saw Foxy's jaw drop and his eyes widen as 'Mangle' abruptly gasped and pushed herself from his shoulder to stare at him in disbelief. He glanced at them both, remarkably indifferent about their reactions; he had expected nothing less. "I'm gonna take her and finish what I started. Everything that I need to finish the job is either in my shop at home or requires laser-sighted measurements to be accurate, and I'll need her to be present for that."

"And when it's all said in done in the coming days," he said as he turned to 'Mangle', and he smiled at her, "she'll be fixed and free to make her own choices, whether they're with me, or not."

There was a pause, not the yawning expanse that Arthur had come to expect, but merely a passing silence that filled the room as 'Mangle' digested his words, her naked face conforming to the stunned emotions that she felt before her lips quivered and with an excited sob she leapt upon the man again and nuzzled him in earnest. It was far more than anything that she could have ever asked for and so decidedly overwhelming. Her joy, her mirth, it bubbled to the top and overflowed, spilling its contents upon Arthur with many hasty licks of her cold, oily tongue across his neck, and Arthur giggled vigorously.

Yet the other merely sat there. Mournful were his eyes as he watched the two of them cavort and share in their wondrous feelings. But, his feelings were not wondrous. His feelings were not joyous or happy; they did not make him feel warm or excited, and certainly he didn't want to share in them. He felt only cold and miserable, isolated and alone; admittedly, he also felt scared, frightened of the possibility that he stood to lose one of his eldest friends all over again, and a new one that he had barely been afforded the opportunity to know at all. The desire to curl into himself, to make himself as small as possible and perhaps disappear altogether from that moment gnawed at him. He wanted it, selfishly so and more than anything; but, a large, fleshy arm prevented him from doing that. He couldn't even leave given its formidable strength.

He whined in sorrow; but, the feeble sound went wanting, and for that, he was tragically grateful. Far be it for him to squash what happiness 'Mangle' had found after so many years. She had suffered greatly to earn it; certainly, that was the truth. And yet, was he truly so bad to feel jealous of it? Was it so wrong of him to yearn for but a small taste of the same? Though he loathed himself to consider it, and with Arthur's words still on his mind, how was any of this fair to him? 'Mangle' knew of her fate; why then could he not know of his own? Had he not done enough? Had he not aided the man enough despite his own confession towards the helpfulness of his deeds? Their horrible fight notwithstanding, had he actually made things so hard on Arthur that he was truly willing to abandon him and leave him in that wretched place knowing that he could feel and experience emotions just the same as 'Mangle' did? Was it so wrong of Foxy to yearn to be wanted; had he not suffered similarly in that regard? He felt ashamed of himself; so deeply, terribly ashamed. But, he had to know; he just had to!

Was there any happiness out there for him to have?

"Wh-what 'bout me, mate," asked a meek, quiet voice wrought with sorrow. Nevertheless, it had reached the ears of both Arthur and 'Mangle', carrying with it a powerful presence that no form of outcry could have ever achieved so masterfully. The joy was gone; the room was still again. 'Mangle' glanced to Arthur; but, she never saw his eyes. They were already fixed upon Foxy, and those chocolate orbs hated everything that they saw there. He seemed small again, timid and helpless, lingering there amidst the very question that Arthur had been dreading, but had already answered internally. He knew what he had to do about Foxy; it was hardly even a question anymore, at least, as far as he was concerned. Yet, it was not the question itself that Arthur despised, but rather that it even existed at all. So caught up in a moment had he become that he had made an egregious mistake by failing to answer the damned thing before it even had to be made, and Foxy alone had suffered the consequences.

It was yet another oversight of disastrous proportions in what was supposed to be a wonderful night, and the fault was entirely his own. Arthur said nothing for a time; he felt too ashamed to find the words necessary to atone for his spectacular blunder. But, when it was that Foxy began to weep again, and the fear, the look of hopelessness and abandonment fell across his face, the man acted swiftly.

Arthur pulled Foxy in close, and so defeated did the animatronic feel that he went limp in his grasp. It wounded the man, feeling the flaccid crown of Foxy's head held aloft only by the pressure it exerted against the side of his chest. His ears fell and drooped to the sides of his face; oily tears again stained his shirt. The sobs were breathless, just as lifeless as the creature they came from.

Arthur hated that most of all. That was the finality of poor planning, of unspoken words and the damage that they could do. Had he only told Foxy his intentions…He shook his head. That moment was gone; he had made the mistake already; he knew that. He still needed to utter the words; he knew that as well.

It was just the irony that ate at him: words for words, unplanned, just as they had been since the beginning.

As best as was possible for his large body to accommodate, Arthur craned his neck and lowered his head, finding that his lips could just brush the metallic protrusion from Foxy's left, folded, tattered ear. It wasn't ideal; though, nothing about the situation was. He drew upon a breath, and it left his lips with not but a sound of failure. He tried again, steeled his resolve, and let the breath go.

"I'm gonna take care of you, too." That was it, the seven little words—eight if the conjunction was separated—that may have very well prevented Foxy from asking the question he had and prevented the suffering that such a thought had wrought upon him. When the fox didn't move, Arthur persisted, "I should've said as much already, and for that, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make ya so upset. There ain't no excuse for it; I'm just careless sometimes and overlook things that I really ought not to. Talking 'bout my plans for 'Mangle' had me so excited that I didn't mention any of my plans that I have for you, and that wasn't right…"

Foxy snuffled into his shirt; Arthur politely ignored the grotesque sensation of something slimy permeating through its threads, thankful only that he seemed to have at least been listing to him. There was a subtle movement in his arm—the only one that possessed a paw—and he slowly reached up and forwards to grasp weakly at Arthur's shirt.

"Y-You be lying to me," Foxy whispered, and it felt as though a cold knife had been plunged into Arthur's stomach. "Y-You're only tellin' me things I want to hear 'cause ye feel sorry for me, ain't ya, mate? I-I'm gonna be alone here an' you an' her are gonna leave me and let me r-rot... Maybe I deserve it; ain't nobody wanna care for a rusted, leaky piece of junk like me…"

It was supposed to be warm in that room. The comfort station was set to a comfortable seventy-two degrees and as it whirred overhead amidst such a chilling silence, it was evidently working; yet, how cold did Arthur feel in that moment. He felt sick, nauseous to the point of vomiting were it not for his frozen bile. To say that he had screwed up would have been an utter disservice to the instrument utilized to facet things together. Such was the apparent gravity of his mistake that if he had indeed failed to damage Foxy physically—which he rather doubted—truly he had just dealt a most harrowing blow to him mentally. It was evident that Foxy was unstable and in dire need of comforting, if not therapy in and of itself; however, Arthur felt absolutely hopeless to be of any good to him when all he seemed capable of was hurting him! Compounding the issue was the fact that he—his very tormentor—was all that Foxy seemed to want and needed of him to say something, anything, to spare him of his woes and deliver him from his suffering! It was not 'Mangle', his oldest apparent friend that he had turned to, but him, the asshole seemingly bent on breaking him down, and he had no idea what he was supposed to say to the Stockholm's-suffering fox to fix that!

Arthur turned to 'Mangle' hoping to find in her the encouraging words that he needed; but, she simply looked at him, hoping for the very same thing. He had never felt more beaten; he was so tired, his emotions were drained, he felt grimy, smelled horrid, and the thought of that aforementioned shower had never seemed so delightful. It was all right there, a mere drive away and then at his very fingertips.

Nevertheless, he still had one last thing to do, and words be damned, he was going to do it!

"No," he said simply. "Foxy, I admit that I did fail ya these last few minutes. But, no, I ain't lying 'bout anything I said, and I'll be damned if I'm just gonna up and leave ya here to rot. I swear I ain't that much of a fuck-head," his eyes shifted momentarily in thought, "'least most of the time. And you're right, I do feel sorry for ya. I feel sorry that you's was abused and abandoned in this shithole. I feel sorry that you's been alone for so long. And I feel sorry that you let me hurt ya like I did. But, ya wanna know something? I don't feel sorry for you's having met me. I don't feel sorry that I'm gonna spend a fuckin' fortune buying you off and putting you back together, 'cause I am going to take this fucked up pain of yours away and give you the same goddamn thing I'm gonna give to 'Mangle'! And you wanna know why? 'Cause I actually give a goddamn about what happens to ya, and I don't think for a second that you's deserve to be fucked-off in a fucked-up place like this! And if you's still think in that pretty little head of yours that I'm still a liar, then try this one on for size!"

The animatronic vulpine were helpless against Arthur's sudden ire and frustrations. He had simply endured enough, and the tipping point had occurred somewhere between his attempt to assuage Foxy's concerns and outright yelling at him that he cared. The room was poorly lit and dingy, the air was acrid and smelled of decades old mold and fermented cheeses, and above all else, the man was undeniably tired and he wanted to go home. Before Foxy and 'Mangle' had any time to further process his abrupt tirade of words or his sudden explosive strength and progressive actions, they found themselves thrown across his mountainous shoulders as he stood up and strode through the backwards winding halls of the pizzeria, leaving behind him a slew of tools that he swore beneath his breath he would retrieve some other time. Above them, the O-six-hundred chimes sang into the air amidst the jarring sounds of a large, booted foot kicking the back door open and Arthur hardly yielded as it slammed closed behind them as he stomped his way over to his truck. It was there that they again felt the ground beneath their paws, but only for so long as it took the man to open the doors where upon which they were both unceremoniously tossed into the back seat, and Arthur slammed the door closed. He took his own position behind the wheel and started the vehicle, jerked the gearshift into drive and hammered on the accelerator, not bothering with his own door which swiftly shut of its own accord.

The drive to Arthur's house was made largely in part by stunned silence married to a respectable level of fear which was blessed by the harrowing sounds of the engine whining amidst an opened throttle, and the occasional groan of the suspension amidst turns that were taken at a velocity well and above what could have been deemed appropriate or safe. If either of them had possessed knuckles that could have conveyed a certain color, surely 'Mangle's' and Foxy's would have been of one such that a ghost might have been envious of. Regrettably, it had been the back seat that had borne the brunt of their combined fears and in more than one place across its cushioned hide had it been torn asunder; a hapless victim if ever there was one, but again, the fault resided entirely upon its reckless driver.

It was with a jarring motion that had sent both Foxy and 'Mangle' skyward only to come crashing down upon the ruined seat in a heap of tangled limbs and the shrill cry of smoldering brakes that the terrifying drive had finally come to its merciful conclusion. The ignition was turned off and inside the cab the odiferous smell of burning rubber was apparent. Arthur threw open his door and all but yanked open the other to retrieve the entangled vulpine where upon which he again set them upon his shoulders and kicked the doors closed. The process again repeated itself for the front door of his home, affording neither 'Mangle' nor Foxy the time to collect themselves before they were abruptly whisked away again atop their human carriage and down a dark hallway, through a right turn, and ultimately dumped atop something soft, pliable, and sympathetically unmoving.

At last it was there, having battled through an entire night of emotional and physical hell, after having ridden high atop his adrenal glands, and after the angry rush of an abrupt, but altogether timely mental breakdown, that Arthur himself finally collapsed, his steam runout. He struck the bed face first between 'Mangle' and Foxy, his falling weight causing the vulpine atop it to bounce, though hardly as jarring as it had been in the truck before they were still again. They glanced down at the motionless man between them, then towards each other, and then back down again. Save for his breathing, Arthur was as still as the grave, and rather looked like something that may have, at one time, crawled out of one.

He certainly smelt the part at that given moment; nevertheless, his odiferous funk was of no concern of Foxy's or 'Mangle's'. The vulpine pair were simply flabbergasted and at an utter loss for words to accurately convey their tumultuous feelings regarding what had just transpired between them. It had been a kidnapping by its very definition. They had been forcibly taken from their home—a term loosely utilized by them both to describe the horrible conditions in which they had once lived—and had been delivered there unto Arthur's own abode, which admittedly, despite the overall absence of a proper tour, at least smelled better and possessed a tranquil charm that the pizzeria had sorely been lacking in. To that regard, perhaps kidnapping was too extreme; rescue seemed more apt a word to describe it, or grand theft given that Foxy was still technically the property of the old establishment.

Whatever the case might have actually been, the two certainly agreed on a few key issues which went unspoken. The first of which was that Arthur had been undeniably serious in his proclamations to fix them and had clearly been willing to go to great lengths if only to prove it. The second was that their current environment, with its ambient warmth and cozy feel, was far and above that of the cold dungeon that they had always known, and they were looking forward to any time spent there in the future. The third, and perhaps the most crucial point to be made, was that Arthur had issues with aggressive outbursts and was prone to act irrationally given enough stress placed upon his shoulders. It was an implicit conclusion that both Foxy and 'Mangle' ultimately reconsidered to be rule number one regarding their new lives, one never to be deviated from: don't fuck with the ebony giant.

"How's that for proof you little pain in my ass," if only to reaffirm their suspicions did Arthur's muffled voice utter those words into the mattress, and he turned his head to pointedly glare at Foxy who suddenly flinched and felt much less like the predator that he had been modeled after. Perhaps a rodent of some kind would have been more appropriate; though, he couldn't have been sure that it would have helped. For some small measure of self-protection that would have admittedly gone wanting had the man truly wished to bodily harm him did Foxy pull his broken tail into his lap, and made a valiant effort of hiding behind it.

"I-I believe in ye now, mate," timidly muttered Foxy. "I be sorry for havin' doubted ye."

Arthur merely snorted at his words, and Foxy flinched again. "And don't ya ever do it again, ya oily fuzz-bucket. I might be a lot of things—namely an asshole; but, I sure as hell ain't no liar. Said I was gonna take care of ya, and by God I meant it. And that goes for the both of ya, just so we're all crystal clear here."

Foxy merely nodded as he glanced to 'Mangle' who, like him, seemed to be making an effort of becoming smaller, if not attempting to blend in to the darkness that surrounded her. She caught his glance, but said nothing to him; instead, she merely shrugged and tilted her head, a gesture that conveyed both her befuddlement towards the situation at paw, and the uncertainty that she felt in regards to her own emotions which were equal parts happy and thoroughly chastised.

Certainly, he could relate; however, akin to his sister vulpine, he had little to no idea at all as to what to do with them. Assuming that something needed to be said, yet not knowing what to say, and with all hope afforded to the notion that not all human euphemisms were as literal as they intended to be, Foxy returned his gaze to Arthur's eyes and promptly noted that they had not strayed from him in the slightest. He swallowed hard and hoped beyond all reasonable doubt that he was not about to make an ass out of himself as he steeled his resolve and uttered the only words that had come to mind.

"Thank ye, Arthur," he said softly. "For everything ye done; for the both of us; thank ye."

"Yes," 'Mangle' interjected as she reached out and gently placed her cold paw against the man's shoulder. "Thank you so much. What you've done—what you're going to do—it's more than we could have ever hoped for, or even deserve. It's hard to imagine that you have asked nothing of us in turn, and however it is that we can repay our debt to you, we will do it gladly. But, in the meantime, our thanks are all that we can afford. So, sincerely, thank you, Arthur."

Beneath them and lying prone with his face again turned into the mattress, and though they could not see his expression, Arthur beamed proudly. That was all that he had wanted to hear; that was all that he had needed to affirm his actions and justify everything that he had done, and at the very least, it had made his time spent in hell riding upon the most vicious emotional rollercoaster that he'd ever experienced worthwhile. With those few words of gratitude, even the multitudes of future expenditures had been relegated to a category that set him at ease.

It would all be worth it in the end.

"Ya'll are most certainly welcome, girls," he gladly replied. "I wan' y'all to know that I'll always be here for y'all, and that y'all will always be welcomed here."

His sentiment was touching, so much so that it had moved both Foxy and 'Mangle' to sit closer to the prone man's sides, in spite of his emotional volatility. He had meant every word that he'd said, and they knew it to be true. He had already done more than enough to prove himself in their mechanical eyes, had gone far and beyond in his devotion to their collective futures, wants, and needs. Nevertheless, and in spite of the warm feelings that bloomed within his damaged chest, Foxy was yet to be entirely at ease with it, even as 'Mangle' gradually bedded herself at Arthur's side. For a moment, he merely sat there, content to flick the tip of his tattered tail with his hook as he considered the man's words, pondered them for a time, and then wondered if it would have been entirely inappropriate of him to have said what was on his mind.

When at length he had failed to come to any rational conclusion either for or against the notion, and with all concerns given to the idea that retaining such a profound utterance would have ultimately resulted in insomnia derived from his persistent musing on the matter, Foxy opted for the lesser of two evils, and abruptly blurted out, "I be no girly, mate," to which he immediately recognized his mistake as the man's head snapped to attention with all the due haste of a shot, and akin to being struck by a projectile of the same velocity did the vulpine rear back and wilt as Arthur brought his steely gaze to bear.

"You's will be whatever the hell I want ya to be, fuzz-bucket!" the man groused. "Now get on in here with them slim hips and get you're fuckin' cuddle on; it's bed time, goddamn it!" The vulpine didn't hesitate, not even for a moment as he moved with all the speed that he could muster. He all but crashed into Arthur's side; but, the impact hardly fazed the man. He had not so much as rocked slightly, and even then, the motion could have been attributed entirely to the mattress atop which they laid. It was there, forced against him then, that Foxy felt the uncertainty again, and the fear. Prior to that night, he'd had no interaction at all with the formidable human, and it was abundantly clear to him by then that Arthur was absolutely capable of breaking him, and far enough to the point of being irreparable.

But, his fears were unfounded, and for that, he was grateful, if not slightly ashamed for having distrusted him again. Arthur reached across his body with his massive arm and within its embrace, Foxy found himself warmly kept. He folded his own arms into his chest, mindful of his hook as he braced himself against Arthur's side and lay to rest his muzzle upon the broad man's back. He breathed deep of his scent, noting that it was pungent and spicy, odiferous, but not altogether unpleasant. It set him at ease, and his lids grew heavy. His command line began to shut him down; 'Mangle' was already asleep. His own consciousness slowly slipped away; but, mercifully not before he heard the words.

"You're a good boy, Foxy," Arthur whispered. "And I'm going to fix you, too."