FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Her command line booted up; she was riddled with critical errors and faults. She was used to that; her systems hadn't been nominal for some time now. Her single eye winked into existence and a brief static filled her vision before it was cleared via a bypass command to her ocular relay. She looked out into the room, momentarily unclear as to why she suddenly had such a high vantage point, and why parts of her skeleton seemed to be appropriate attached together.

Then her memory rebooted, and like a tidal wave a flood of information registered across her processors.

_Arthur…_She recalled the name of the man that had spent an entire night working through the rubbish that were her shoddy remains: the name of the man that had spoken so kindly to her, that had called her so many genial and comforting things and had encouraged her to believe that she could be made whole again; the man that had not abandoned her, even when in his fear he had every right to.

An unfamiliar swell of emotion stirred within her. Thoughts of Arthur somehow made her feel happy, something that she had not experienced in years. And yet, simultaneously, they made her sad, for he was not there with her now. She had not longed for the company of someone like that; not even when she had been whole. He confounded her in only the most curious of ways, and to some degree, she liked that.

Wish you were here, she thought morosely. She checked her internal chronometer: it was twenty-two hundred. Arthur still had some time left before he had to return; she hoped he came early again. Without him, she was alone; not even the others came to visit her anymore. She was isolated, and she loathed how it made her feel like garbage, how it solidified her existence as junk.

She was not junk! At least, she didn't used to be. Once upon a time, she had a name; she couldn't remember it now. She had been a dancer, a singer, an entertainer of children and adults alike. She had soft, sumptuous fur and curvy hips, pert breasts that rose like supple mounds on her chest, and a tail that flagged to-and-fro whenever she'd been happy.

She even had a smile once; she certainly didn't have one now: her mandible was missing. Reality was as cruel to her as the years had been. Her body was in ruin, decayed beyond any semblance as to what it once was. She had no tail, no breasts, and certainly no curves; at least, not the kind she longed for. She couldn't dance or sing, and the only entertainment she could provide wouldn't be acceptable on any other day but Halloween. She was nothing more than a collection of dusty, rusted-out old parts and a mangled skeleton: uncared for, unloved, and unwanted.

The 'Mangle' wished she could've overridden the sensation for despair; but, she couldn't. She was junk, and begrudgingly, she accepted it. It was plain for her to see as she stared down into what was left of her, and silently, she longed for her tears again. Most of her body could not be saved; the parts were lumped together like some cadaverous mountain fit only to be discarded and thrown away. What little of her truly remained hardly looked any better: a thoracic cavity bent and broken, a pelvis cracked and shoddy, an arm lacking its musculature and the other missing altogether. Her legs were disjointed, though miraculously remained present as a pair. Everything about her was a sickly, rustic brown; it was brittle and disconcerting to look at. She had no wiring left to speak of; most of it had been chewed away by the vermin that infested the place. Nothingness filled the empty cavities in between her bones; her innards were gone, relegated to refuse.

She was hardly the pretty sight; why would anyone bother? She could never be made beautiful again. It would be far better for everyone if she was simply deactivated and thrown away. At the very least, she wouldn't have to feel lonely or ugly again, and she wouldn't have to be the eyesore that she knew she was. Yet, while purgatory called to her, she no longer had the means with which to answer it. She couldn't will herself into oblivion, of that she knew for certain: she had tried only every night to never wake again and was only ever disappointed when she failed.

Internally, the 'Mangle' sighed. Why can't I just die and feel nothing? Why is the world so cruel to me; whatever did I do?

It was a question that she'd had far too long to ponder on. Had she ever been so bad to deserve a hell so dreadful? To forever be mangled and wounded; was that truly all that destiny held for her: torment and anguish and loneliness hers to know eternally? Was she so thusly damned? And, if so, why; whatever could be the reason? What had she done to earn the ire of fate? Had she not been faithful to her clients? Had she somehow wronged somebody; stolen from them? Had she been cruel in her actions to children or unfaithful in devotion to her lovers?

Was she not, or had she never been, a good girl?

That singular musing gave her pause: a good girl. Was she a good girl? Had she ever been something like that? Had she been something that quantified the veritable traits worthy of the distinction, or was she something else entirely? Was she a bad girl; was that why they'd left her to rot forever?

The 'Mangle' didn't know, and that served only to hurt her all the more.

_Am I a good girl, or a bad one, _she wondered, but pondered no further upon the matter. From outside the walls of her prison, the faint distinction of a vehicle door being closed shattered her musings with all the subtlety of thunder rumbling within her tattered ears. A brief pause and then a curt, shrill squeak like poorly oiled hinges preceded a sudden boom of something opening and then abruptly being brought to a halt; it was akin to the sound of a toolbox or perhaps a tailgate being lowered. A smattering of minutes passed before she heard a similar sound, and then nothing at all but the gentle whirring of the comfort station.

Then the service door in the back suddenly opened with a jarring slam; it had struck the wall outside. A curse flew out into the stillness of the corridors, and amidst the frantic footsteps that followed, and a perplexing sound synonymous with the wheels of a train car clacking against the tracks, the 'Mangle' felt a fleeting sensation of hope trigger across her processors.

Could that really be him? She cautiously wondered. Is he finally back? Haggard breathing; the clatter was louder. A grunt in effort; a moan of discomfort; the sharp aroma of perspiration clearly masculine only just quantifiable by her damaged olfactory senses; he was almost there. If with bated breath she could have waited, certainly she would have, and in that pivotal moment of release would she have sighed in elation at what she saw next.

Rounding the corner, huffing for breath, and stopping only to collapse upon the floor was Arthur: the only thing she'd ever wanted to see had returned.

"Ah," he panted. "God…damn it! I…already done said it once; but, fuck me! I am outta shape! Whew!" He exclaimed as he sucked hungrily upon the air. She watched as he gorged himself on it, feasted until his chest was full and satisfied and the beast within no longer heaved with exertion.

He remained there for a time, a sweaty mess upon the floor content to stew in his own musk. The 'Mangle' didn't mind; he could stay there all night and she would've been happy. So long as he was there, regardless of the capacity, she was not alone anymore. She had a companion to spend her lonely nights with; what more could she ask for than that?

"I brought a few things for ya, girl," Arthur abruptly explained from his supine position; it garnered her interests. Slowly, the man stood to his feet; she watched as he broached a curious assortment of boxes that she was ashamed to admit that she hadn't noticed before. And they were many, varying in size and shape, texture and volume, wrapped haphazardly in packing-tape and labeled with black marker. From her perch, she was not able to read them.

One by one, Arthur set them down upon the floor with a vested measure of care; he surrounded her skeleton with them, apparently organizing them symbolically with whatever they contained. It was in watching him then that a mere curiosity began to grow into something much more dangerous; something that she dared not experience for fear of being disappointed when her expectations fell short: optimism had no remorse for garbage, after all.

"That ought to do it," he said as he turned towards her skull. "Let's just go on and see what I got for ya here, baby." She had never felt more uncertain in her life. Despite his voice—so amicable and kind, elated even like a child on the eve of Christmas—she was nervous and frightened. Anxiety clawed at her mind like thousands of tiny ants burrowing into her skull; she wanted to look away, to shut down for a time if only to hide from her desires and wants, to avoid the crushing dejection when her hopes were dashed against the jagged spires of reality.

Nothing of the sort came to pass, however, as the 'Mangle' merely stared hopelessly at the man, silently pleading for him to stop; she could not bear to be let down again. He acted regardless, however, oblivious to her fright. Before she had even realized it, a box-cutter had already found its way into Arthur's hand. She was all but helpless to watch as he plunged the blade into the first box, and then another, and another; he tore them all open with surgical precision and removed their contents until the cardboard boxes had all been replaced. By what, she hadn't noticed; she simply couldn't. She was far too afraid of what they might be. It was a small blessing that Arthur merely stood there for a time, counting the objects that she refused to acknowledge. It afforded her the opportunity to focus her attention solely upon him; a means with which she could momentarily escape the inevitable.

It was a foolish endeavor; she knew that even before he'd come up to the counter and plucked her skull from it like she was some unwitting invalid. The warmth of his hand did nothing for her then; it served only to thicken the unsettling smog of her trepidation and reminded her of how useless she truly was: she couldn't even defend herself if she tried.

"Wanna take a look?" he asked. His rhetoric was punctuated by his holding her skull aloft by her bare cranial vault. She couldn't close her only eye; the shutter mechanisms no longer worked. The room was hers to see whether she wished to or not, and to say that it was overwhelming was insulting to no small degree. For what fed through her optical array and deep into the dredges of her malfunctioning mind was nothing short of mesmerizing; it was a miracle beyond comprehension to a machine that had been broken for so long.

_Are these...Is this…Mine…Real? _Her processors faulted; she rebooted them; the contents of the room remained the same. But, that just couldn't be! Surely it was a ruse; a cruel trick to make her believe beyond what she knew to be true: she was trash, unfit and unworthy of being repaired. But, the parts were there; numerous and plentiful, they stared up at her from the ground and glimmered even within the dim light of the room. They were impossible for her to ignore anymore; however could she? They were the culmination of all that had decayed within her reborn, the immaculate successors to decades-old scrap that had long been obsolete. As a drug to the addict, she found herself helpless to crave what she saw there; if only for a taste of it would she do anything: anything at all just to be made whole again.

Am I even worth it? _She wondered. _This can't be real! He can't possibly be serious…Can he?

"It's all for you," Arthur clarified and the 'Mangle' suddenly felt like melting. "It'll take me a little time, but it's all there: everything I need to at least get'cha running again. Assuming I can get your sternum to cooperate—which I ain't given much thought to, but probably should have—I think I can get most of this shit integrated and functional by the morning." He cast an aside glance towards her skull; his eyes were filled with sympathy. "But, don't you worry none; I'll make you live again. You's wait and see; them beautiful eyes will shine like a diamond in the dark," he chuckled sadly, "just as soon as I can find the other one."

Though she loathed herself for it, after all that he'd said and done for her, even after the empathy had become genuine, the 'Mangle' could only think upon one tragic and desperate thought.

Please, don't lie to me.