Mangled Love

by Firemedic755

In a dying establishment full of old and tired memories, greasy walls, and haunted dreams, lies forgotten there a relic of the past, something that remembers when it wasn't the bleak place that it had become. In ruin, it waits in that horrible place, abandoned and alone, and longing for the death that had past her by. All this, her only life, until the past found her again...

It was broken, damaged, and forgotten, left to rot as a harrowing pile of parts and scrap, hardly recognizable as the thing it once was. It was tortured, torn, and ratty, crying out for the attention that no one could afford. It was lifeless, an effigy of joy and good times reduced to ruin and neglect. It was awful in a word, a tragedy wrote upon the nightmares of children.

Arthur stood above the broken animatronic fox, looking down upon it with an unwavering gaze, his face a mask of indifference. And yet, beneath that stoic facade, a stirring of sorrow bubbled just beneath the surface. Within that wretched amalgamation of parts—the rusty metal, frayed wires, and torn, tattered flesh—the man saw the beauty that it once had been. He saw through to the joyous creature that lay dead before him, and felt the yearning that only his heart had ever found.

She deserved to be pretty again. She deserved to be called such, identifiable as feminine, for 'it' was simply too insensitive, insulting even to no small degree.

She deserved to live, even if no one else thought so.

Arthur knelt at her side, committing to memory her identity. He'd never call her an 'it'; no one ever would again. In a large, ebony hand, he pulled from her shabby remains her head, the metallic skull somehow light amidst his strength. Her jaw hung loosely from its decrepit hinges, exposing the facade of an iron tongue that had by and large rusted away, leaving a sickly brown organ where once shimmering steel had been. All but four of her teeth remained, filed steel pokers that bent at awkward angles. Her muzzle was bear, exposing the metallic structures of her narrow maw. Her nose-pad was missing, likely taken by vermin to amass some macabre treasure thought to be of value. Her eyes were lifeless, or rather the one that remained. The other was conspicuously absent, lost to the ages and likely to never be seen again.

Her ears clung loosely to her skull; she looked sad, as though she lamented everything she'd become, and Arthur sighed.

"You's a pitiful sight, girl," he said to the lifeless head in his hand. "Broken and forgotten like nobody ever did care 'bout ya. Just look at the mess they left ya in! God damn shameful, I tell ya."

He rotated her skull so that her hollow eyes met his own, and he leaned his head down to touch the cool remnants of her forehead against his own.

"Well," he said softly, the depth of his baritone voice carrying in it a tinge of sympathy for the doll. "You's deserve better than this. You's deserve to be cared for and loved...And remembered."

He pulled the skull back so that their eyes met again. "I remember you," he said. "Don't know if you remember me; I wasn't that old when we first met, weren't no older than the kids that left ya here; but, I remember. You's was the pretty one, the cute thing with the soulful voice. Ya, I remember you singing and dancing on stage, moving them hips that got little Arthur all excited," he chuckled. "Ya, I definitely remember you, girl!"

He openly laughed as he twirled the skull in his hands, moving it through the air in some morbid dance that ended the moment her jaw unhinged and fell to the ground with a metallic clatter. The smile left his lips, and the laughter died as he saw it lying there. "I remember you; just, not like this." He sighed and reverently placed her skull back amongst the rest of her remains. "Not like this."

He stood up, looming above the decrepit doll as memories played through his mind: memories of a vibrant animatronic swaying to the rhythm of a lively beat as she sang her sultry song. Memories of a bright and happy smile forever faceted to an immortal face, and the genial greeting from a machine made friend.

Memories that were only the sum of their parts as he looked down upon her shattered pieces, and his face again took on its stoic visage.

"You's sure deserve better than this, girl," he said again. "Lot's better. Now, I don't know if you remember me, and frankly, I couldn't care less about it. My memories are all I need. I ain't asking ya to trust me neither, so you put that out of your head right now. After what ya been through, y'all don't need to be trusting nobody anyhow. All I want is a chance," his voice faltered, but only for a moment as he cleared his throat.

"Just give me a chance; that's all I'm asking. Give me the chance to put a song back into your soul; give me the chance to put a groove back in those hips. Give me the chance to give ya life again, girl, that's all I want. And if that ain't enough for ya, then you's can be rid of me for good, and that'll be the end of it."

Arthur sighed and rubbed his eyes with a haggard hand, "I only got the week anyhow, girl. Schmidt don't want me here any longer than that. But, the way I figured it, I might as well use that time on something that matters. Couldn't give a shit 'bout the others just to be frank with ya. They seem well enough to roam all their own so fuck um I say; too damn tired to spare the attention anyhow, even with the rumors."

Above Arthur and the remains, a dull chime suddenly echoed throughout the halls. In the distance, the groan of a generator wound down unto silence, and the lights slowly dimmed. A door slammed shut, and the audible turn of the tumblers signaled that the establishment was officially closed.

"Bastard didn't even say goodnight," Arthur groused as the room was plunged into a dreary ambience, fitting of the body that lay strewn across the floor.

He turned his attention back to her. "You give me the chance, girl, and I won't let ya regret it. You's just sit tight, now, and let me grab some things from the office. I'll be back before ya know it."

And suddenly she was all alone again, left there as some pile of refuse, not even fit to be recycled. Her cold body lay unmoving, inoperable in a state of catastrophic disrepair. She couldn't move even if she wanted to. And by god, did she want to. How she longed to roam the monotonous halls of that place if only to be free from the ground. How she yearned to feel again, even if in tortuous agony. At the very least, the pain would've been a welcomed reprieve from the nothingness she knew.

The company, however brief, provided from a stranger that to her limited memory she could not recall, despite in hearing his words, had been nice—wonderful even in a word. He had been her first visitor in years; at least, her first human visitor. The vermin were always around; but then, they weren't much for conversation, and only ever brought about her ever deteriorating condition.

She found herself missing him, even if all she gleaned of him was in a brief smattering of minutes, and he had dislodged her fragile jaw. To the 'Mangle'—the harrowing moniker bestowed upon her in years past—however, she would gladly permit him to dismantle her remnants if only to feel the warmth of a human hand again.

She may have sighed, or likely cried had she the tears left to do so. He wasn't coming back, not tonight at least, not with the threat of the others catching him unawares. His was an empty promise; but, one that she could understand. No one had the time for her anymore, certainly not the tender loving care she so desperately needed.

So when the startling sound of a metallic toolbox striking the ground echoed within her tattered ears, she could only stare in frozen disbelief at the ebony man that again stood before her. She very well may have looked surprised, were her body still intact and the servos in her face still functional. Instead, her jawless skull remained persistently frozen as it had been for decades, even as the man reached down and took her skull in his formidable hand again.

"Sorry to keep ya waiting," he said. "Couldn't find my damn gloves; I hope ya don't mind, girl." He walked her over to a dusty counter, adjacent to the ruin that was her body and laid her skull to rest upon it.

"You's can sit right there," he said as he turned to kneel before her scattered parts. "That way you's can see all that I'm doing. Lord knows I wouldn't want some nameless nobody rifling through all my unmentionables without being able to keep an eye on him."

He chuckled softly, "Lord no, that wouldn't do, no-sir. And in saying that, the name's Arthur by the way: Arthur Johnston, AJ for short." He tilted his head towards her in greeting and then focused his attention to the mess before him. In a large hand he took what was left of her chest—a metallic skeleton devoid of the many mechanical necessities mandatory for her function. Her sternum was bent, curved at the process towards her spine. The ribs attached to it jutted out dangerously at odd angles; one of them was even missing all together. As he lifted the part from the ground, her spine came free of her pelvis and dangled morbidly from her chassis.

Arthur whistled, "Damn girl, I'm beginning to see why all them folks just call ya the 'Mangle': fitting a word that I could ever think of, that's for damn sure," he shook his head.

She knew that he would never see it; but, in hearing that dreaded word slip passed his lips, the 'Mangle' felt a most awful pang of misery creep through her processors. She loathed that word: Mangle. Even the sound of it was somehow icky, akin to placing one's hand into a vat of boiling puss and detritus. It sounded sinister by nature, as if her broken form was disgusting enough to mar any semblance of beauty.

But, then again, was she not so hideous? Did that moniker not suit her to a T? The weight of her despair only deepened as she realized the truth in such a matter. She was ugly and broken. She was a 'Mangle' in every sense of the word.

"Now, don't y'all fret none, girl," Arthur said as he again turned to face her decapitated skull. "Y'all may be busted up now; but, just give me some time. When I'm through with you, no one will ever call you the 'Mangle' again."

He set back to his work, sorting her many parts from the ruined pile that they had once amalgamated in, and again she found herself taken aback by the strange man. Had he truly felt her ire; her sorrow? Had he somehow felt her despair and uttered those words if only to soothe the fiery ache deep within herself? Was he truly so motivated to make her whole again, or was he perhaps bored and simply in need of something to do?

She watched his diligence silently, observing as a large calamity slowly resolved to some semblance of order. Gears and servos were lumped together, as were an arm—the other missing—and her legs, her remaining joints and digits, her torso and spine, her pelvis and hips, her paws, and useful scraps of fur. In an even larger pile, ever growing as he tossed all matter of things aside, were the many things about her that could not be salvaged.

And they were plentiful, comprised mostly of her inner workings. Artificial airways, bladder reservoirs, belts and hoses, pumps and circuitry, a mechanical heart that had not cycled her life-sustaining fluid in she wasn't sure how long. The intimate parts of her reserved only for that adult clientele seeking a one night stand free of guilt or worry; it was all tossed aside.

However kind the man's words were, they could never convince her of the lie he had shared. She was a 'Mangle', and nothing was going to change that.

She watched on regardless, having little choice in the matter as her broken skull could not move freely on its own. The man didn't seem to notice; she doubted there were any signs of life left within her one good eye to be seen by him anyhow. Instead, she drowned herself in a symphony sound: her parts clanging together, the staccato whirr of the fans within the comfort station, and the rhythmic sounds of the man working with the occasional grunt or curse he let slip passed his lips as he sorted her mangled body.

This went on for a time, the two locked in silence as one worked and the other merely existed, if such a state of being could actually be called that. It wasn't until the clock struck midnight that the 'Mangle' finally reasserted herself to the consciousness of her skull, and in seeing the man before her, if only for a moment, did she panic two-fold.

First came the rush of seeing her body sorted; her parts—at least those that remained—organized and placed aside with a vested measure of care and attention. True, while the pile that contained her useless scrap utterly dwarfed what was salvageable, it was still nice to see the loose composition of her true form again.

The second came the terror of seeing the man out in the open, vulnerable and completely exposed to the others who would soon be wondering the halls, if they weren't already. They were not known for their sympathy towards the biological flesh. To them, humanity was a disease, imperfect and damaged, nothing more than endoskeletons lacking the fine finesse of a proper animatronic suit. If they found him, they would take him away; if they took him away, she would never see him again.

The 'Mangle' did not like that idea, not in the least. She couldn't fathom why; but, perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he was warm, that when he held her skull she could bask in something other than the cold hard ground. Perhaps it was the kindness—however brief—that he'd imparted upon her, or the fact that he had cared, or at least pretended to, about her fate?

Whatever the case may be, the 'Mangle' did not want him to disappear alike so many others. He would never make it back to the safety of the office, this she knew. Her remains were far from the prying eyes of the day-goers, and even of those of the staff the frequented the place. She had been left to rot within the farthest reaches, visible only by the lone camera within her room. The office was some several winding hallways back towards the employees' entrance of the establishment, and to the man's unknowing misfortune, it would require that he venture through the lobby where the others were waiting.

A sudden clap from the hallway halted Arthur's progress, "Y'all hear that?" He asked to the severed head on the counter as he marched slowly towards the open corridor.

She had wanted to tell him to stop, to flee, to run as fast as he could to the safety of the outdoors, to jump through a window even if only to avoid the harrowing fate that awaited him! But she could not! She was broken, useless! A pile of scrap metal that couldn't even save her only potential friend in years! The only living thing with a soul to have cared about her at all!

The clap came again, and again, until finally it evolved into the unmistakable sound of footsteps preceded by a grating noise like nails across a chalkboard.

"Somebody there?" Arthur called out, but was met only by silence. And then the footsteps became harried, sounding quicker and quicker, louder and louder with every passing second. The man suddenly backed into the room as if finally sensing the danger. He swept blindly at the ground as his eyes remained frozen to the open hallway, reaching for something, anything to defend himself with. His knuckles rasped painfully over something metal, and when it snapped up, he was clutching the 'Mangle's' severed arm. He held it aloft as he breathed deeply, a subtle panic slowly etching its way across his ebony features as the footsteps sounded just outside the room.

He raised the severed limb high above his head and poised himself to strike at a moment's notice, "I'm armed in here, mother fucker!" he shouted, oblivious to the irony. "You's ain't taking these parts, ya hear me?! I ain't gonna let no two-bit shit-bag take her away for scrap, so come on then! Come get some!"

Unbeknownst to a panicking Arthur, the 'Mangle' had heard his cries. For a third time in only a few short hours, the man had left her stunned. It was clear that he feared for his life. Perspiration dripped from his brown, his hands quaked and his knees wobbled uneasily. She could all but hear the frantic beating of his heart and imagined the fire that burned in his lungs as he respired so quickly. Yet, it wasn't in what he did that moved her; rather, in what he'd said, and said with such conviction. There was no robber on the other side of that corridor, not one that sought her broken parts anyhow, and she knew that. But, he didn't. He firmly believed that the establishment was being robbed, and that someone had come for her, for her uselessness, for the price of her body that now lay in neat piles upon the floor. And he was going to protect her remnants from a monster that didn't even want them, or exist at all for that matter.

Never before had she longed for the tears she missed so dearly, for if she had them, surely she would've wept. Who was this man that walked up to trash and defended it so valiantly when he owed her nothing at all?

The footsteps suddenly ceased, and from outside the corridor, a cold hand gripped the wall. Arthur saw this, but, in his fearful disillusion, he never saw the faux fur attached to it. Still, he raised his provisional weapon high, and he charged forth unto certain death with a battle-cry.

A piercing, discordant sound abruptly exploded throughout the building, a static discharge that grated in the man's ears and caused him to falter in his stride. Again, he stumbled back into the room, attempting to cover his ears with his hands while holding steadfast to the 'Mangle's' arm. Through squinted eyes he glowered at the corridor only to find the hand gone, and above the raucous noise he heard the footsteps beat a hasty retreat.

"Ya, that's what I thought you slimy fuck!" He bellowed. "You's get the fuck out of my store! Goddamn!" Arthur unceremoniously threw the arm back towards the pile and promptly collapsed before the countertop upon which the 'Mangle's' skull sat, finally able to cover his ears. The sound was unbearable, like a thousand voices trying to scream through the rotating channels of an old radio.

"What the fuck is that!" he shouted into the room. Amidst the unintelligible mummers that he heard, Arthur's imagination began to spurn him, running wild with thoughts of demons and specters that were rumored to haunt the old pizzeria. Harrowing images of bloodied children calling out to him, tortuous black hands reaching forth from the depths of hell to ensnare his legs and drag him under spilled across his mind. A pentagram wrought with candles, a demonic ceremony, and his disemboweled body strewn across a concrete slab, all this and more was all he saw behind his closed eyes.

Arthur screamed, and just as suddenly as the sound had occurred, it abruptly ceased. The room fell back into relative silence, the quiet hum of the comfort station fans and his own labored breathing all that persisted. Above him, Arthur could not see the glowing red iris faceted with the 'Mangle's' decapitated skull, and by the time he'd finally collected himself and stood, the iris had again faded to black.

The man was shaken, of that the 'Mangle' was certain. She wanted to hide from him, to show him her shame at causing him such discomfort; but, she couldn't. While he was so unaware of what had transpired, it had in fact been her that had caused such a ruckus. She had only wanted to protect him, to keep him safe as he had been so willing to do for her. She didn't want to let him go; she didn't want to let him die, not like that. Not after all that he had said and done for her. It was all she could do to ward off the others and allow him to stay; to remain alive.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur said abruptly and turned his head to face the 'Mangle's' skull. "That was some freaky shit there! Maybe this place is haunted after all, eh girly? You know something 'bout that?"

He reached out and took her skull in his large hand, and for a moment, the 'Mangle' was warm again. He brought her lifelessness close to his face and gazed into her eye as though he were honestly expecting an answer. It never came, however, and just as quickly as he'd picked her up, he sat her back down again and the cold was all that was there to greet her.

"S'pose not," he murmured to her. "Something pretty like you has no business with evil things like that."

Pretty… It was only the second time that he'd called her that; she doubted that she would ever tire of it.

"Y'all just sit there a spell; I gotta check up on this place," he said over his shoulder as he walked towards the corridor, and before she could stop him—the sound nearly within her abilities to produce again—he vanished around the corner, and was gone. Ice filled her processers; it was not safe beyond her room; the others were still out there! He was still vulnerable: helpless! They were going to get him and when they did, she'd be all alone again!

Her eye began to glow red. Why hadn't he stayed?! Why did he have to leave?! Didn't he know what was out there; didn't anybody tell him?! They were going to get him!

They were going to get him!

They were going to get him!

They're going to get him…

No!

The sound again erupted into her room. It spilled forth into every nook and cranny; it filled the space wholly and completely until it had nowhere else to go but outward. It ballooned into the corridors, into the ventilation. It spanned beyond the many closed doors of the place; it reverberated off the walls of the common room, the employee lounge, even the kitchen and bathrooms. It reached far into the depths of the establishment, beyond even the parts gallery in the basement, and the patio just beyond the side doors.

It followed Arthur like a plague, one of which was his only salvation, though he didn't understand. To him it was merely a haunting wail the pierced him to his very core and turned what was once a languid investigation into a panicked sprint across every entrance and window, frantically searching for some kind of damage that was never found or even there in the first place.

Amongst his uncertainty and fear, however, Arthur dutifully upheld his contract with the establishment, and upon finding the place properly secured, he rushed back towards his charge, forsaking the relative safety of the office as he passed it by. The thought had never even occurred to him about how it was possible for an intruder to simply break in and vanish without a trace. Perhaps he didn't care; or perhaps he simply didn't want to know. For some reason or another, the only place he wished to be was at the side of some ruined doll.

He dashed towards her room, heedless of the many eyes leering at his back.

She sat just as he'd left her some half-an-hour ago, her red iris glowing in the dimness of her prison as she sang her broken song aloud. It warbled and droned, drowned out by the ephemeral static that her damaged processors just couldn't seem to manage. Again, she found herself miserable, wanting to cry as the man had yet to return. Perhaps he never would; perhaps her song was not loud enough to reach him and ward off the others?

He's dead…She thought to herself. My first friend in years is gone. Her song slowly wound down and faded unto nothingness. The dead did not need a song; they didn't need anything at all.

Thanks for the memories…She mused sadly, Even if I won't remember you for long.

The 'Mangle' resolved herself to silence again: to return to nothing more than the tattered parts that she'd been known by for so many years.

At least they're organized now.

Her iris began to fade; her power was limited; her mechanized brain would not allow her to cease to function—to die—she corrected herself. The redundant safeties and power augmentation devices would allow her to function so long as there was a photocell to be had, and while the lights of the pizzeria dimmed, they had yet to ever go out.

So long as the lights are on…She chuckled sadly to herself before her higher functions began to shut down. Her command line began to scroll through the necessary sequence, cramming information over already saved data across several damaged and inaccessible memory ports. She was careful to overwrite only erroneous information; things from years long past that held no true meaning to her anymore. The faces of children, of men and women that she recalled with perfect clarity but the day before obliterated in an instant, erased forever as though they'd never existed at all. Intimate encounters were always preferable; however, she had by and gone overwritten those many years ago. At one time she had been desirable; now, hardly so. When she had fallen to ruin, the memories of making love had been far too painful for her to hold onto, and she eradicated them at every opportunity.

It was unfortunate that it had taken her so long to do so; the redundancy of her memory prevented her from deleting information stored within her memory banks. Without admin control—which was never granted to an automaton, at least not intentionally—memories were only overwritten when new ones were made without enough free space to store them on. It was the only part of her that she was thankful was damaged; it made memory control so much more realistic for the dismembered animatronic fox.

Her command lined winked out of existence with a completed task display flashing three times across her processors; its function had served her for another day. She considered shutting down the rest of her faulty systems; the reprieve of existence in sleep mode was more than desirable. However, no sooner had she considered the idea than had the frantic footsteps of something rapidly approaching thundered throughout the corridor. Her eye swiftly glanced in that direction; but, before she had any time to truly process the matter or reboot her higher functions, the ebony man suddenly rushed back into her room.

He came to stand before her skull again, leaning heavily upon the counter as he panted desperately for breath. Sweat dripped from his chin and stained the dust beside her skull a murky brown, though she hardly cared at all as she stared in excited awe at him.

He was alive.

"Mother…Fucker," he panted. "I am out of shape."

He was alive.

"Goddamn! I tell ya, girl, this place has some fucked up shit going on with its sound system. That crazy ass noise from earlier what scared off that spook followed me all over this place! I swear it was like I couldn't escape it! Sorry I took so long to get back here; but—and don't you go telling no body 'bout this—I flipped my shit and freaked! Ran all over this mother fucker until I found the sound room and ripped out ever cable I could find! And I tell you what," he said and leaned in closer to her skull, "I don't give a rancid, dirty fuck 'bout what Schmidt is gonna say 'bout it. He can either fix that shit right, or fucking deal with it not being hooked up while I'm here, and that's the damn truth!"

He was alive!

She didn't care about his coarse language or about the perspiration that now dripped upon her severed head. She didn't care that he seemed too ignorant to realize that it had been her song that had spared him from the others. All that really mattered to her was that Arthur was alive, and that he was truly there, standing above her flesh and blood! He hadn't left her behind; even amidst his fears he had stayed in that horrible place; he had come back for her!

"Need some damn Copenhagen," he muttered, oblivious to the musings inside the doll's head as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his tin. He opened it and sniffed of its contents; the scent was sharp, moist, and fresh, telling of a hardy blend of finely-cut tobacco product fit to be suckled on. He took a large pinch in between his thick fingers; he rimmed the can with it: one, two, three times, and then he seemed satisfied. He lifted the ample pinch to his bottom lip and it was there that he tucked it in like a caring father might a child.

Arthur sighed in satisfaction, "Now that's what I needed," he hummed at the taste. "You know what they say," he said, eying the fox's skull upon the counter. "A pinch a day keeps the stress at bay, baby!" he guffawed loudly as he jigged across the floor, dancing with eyes closed to a beat that only he could hear.

The 'Mangle' watched him quietly, humored by the man's antics for the first time in years. For once, it was not her tears that she longed for, but laughter. He twirled about like a child on a sugar rush, throwing his hands into the air, kicking wildly out in front of him. He popped, locked, and dropped it more than once, and the 'Mangle' actually registered the sensation of mirth course through her processors.

It had been a long time since she had felt something like that; she was more than glad again that he had returned.

It was only a few short minutes later, however, that Arthur seemed to tire. His dancing slowed to a waltz, then to a crawl before he stopped altogether. He placed his hands onto his knees and huffed for breath, spitting something slimy and possibly caustic out onto the floor.

"Yep," he panted noisily. "I am definitely out of shape."

He sauntered languidly over to the pieces of the 'Mangle's' body and it was there that he sat upon the floor; his wind had yet to catch up to him, even as he dragged his toolbox closer to his side and unloaded several strange and unusual tools from its confines. He laid them out haphazardly, unlike the care he had devoted to her fragile remains.

Arthur glanced towards her skull again. "Girl," he uttered softly, seriously. The change in his voice was so drastic; it had occurred so swiftly. Gone was his elation; gone was the fear. So suddenly, the man was dreadfully somber, his posture utterly rigid, and it caught the 'Mangle's' attention like a fly stuck to the web.

"This is the part where you give me that chance I talked 'bout," he said. "Everything I've got with me is my own personnel parts and tools. I ain't got no diagram of how you's used to be; I ain't got no instructions. All I do have is my will and a little knowhow, that's it. I can't tell ya that you'll be perfect; frankly, there's gonna be a lot of things missing, things that I'm gonna have to find to make you whole again."

Arthur sighed, "Look, Schmidt don't know 'bout this, and neither do my friends. What I'm doing here is technically illegal; I disabled the camera in this room. Frankly, I don't care 'bout legality. On paper, you's might have once belonged to the pizzeria; but, tonight, and for the next few days, you're all mine. And I'm gonna treat ya like you's should've been treated all along."

"So, that's it," he said as his eyes remained fixed upon her own. "You's good with all that; 'cause I'm ready to start." Arthur watched her for a time, stared at the decapitated head and gazed into a dull and seemingly sightless eye as though he were truly awaiting her answer. The 'Mangle's' head said nothing; it merely stared back at him, the same sad expression frozen upon her face.

"You's ain't got to say anything," he replied for her. "I'll just set to my work, and I'll ask you's again when there ain't so much of ya strewn out across the floor."

Unbeknownst to Arthur, the 'Mangle' had given her reply. Though she could not say it aloud, thoughts of her affirmation tore through her mind with a deafening wail. Of course, she wanted to cry again; Arthur looked somehow sad behind the stoic mask he wore upon his face as he began to work on her body. She never saw what parts he had in his hands; she only ever saw his eyes. They were a chocolate brown; even in the dim light of the room, she could clearly see that. Her own eye, damaged though it may have been, still possessed enough of her superior vision. She could count the pores on his countenance had she been so inclined; but, she wasn't. She only wanted to see what he saw; not the parts, but rather what they had at one time been. She wondered what she looked like in his mind; what drove him to try so hard to save a pile of trash?

He worked on into the late hours of the night; he never left her room again. The others, warded by her song, stayed away, fearful of what little wrath the 'Mangle' still possessed. All the while, she merely studied him, watched him, and forsook her treasured sleep mode if only to be in his company as a feeling she thought lost in her ruin casually tapped at the window of her soul.

By the morning, many of the organized piles littering the ground had not disappeared; rather, they were slowly coming together, joined as they were always meant to be. The floor, however, was far from bare, and it was clear to more than just Arthur that time was ever needed. For today, however, that time was drawing to a close.

Arthur groaned as he slowly stood to his feet. His joints popped, his back ached, and his neck was stiff. He stretched; a few more joints cried out in protest. He walked about the room to drive the blood back into his haggard legs. He cracked his neck, and then he sighed. The hours he had spent upon the floor had been long, and his body had grown weary of the awkward positions he had kept it in.

"That's all for the night, girl," he said over his shoulder as he walked towards the corridor. "I'm gonna see 'bout a few things today; maybe brush up on fluid dynamics, look for some guts. Gotta find a new spine and a neurological wiring harness too; yours was shot. Don't rightfully know 'bout your sternum, though; that's gonna be hard to match."

"We'll get there, though," he encouraged. "One thing at a time; that's what daddy always said. Anyhow, g'night, sweet girl, I'll see ya later."

Arthur stepped into the corridor, and then he was gone. The 'Mangle' listened to his footsteps until she couldn't hear them; she heard the sound of the front door slamming shut; she knew she was alone again. She was tired; her processors were sluggish. But, it had been worth it; she spent an entire night in the company of her new friend. Of those new memories, she was exceptionally careful with as her command line booted up and began to creep through the steady process of an improper shutdown. She overrode old memories; she latched on to new ones. She scrolled to her sleep-mode cycle and entered in the confirmation command with only a persistent thought lingering within her mechanized mind.

He called me sweet…

The following afternoon had been nothing short of hectic and infuriatingly expensive for Arthur. After a paltry four hours of rest, a meager breakfast of burnt toast, slimy eggs, and day-old hash-browns, Arthur had been busy. The morning had seen him poring through books in some dingy, centralized library shoulder-to-shoulder with snobby nerds. He crammed everything to do with fluidic balance, internal mechanization, and basic automation into his already aching head and spent a veritable fortune on copies of diagrams and wiring schematics. He had driven to no less than twelve locations in search of parts, forced to do dealings with the same nerds he'd found at the library.

And they were certainly stingy in a kind word. More than that, they had been curious, far too much so for their own good. By the time he had reached his last tolerable stop of the day, he'd simply paid out the asking price for a high four-figure spine—five including the sales tax—and walked out the door amidst a slew of colorful curses cast towards the salesman.

He'd sped home, uncaring of common decency and traffic laws as he cut off just about everyone that got in his way. He kindly told them that they were number one with his middle finger when their horns blared at him. At home, he'd nearly totaled his vehicle and house in one fell motion as he slammed on his brakes and slid to a narrow stop just before striking his garage door.

He'd all but thrown his tailgate down and fumed his way towards his workshop to retrieve his dolly. He carefully unloaded his purchases; his first tender act of the day. But they weren't for him or for any of the other dolls that he kept in his workshop. They were special and for something equally if not more so.

Seven boxes in all, Arthur toted them inside his shed and promptly closed the door. He turned the lights on to illuminate a large and cluttered room filled with many disassembled animatronics in various states of disrepair. Endoskeletons lined the walls of the space; various species reduced to only their most basic structures. Many were decapitated; some were not. Across various bins lining many labeled shelves resided a vast quantity of restored parts. Joints and tendons, muscles and fibers, pneumatic actuators, pumps, servos, eyes and ears, nose-pads, tongues, gel-forms, radiators shaped like lungs, reservoirs like stomachs, re-circulators and purifiers like kidneys and livers, biometric filters and regulators, even sexual organs. It was all there; all the necessities for basic models.

Yet the 'Mangle' was anything but basic to Arthur. She deserved a more intimate kind of attention; something special, only for her.

She was one-of-a-kind, after all.

In the center of the room was a large, stainless steel slab: a workbench, sterile enough for operation. Beneath it, it was lined by several drawers, each unceremoniously crammed with a variety of tools, haphazard as was customary of the man with his instruments. He preferred them that way; tedium was reserved only for the parts on which they were used. From one of the drawers, Arthur produced a box-cutter and carefully opened his packages.

The first, the smallest of the set, contained a narrow, canine mandible. Its teeth were set and aligned, blunted, though aesthetically pleasing; it was adjustable, made to fit a wide variety of Canidae models. The lower actuators that comprised the temporomandibular joint were already in place; they allotted the jaw movement when attached to a skull. All the servos were present, the wiring harness set and secured. The tongue was absent; though, that was hardly surprising. It wasn't necessary in most animatronics as it typically served only an aesthetic purpose. The audible speech heard from animatronics originated from a vocal processor located in the anterior portion of the throat and was projected through the mouth via sophisticated amplification devices. With the proper programming, a tongue would then move in time with the syntax to give the illusion of humanized speech.

Arthur was more informed than he appeared to be; he prided himself in his education.

Setting the mandible aside, he opened the next box. It was slightly larger than the first and certainly more insulated. Inside, surrounded by Styrofoam and inflated airbags, it contained the pivotal master-recirculating pump, or MRP. It was the workhorse of the animatronic body, the powerful, high-pressure core that circulated the synthetic lifeblood throughout the machine. Alike a human heart, the MRP maintained a stable pressure within the system to provide it the hydraulic stability needed to perpetuate fluid motion. It was dynamic, autonomous, and adjusted according to the load threshold placed on the animatronic host under stress. The MRP operated outside the dictation of the command line, thus preventing its host from increasing or decreasing the pressure threshold unnecessarily, which could result in a sudden loss of power or irreparable damage.

It was largely disassembled; the numerous high-pressure hoses, couplings, and regulators were missing. It wasn't to say that Arthur hadn't bought them; they simply couldn't be bought together, which by and large was frustrating and why he'd had to make an additional stop that day. Why they weren't packaged or sold together, he was unclear. Perhaps in a textbook somewhere was the explanation; though frankly, he didn't have the patience to read it. It was just as easy to accept the will of the Regulatory Commission on Animatronics and be done with it.

They were a government entity after all; since when was the government ever efficient?

The next few boxes contained those missing parts of the pump assembly. They were vacuum sealed and neatly labeled in barely transparent, aluminum bags; a diagram came provided, dictating their anatomical positions relative to the MRP. Thirteen regulators in all, twenty-six couplings, and a slew of hoses of varying size and diameter; emblazoned upon them were the words, Caution! High-Pressure in bright, yellow letters.

It took some time; but, Arthur opened each individual package and carefully inspected the assembly. An inquisitive, critical eye searched for any kind of defect: cracks in the regulators, dents or gouges in the couplings, tears in the hoses, anything that might cause catastrophic failure, which was far and beyond unacceptable for an animatronic that had been broken for so long. An hour past before Arthur seemed satisfied; the MRP assembly was of acceptable quality. He returned the parts of the assembly to their respective packages and then set them aside next to the mandible.

The next box was one of the largest, though perhaps the lightest of the set. Its width was conspicuously shallow, perhaps some three inches at best where it was a few feet in length. Unlike the others, it didn't open from the top, but rather from one side which was labeled by an arrow sitting atop the word, Open. It was fastened by tape which Arthur easily cut through, and like opening a drawer he pulled out a lone part which was secured to a foam backing.

The lightest and second most expensive piece he'd bought that day, the second-stage neurological wiring harness was formed to the crude anatomical position of an animatronic at rest. A cornucopia of differently colored wires and filaments of varying thickness, the harness served the purpose of the complex neural network that permitted an animatronic machine to experience tactile sensations. Touch, smell, taste, even pain and pleasure were not beyond its capabilities. The model at hand was one of the more advanced models, capable of feeding real time information to the processing centers of the brain at speeds comparable to that of its biological counterpart. It was as impressive as it was intricate, requiring more than just a steady hand and some knowhow to integrate it properly.

Arthur was undaunted by the imposing task; if anything, it merely excited him. The 'Mangle' would be so impressed, perhaps even grateful to experience true sensations; but, it was not without the contents of the last and final purchase he'd made that day. It was in a box that was the largest of the set simply because it required so much attention. It was wrapped and secured by more protective means than a typical automobile had at its disposal; it was shielded from the light by a lead-lined package that was non-translucent. It came with all the necessary ports, ready for integration of neurological inputs and cervical members of an animatronic skull. It was flexible, yet rigid, comprised of some thirty-three separate vertebral columns that permitted fluid motion.

The spine: the literal backbone of the animatronic endoskeleton. It was the one part that Arthur did not open in his workshop. The insulation provided was mandatory for travel; it was remarkably fragile outside of a host despite its rugged construction. To secure it properly in a mechanized body, the spine had to be surrounded by specialized form-fitting gels designed to absorb impact loads as well as insulate it from sudden temperature spikes or unexpected electrical discharge.

He hadn't purchased the gels; he happened to have several in his shop. Arthur stood and walked over to one of the shelves to remove a box aptly labeled 'gels' andset it aside his purchases. He took them all, uncertain of how many it would take to give the 'Mangle' proper form again. He walked to another box and produced a fluid reservoir; from another, a simple bladder. Three re-circulators, several filters, a few pneumatic actuators and spare servos, a nose pad, and a tongue joined the growing pile, as did some mechanical muscle fibers and tendon structures. The last part he added on a whim as he walked by the container; he thought the 'Mangle' might appreciate being identified as female again. Loading the parts onto his dolly, Arthur dragged them from his workshop and loaded them into the back of his truck. He hid them from sight beneath the tonneau cover and secured it to the tailgate.

Arthur glanced at his watch: six p.m. He yawned; the day had started too early; there was still plenty of time before his shift. He locked his truck and went inside to his bedroom where he kicked off his shoes and disrobed to his undergarments. He set a reminder on the clock, and he was out before his head had ever touched the pillow.

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.

Arthur worked quietly for a time afterwards. In his lip, he suckled on a thick pinch of Copenhagen, spitting occasionally whenever he found the need to into an empty soda bottle he'd found in the trash. In his heavy hands, Arthur toiled upon the 'Mangle's ruined thoracic skeleton; her steel bones were broken, misshapen and unfit to house the numerous mechanical organs necessary for her to function. He dismantled it; piece by piece, he unscrewed the remaining ribs from her bent and defunct sternum. He uncoupled every rusted and cracked vertebrae from her spine and let the column fall to the ground to be discarded. He persisted through every bone and juncture; he wrenched it apart until her entire thoracic aperture was gone.

Arthur scrutinized the collection of bones spread out before him; many could be refurbished by hand, others obviously couldn't. Amongst those relegated to the latter category was a most pivotal piece that had previously and persistently weighed upon his mind. He reached out and plucked it from the ground, frowning.

Her sternum was shot, in a word. It was curved inwards towards itself; the process at the end faced the manubrium. It was supposed to be straight, flush like a necktie. Composed of a quarter-inch polymer-infused steel, the sternum largely served as the apex at which several structural members attached and subsequently gave the thoracic cavity shape and function in conjunction with the ribs and spine. In human biology, the sternum, while crucial in its own right, was not intrinsically necessary to the survival of the organism; organs were not typically faceted to it. In the animatronic body, however, such things were not as simple, for while it did provide for some external protection against outside forces, internally, the sternum of an android possessed an essential attachment point for the largest diameter line of the master recirculating pump. Without it, the line would float freely, and it would be vulnerable to sudden contraction during pressure changes, not to mention puncture from the other parts in which it shared the cavity with.

The steel was far too thick for Arthur to bend back by hand; even with an iron table and mallet, he doubted he could correct the issue without damaging the clamp assembly in the posterior aspect of the sternum. It left him with frustratingly few options. He could try to order the part; but, it would have to be custom made; it was not something that was massed produced outside of an entire thoracic assembly. Custom parts like that typically took weeks to fill, and he hardly had the time. He could try to refurbish it; but, there again lied the intrinsic issue of damaging it further. He could simply build the 'Mangle' without it and hope that a little 'creative ingenuity' would suffice; however, he certainly thought better of that idea. The 'Mangle' deserved quality construction, not the rudimentary machinations of a madman.

"Son of a bitch," he sighed. It was a vexing concern, one of which would inhibit his progress indefinitely if gone unresolved. He was limited to what tools he'd brought with him; plenty for a standard job, but hardly enough to service something so complex. To compound the issue, the hour had grown late; it was long past midnight and there would be no last-minute errands tonight.

As Arthur sat and pondered—fumed to himself—from outside the corridor a jarring sound like a hammer striking an anvil suddenly startled him. Instinctually, he looked down towards the ground, at first assuming that he'd either absently dropped the sternum or perhaps knocked some part over. But, the parts were as he'd left him; the sternum remained in his hand. It quickly dawned on him that he hadn't been responsible. The sound came again; he whipped around to face the open hallway. He began to sweat; his hands trembled. Again, it came; and again, and again, becoming louder with each succession. It stopped just outside the room; he jolted to his feet. Arthur dropped the sternum; it clanged off the floor as he clenched his fists.

Cognizant of the imminent danger, the 'Mangle' tried to protect him; she rapidly tore through her vocal programming and attempted to enact her song. However, in her haste, she inadvertently sidestepped her power augmentation buffers, and when she activated the program, the abrupt and sudden surge of undirected electrical impulses shorted out her processors altogether, forcing the world to grow inexplicably dark as they—and subsequently herself—unexpectedly shut down.

Arthur was vulnerable, and that vulnerability was quickly exploited as what was once unseen became shockingly clear. It did not peek around the corner; it did not hesitate. It sauntered in with the cold and calculating confidence of a predator stalking its prey. There was no pretense at all in its unsympathetic eyes as they devoured his body like it savored his fear. It broached him with a cold indifference and came to stand before him no farther than a hair's breath away. Its pungent aroma filled his nostrils; it smelled of old lubricants, mildew, and decay. The sounds of it were as harrowing as its appearance. Like a malfunctioning carnival ride its mechanics merely grinded through the motions, unlubricated and creaky. Its flesh was torn opened for him to see all that made it work through a patchwork quilt of musty fur.

It looked up at him; hesitantly, he glanced down back at it. The animatronic fox, vastly different from the 'Mangle', however many inches shorter it may have been, was far more terrifying than anything the man had ever known. His instincts told him to run; his mind realized the futility; the fox was standing in between him and the corridor. It had long since trapped him, and now, he was at its mercy. It looked away from him as its eyes scanned the room. It didn't move as it analyzed the dismembered 'Mangle' and the various parts organized upon the floor. When it glanced towards the counter, the fox paused; its gaze lingered upon the lonely skull that it saw there. For only a moment, a fleeting look of sympathy washed over its face, and Arthur could sympathize with the devil's pity. Too soon, however, the fox had turned his eyes back upon him again. With a blinding speed that he hadn't imagined it to be capable of, it suddenly seized the collar of his shirt, and only then did he realize that it was not a hand that restrained him, but the sharp curve of a rusty, jagged hook.

"What be ye doin' round here, mate?" it asked to Arthur's astonishment. Even awash in a tumultuous sea of fear, Arthur could distinguish the decidedly masculine inflection in the fox's voice. To that regard, it did admittedly appear masculine; the angle of the jaw was squared, though narrow, it lacked breasts, and if he could recollect anything more about him in his fright, it would be the sheath affixed to his groin. His observations hardly mattered, however; they certainly weren't going to save him.

The fox suddenly snarled and thrust his hook deeper into the collar of Arthur's shirt; it tore as a sharp pain dug into his flesh and he cringed. "I ain't in no mood for games or am I known to be patient, so let me spell it out for ye real simple like. I ask ye a question, ye answer the question. If I don't like it, ye don't go home. If ye say nothing, ye don't go home. So when I ask ye what you're doin' here, ye better say something, and something that I want to hear, mate. Are we clear?"

Arthur dumbly nodded and he swallowed hard as the fox pulled himself uncomfortably closer to his face, the icy-cold of his nose-pad pressing against his ear as he spoke. "So, what be ye doin' here, mate; why does the lass over there seem to be in more pieces than she was a'fore?" He punctuated his questions—his demands—with a sharp nibble against Arthur's earlobe. It was hardly enough to break the skin; perhaps, under better circumstances, it could have even been erotic to some degree. As it stood, however, the nip certainly served more than enough to solidify the fox's threatening intent.

"I-I-I'm…Ah," Arthur stuttered; the fox nipped lower, harder. "I-I'm j-just…I-I'm trying…" The bites came again; they slipped lower and lower; they crept downwards and downwards. They came with more pressure than before; they punctured his skin and he started to bleed. The fox lapped at his blood; a cold tongue rasped against his flesh. He smacked his lips and purred with a terrifying satisfaction.

His teeth suddenly flashed towards the man's vulnerable throat, and Arthur panicked as he screamed aloud, "Fix her! I'm trying to fix her; please, please don't do this! I just want to fix her; I swear! That's all I'm doin, here! That's all I'm doin; please, please don't kill me! Please don't; please!" he begged; he sobbed. The fox had struck with murderous accuracy. He could feel the jagged teeth poised to tear into his flesh, the pressure of his jaw clamping down, and the thunderous pulsations of his arteries as they hammered against spear-like points. A dreadful sensation of impending doom crashed into him with all the gravity of a falling star as he hyperventilated. He was going to die there, alone and helpless, and no one would ever be the wiser. His death would not be captured on camera; he regretted disabling it. The fox would never be held accountable; it was too hard to prove without video evidence; it had no DNA for analysis, no fingerprints for matching. He was going to be murdered; it was as simple as that.

After a time, Arthur stopped sobbing. The more he mused upon it, the easier it became to accept his demise. He was no spring chicken, after all. Everyone died; at least it would not be he who let the 'Mangle' down. Within himself, he found the tattered remnants of his bravado. He wouldn't let the fox have the satisfaction of terrorizing him in death. He sniffed loudly and spit cleanly over the fox's head. The fox didn't move. Its jaw remained around Arthur's throat; the pressure remained the same. Heedless to the situation and with newfound acceptance, the man slowly reached into his back pocket. He expected some kind of reaction from the fox; but, it remained motionless. He thumbed at the tin there and pulled it out; nothing changed. He reached around the fox with the can in hand—he was simply too close otherwise—and opened it; the situation remained the same. Arthur became uncaring and took a large pinch from the browned tobacco, content to refresh the old before he died; he settled the dip in between his cheek and gums and tossed the now empty container aside.

He awaited his fate quietly—patiently. For several minutes, he merely stood there, spitting over the fox's head while his throat remained captured between its jaws. He would have assumed that the animatronic had faulted and died in that position as the seconds ticked on by were it not for the fact that he could still feel its tongue gently lapping at his larynx, or the coarse sounds its internal mechanisms made as they functioned noisily. It left him with time to speculate upon the situation and why it was that he remained alive. Amongst the many thoughts that crossed his mind, only one seemed particularly accurate: he had given the fox an answer that he wasn't expecting to hear, and now, in lieu of killing him, he was left conflicted about his options.

It seemed all the more reasonable when the fearsome animatronic suddenly released him; the fox spent some time licking the blood from his neck before he took a hesitant step backwards. His demeanor was so radically different; he seemed suddenly meek and apologetic, caring even to no small degree. He had just licked the man's wounds clean, after all. Arthur reached towards his neck in bewilderment just to be sure; his hand came back clean, if not slightly stained with oral lubricants.

He looked down into the face of the fox, utterly baffled by his actions. The fox didn't meet his gaze right away. For a time, he simply stared off into the room, his eyes sifting through the many glimmering parts spread out across the floor. Arthur watched the spectacle in silence; the confusion was simply too much for words to address as he observed the fox grasp his tail with his only hand and pull it about his waist. He idly toyed with the tip, running the hook of his other hand through the frayed and stained fur.

Finally, he turned to face him again. "Ye mean to fix the lass?" He asked poignantly, his inflection curiously hopeful through a voice made uncharacteristically timid. Arthur simply nodded in reply, too lost for words to do anything else as his would-be executioner was suddenly reduced to a submissive, trembling mess.

"W-why?" he probed further. Arthur had never felt more conflicted before. His emotions ran high in regards to a situation that had spanned the entire scale of emotional intensity in a brief smattering of minutes. Minutes that had seen him petrified by the fear of death in one instance, and accepting that inevitability in another. He had been prepared to die there, and now, instead of such a grisly expectation did he find himself feeling sympathetic towards the animatronic fox that had just nearly delivered him unto his fate.

His was a whirlwind of inner turmoil that ravaged his mind. Sympathy quickly yielded to frustration, and that frustration unto anger. How dare that machine attack him unprovoked?! Had it truly been so blind to miss what a child could have easily deduced; or, was it simply too ignorant to know what new parts really looked like? Did it completely ignore the fact that while the 'Mangle' may have been disassembled, her remnants were cared for and organized, even rebuilt to some degree?! Did it even see what he had done with her skull; how he allotted a lifeless android to oversee her own reconstruction when she couldn't see a goddamn thing at all?!

Arthur suddenly lost himself to the rage of his own musings. His vision became clouded in red as the loathing took hold of him. He never felt himself move; he couldn't even feel the fluffy body between his own hands. He had abandoned his fear, and in its place, he knew only of hatred.

"Why," he spat out in blind fury. "You's want to know why I want to fix her?!" he violently shook what he could not see: the hapless fox cowed before his might, too stunned to react. "You put me through all that shit and that's all ya have to say?! Pathetic fucking thug; you threatened to kill me! I'll tear you's apart, build you over, and do it all again! I'll rip everything from your slimy, rotten body and melt it down! I'll cut off your fucking head and mount it to the wall and make you watch; you hear me?!"

Arthur bodily lifted the fox from his feet; the fox quavered, but the man never felt it as he brutally slammed the android into the floor and reveled in the symphony of agony that he suddenly heard. "You's ask a question, I answer it; ain't that what ya said, you fucking bitch?!" He sharply jabbed the fox in the stomach; he knew just where to strike. The hole in his flesh was simply too frail to protect him and it yielded easily before Arthur's influence as the man plunged his hand deep into his abdominal cavity and wrenched it sickeningly upwards.

A mechanical scream exploded into the stillness of the room as the fox writhed and twisted upon the ground. "Answer me!" The fox flinched amidst the sudden outburst as the man continued to mercilessly violate him. He could feel the wrath of his hand clawing through his organs, slowly: painfully. Its malevolence was terrifying as it inched towards his chest. The fox could only cry out again as he felt that cruel appendage dredge through his body.

"It's simple, really," Arthur suddenly said; his voice was horrifyingly calm and devoid of all emotion. He lowered his lips to the right of the fox's head and they touched his ear has he spoke, "she's beautiful, and the rest of the world's ugly. She was wronged, and I mean to fix that. She's been on my mind every damn day since I first laid eyes on her as a kid. I can't tell you's how many times I've been back here hoping to catch a glimpse of her only to leave disappointed time and time again. Can you imagine then what it's like to finally find what you've been looking for for so long only to find out that you was decades too late; to find out that she's been broken and dead for years and no one had the decency to bury her?"

As he ranted, Arthur's hand mercifully halted mere millimeters away from an animatronic heart he sought to stop; but, his rage burned on. "She never deserved this; I'm gonna make it right. I'm gonna make her pretty again; I'm gonna give her a song to sing and a reason to sing it! I'll rip her from death's hands and make her live again. I'll give her the life she was always meant to have! And I'll be goddamned if some shit-bag, pussy-footin', junky pile of scrap is gonna stop me!" His hand violently lurched upwards to grasp the fox's mechanical heart. He squeezed, and the foxy sang in agony. Critical faults screamed across his processors as his internal power fluctuated erratically. He thrashed anew, desperate to escape his wretched tormentor as the vice that was Arthur's hand tightened fiercely. Pressure alarms blared in the fox's mind. His limbs began to feel numb as he continued to struggle; but, the man was relentless. His grip was iron-tight and far too strong for his enfeebled pump to compensate for. The fox began to feel lightheaded, and suddenly his limbs slackened at his sides. His vision grew dark, and a harrowing feeling that he had never known slowly crept into his mind.

The tides had turned.

Is this what it means to be dyin?' he wondered. Is this what I done to the human; the fear he felt when I bit him? Is this what it feels like to be the prey, helpless against the hunter? It's scary. He panicked. I don't like this feeling; I'm so scared! Please; I don't want to be shut off! I don't wanna die! I'm sorry! I never knew nothin' else! Please! Please; I didn't do this to you! I'm so sorry, I'm…

"…S..sor…ry," the fox choked; his vocal processors faulted. "P…le..ase…" His optical array went offline; he tilted his head slightly to the left, pressing his cheek against Arthur's in a final act that conveyed both his submission to the man, and the sincerity of his feeble prayers. It was like a shot that pierced the heart of Arthur's fury; the gentle touch of sumptuous, ruined fur against his cheek that dispatched of his hatred with extreme prejudice. Reality came crashing back to him and brought with it all the harrowing memories of the past few minutes, and the recollection of an enraged monster he never wanted to be. He had only wanted to defend himself; instead, he'd become a butcher. Like a barbarian, he had tried to kill the animatronic fox by crushing his heart. Arthur quickly relinquished his grasp on the fox's organ and instead cradled it delicately.

It sickened him, the realization of what he would do when faced with desperation and misunderstanding, that he could become a killer with the metaphorical flip of a switch. Staring down to face the unnerving stillness of the android beneath him, he sincerely hoped that he hadn't succeeded. He didn't have the parts to resurrect another one. In his grief, Arthur lowered his head down and rubbed his cheek against the fox's just as he had done. He listened to the android's parts as they whirred dimly. Gently, if not a bit absently, he felt over his mechanical heart to check for leaks; he assessed the surrounding connections, couplings, and hoses similarly. When thankfully he found none, it was with bated breath and a prayer to a god that he didn't believe in that he waited for the fox to waken again.

"Ye ain't gonna finish me off?" Arthur jolted to the sound of his mechanical voice. His head snapped up and his eyes immediately fixated upon him, thankful to see his own opened and gazing worryingly back at him. It was only then, however, that he noticed the profound look of horror and subdued hopefulness upon his face, and despite all that the fox had put him through in the past few minutes, the man felt utterly ashamed of himself.

"No," Arthur affirmed quietly, "I'm not gonna going to do that to ya."

Accusing, animatronic eyes remained wide with fear as they watched him unblinking. "Ye promise?" asked the fox warily.

"I promise," the man replied.

"Swear it to me?"

"I swear it to ya."

"…Will ye say the words so I know ye mean it?"

Arthur sighed. "I swear I'm not going to finish you off, fox. I promise I won't."

The fox wasn't mollified by his words, however. The trepidation and dread in his eyes remained unchanged as he struggled to say anything more to the man. He simply didn't know what to do or how to phrase his next question, and it was one of which he desperately needed to utter. Admittedly, he was too afraid to ask for fear of being butchered again; but, he could not simply ignore his discomfort forever.

An abysmal whimper sprang forth from his throat as he timidly reached down in between the valley of their bodies with his only hand and lightly brushed the tips of his fingers against Arthur's arm. He closed his eyes and trembled as he bit his lip, bracing himself for the return of agony that never came again. When the discomfort didn't change, the fox hesitantly glanced up into Arthur's face, and the mournful look he imparted upon him just before he lowered his head and nuzzled his cheek again was all the push he needed.

"…Ye still have your arm inside of me, mate." The fox whispered, and Arthur flinched at his words. He hadn't forgotten; what he'd done to the android was far too grisly to ever redact from his memory. He likened to think that it would haunt him forever. What had to be done, however, was something that he wished he could've avoided. It wasn't going to be pleasant, not for either of them. If ever a man wanted to change the actions of his past, surely he did.

However reluctant he was, Arthur steeled himself and pulled back on his arm. The fox grimaced and sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the offending appendage withdraw from his body.

"It hurts," he cried, suddenly grasping the man as his ears reflexively folded against his skull. Inch by inch as it moved, pain flared anew across his sensors and drove mechanized tears to his eyes. He tried to override the sensation, to lock out the sensitive receptors if even it meant to shut himself down; but, he couldn't, the anguish was simply too overwhelming to access his command line.

It tore at Arthur to hear him cry out; but, he had to be persistent. To stop would only serve to prolong his suffering, and he'd already caused enough of that for one night. In sympathy and with one hand free, the man reached down to cradle the fox's head; he brushed his fingers through his fur and tucked him into his chest if only to assure him that the worst was nearly over.

"I know," he regrettably replied. His had been such a hideously cruel retaliation despite the provocation, and while the initial act of retribution had been swift and merciless, the repercussions were anything but. It was a tediously slow process wrought with torment and misery as he pulled his arm free, the kind of which persisted even as the hand he'd imbedded into the fox rested gently atop the fist-sized hole in his abdomen.

For many restless moments, the pair remained just as they were. Arthur gingerly held the fox as he whimpered and sobbed into his chest, careless of the oil that stained his shirt as he cried. He felt wretched and disgusted with himself. He was supposed to fix things, not break them, and he certainly wasn't supposed to try to murder them either. Even if the android had threatened him similarly, he at least would've been humane about it; his jaws would've easily decapitated him and he would've likely felt little to nothing at all. He sighed; it would've been far better had the android actually followed through and killed him; at the very least, he wouldn't have to feel so awful anymore.

"…I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled into the silence as the moments had lingered on for far too long. There was nothing more he could think to say; nothing that could assuage the fox regardless. There simply weren't words enough to atone for cruelty like that, and even if there were, they'd hardly be enough.

He sighed as he glanced towards the lonely skull on the countertop. However appalled he was by his actions, the man still had another obligation to fulfill, and she couldn't wait all night for him; she needed all the attention he could possibly afford her. Even in knowing that, however, it was still with a vested measure of reluctance that Arthur relinquished the poor fox and left him to quiver alone upon the floor as he stood. It hardly seemed like the right thing to do; it left him feeling hollow, like there was something more to be done but he couldn't find the means with which to do it.

Arthur couldn't bear to look at the fox anymore; his misery was just too palpable. He poised himself to walk away; but then, a breathless gasp left his lips as a mechanical paw suddenly seized one of his legs! Startled, Arthur tried in vain to jerk his leg free; but, he only succeeded in drawing the animatronic fox closer! He tripped and fell forwards, only just catching himself on his elbows as he landed above the android. Adrenaline surged into his veins as he grit his teeth; his muscles tightened down like a spring, ready to snap in a moment's notice as he prepared himself to fight for his life again!

"It be alright, mate," sniffed the fox quietly, but with conviction enough to take the wind from Arthur's sails and garner his full attention. "I'm sorry too." The man was utterly floored then as the fox tucked his muzzle beneath his chin and nuzzled him submissively. His thoughts derailed with all the subtlety of a bullet train careening off a cliff; it hardly made any sense to him. After all that had transpired between them, was that truly the end of it? Was that the fruition of what horrid barbarism yielded: a dominant human master and a submissive animatronic slave? Was that the gift of violence: acquiescence? Surely not! Violence did not make companions! It didn't bring things together; it tore them apart! They should not have been so close; the fox should have fled; he should have pushed him away! And yet, there they were, trapped inside a moment so bizarre that found would be enemies comforting each other like feuding lovers! It was a moment that had no right to exist at all, but persisted nevertheless.

Too stunned to do anything else with regard to the inexplicable, Arthur allotted his instincts to guide him and he soon found the melancholy fox in his arms again. The android's shutters abruptly ceased; he seemed to relax in his embrace which, under any other context may have been desirable, it was hardly so given the circumstances. It was the absolute wrong reaction to have with regard to the situation at hand. Realistically, the fox should have felt nothing but fear in his presence. He should have had some frantic desire to be rid of him, or, at the very least, be combative and hostile towards him, to fight him off if only to preserve his existence. The idea that the fox was doing anything but was simply absurd to no small degree, and was gravely disconcerting to Arthur who briefly pondered the possibility of an android experiencing Stockholm's Syndrome. If that was not a possibility, he wondered then if perhaps he had done some internal damage to the android and, if he had, how best to rectify his mistake.

"It ain't alright," groused Arthur, his voice foreign and distant, even to his own ears as he mused frantically in his mind. Perhaps the key lied somewhere in the simple utterance, as if drawing the fox's attention to the obvious would somehow elicit the proper emotional response from him? The fox, however, remained persistently atypical in his reaction as he wrapped his tattered arms around his back, further deepening his concern. If only to compound the issue and supplement Arthur's surmounting worries did the man feel a gentle tug at his body, and he shuttered in the realization that, somewhere in his musings, he had ceded to the want of the fox and had allotted their bodies to grow closer.

"Yes it be," the fox replied. "We both acted foolish and did things that we both clearly regret. None o' this would've ever happened if'n I hadn't threatened ye like I did; and, for that, I be so sorry, mate. I been alone and abused by humans for so long, I just didn't know no better anymore. I heard ye banging around on stuff in here the other night and just assumed the worst, ye know? When humans do nothing more than rip ye apart and leave ye to rot, ye don't have the best impression o' them. When I saw ye looming around the lass and the state that she was in, I just lost me temper; got so blinded by me own rage that I couldn't see what ye were really doing. I just saw pieces and a big human rummaging through them; and the poor lass has just been through so much!"

"I didn't want her to suffer no more," sobbed the fox as he explained. "That's why I acted the way I did. It weren't right o' me; but, that's why it happened. I'm so ashamed of me'self; when ye said ye was only tryin' to fix her, I knew I'd made a mistake: worst one of me life! And I knew ye was telling the truth, even 'afore I attacked ye. Humans don't come back here, and they damn sure don't bring no new parts 'round here neither. If'n I'd just stopped to think 'bout it, none o' this would've happened."

The fox pulled away from Arthur if only to look upon his face as he wept. "Ye had every right to shut me off, mate; permanently. I just ain't never been handled so roughly 'afore, and when ye squeezed me pump like that," he shuddered as a few more oily tears leaked down his cheeks. "Everything just got so dark and numb; I ain't never been so scared. After what I done to ye, though, it weren't right o' me to beg for me life like I did. Ye should've just done me in, mate. It would've been better for the both of us…"

As the fox breathlessly sobbed, Arthur regarded him through a veil of confusion and empathy. On the one hand, the android had, in fact, confessed to his fear of him. In and of itself, the admittance was a relief as it was the correct emotion to convey and one that he had expected to translate into physical action. On the other hand, however, the action itself remained inappropriate. Paradoxically, the sensation of dread had led the fox into a submissive if not profoundly morose state of remorse and guilt. While the android had admittedly been correct in his assumption of the idea that he had been the instigator of the incident, it was not his place to assume sole responsibility and rationalize Arthur's barbarism on the grounds that he was merely trying to fix the 'Mangle' and simply overreacted to the android's intrusion. For the fox to use words as paltry as 'foolish' and 'regret' in regards to the man butchering him from the inside out hardly seemed befitting of the gravity of the deed; he seemed to be downplaying his role in the brief but gruesome battle, and that did not sit well with Arthur at all.

And that was to say nothing of the contents of the rest of the fox's confession either. The android had clearly been abused by human hands throughout his existence, to the extent that he no longer possessed the capability of differentiating between friend or foe. Whatever trauma he had suffered had apparently been so severe that he had resolved to violence as a means with which to address any newcomer, which, by and large, suggested that he should otherwise be incapable of trust. And therein laid the conundrum of the current situation: if not trust, for what other reason did the fox surrender himself so openly to Arthur? Why did he bare his feelings so honestly if not because he had some glimmer of hope in the man? Why was he so repentant towards something that had taken away his geniality and had given him little reason to believe that he wouldn't butcher him again?

It was the very nature of such ponderings to dredge deeper the pit of concern growing in Arthur's belly, and they guided him back to one of only two aforementioned conclusions: had he damaged the fox in his rage; or, had the fox unwittingly found salvation in his tormentor?

"Mate?" the fox asked, drawing Arthur's eyes, though his attention remained elsewhere. "Are ye alright? I didn't hurt ye, did I?" His eyes widened. "If'n I did, I'm so sorry, mate! I-I didn't mean it; truly I didn't! Please, mate, say that I didn't hurt ye! Say that I didn't! Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm…"

Arthur abruptly snatched the fox's muzzle in the thick of his ebony hand, and though he saw the terror that was briefly reflected in his eyes, his grip remained undaunted. He couldn't bear to hear the fox apologize to him again; he simply couldn't. After all the fox had confessed to him his shame did he yet understand that he was not the monster in all this? Had he not made amends enough to know that he was forgiven when, by at that time, he played the role of the victim and needed no forgiveness at all? And how could he then, through all that tormented him, be so concerned about the man that had inflicted it upon him in the first place? Why did he care like he did when it was Arthur that deserved to be in his place?

It was frustrating, maddening to no small degree that Arthur had yet to say anything more to the android as he lied their blubbering upon the floor. Though far from innocent, his guilt was a far cry from what the man had done, and Arthur had admittedly become weary of the fox's need for atonement. It was a mistake that needed to be rectified, one that had clearly gone unabated long enough. His concerns were damned; if the fox was suffering from some mechanized Stockholm's Syndrome or internal damage was of minimal importance in the grand scheme of things, and nothing more could be done for the 'Mangle' until the situation was properly addressed. With his grip still firmly held about the fox's muzzle, Arthur finally gave to him the attention he deserved.

"No," he said flatly. "Just no; no to the hurting me, and no, I ain't alright! I don't want to hear you apologize anymore fox, you hear me?" The fox meekly nodded, his eyes wide in fear and fixed upon Arthur's own. "I'm the one that should be apologizing to you; but, the words just ain't enough! After what I did, I don't think I can ever forgive myself! I butchered you; I tried to kill you; sorry just doesn't quite seem to cut it! I wasn't a fool; I was a goddamn monster! Regret does not even begin to describe the depth of my self-loathing right now! And it only gets worse every time I hear you say that you're sorry! It cuts me just a little deeper with every fucking oily tear that spills from your pretty little eyes! Every shutter, every hiccupping sob, every touch of your body against mine reminds me that just minutes ago, I was elbow deep in your chest completely intent on taking your life!" Arthur's voice quavered; he snorted and spat a viscous mixture of mucus, saliva, and tobacco out onto the floor. "So don't you dare say you're sorry to me anymore, 'cause I'm more sorry for what I done than you'll ever know!" The man's shoulders quivered and something wet dripped from his eyes to join the oily rivers that stained the fox's cheeks. "I don't care how ya acted towards me; you's was just looking out for your dead friend over there; I get that now. You's just wanted her to have some measure of peace. And what did I do? I tried to kill ya for it!"

His bleary eyes stared into the fox's own luminous, golden orbs and he released the android's muzzle. The conversation had derailed so quickly; it was not at all like he had imagined it. He simply wished to forgive and forget and move on. Instead, he was a coward, one that burdened his victim yet again for his own selfish desires.

"That ain't me," he sobbed. "I just want to fix things; that's all. I don't want nothing to suffer, especially not 'cause of some fucked up things us humans do! I don't want to be like that; I don't! I-it sickens me, fox; what I did; to know that I'm just like those assholes that hurt you and her makes me feel like I got something on me that can't never be washed off! And I just don't know how I'm supposed to deal with that!"

Arthur gazed only numbly at the fox as his unblinking eyes spilled forth the tears that he was no longer strong enough to arrest. He had never meant to confess the raw nature of his own feelings to the android; he was merely helpless to prevent it from happening. Once the words had started to flow it was all he could do but to sit back in his feeble raft and paddle through the daunting swells of his emotions. He capsized and drowned then only when the fox slowly leaned forward and pressed his cold nose-pad to his cheek, and the sudden kiss that he felt there would have brought him to his knees were he not already there.

"We'll deal with it together, mate," whispered the fox. "You n' I, we'll find our way through this mess." He chortled daintily, inappropriate again given the circumstances. "It's silly to think that we both assume the same 'bout each other. But, ye know what? Maybe we can use that to start over on the right foot and paw this time. I'd like that; wouldn't ye?"

"Foxy be me' name, mate," the android proclaimed. "What be yours?"

For a moment, it was all Arthur could do but to regard the fox with utter disbelief. His concerns notwithstanding, the animatronic had just effectively placated the gnawing feeling of doubt that had surfaced so violently mere seconds ago with not but a few encouraging words and a not-so-subtle show of affection. To say that he was flabbergasted would've been a gross understatement in consideration to the fact that they had gone from bitter enemies, to mournful acquaintances, and ultimately to the cusp of a possible kinship all in the span of a smattering of minutes that had only just broached the half-hour mark. It wasn't humanly possible; but, therein was perhaps the justification to the reasons why: Foxy, as he'd identified himself, wasn't human, and it was entirely possible, if not plausible, that the android was not strictly tethered to a similar emotional response as Arthur was.

Or he was damaged; or he had Stockholm's Syndrome… whatever the case might have been, it was pointless to argue the semantics of it all. As the facts stood, the fox had proffered an olive branch of peace and, if not simply for the sake of the 'Mangle' alone, it would've been foolhardy not to accept it for what it was.

"Arthur," extended the man in reply as his sorrows dried. "Arthur Johnston; AJ for short. And to answer your question: ya, I'd like that too; done enough harm for one night; I think it's about time I did some good here."

Foxy quirked a brow; it was a curious expression to observe given that he had no discernable eyebrows. "Ye be referring to the lass, aye?"

Arthur shrugged, "Both of y'all I suppose," he said honestly. "But, ya; the 'Mangle' is the sole reason behind my being here; wouldn't be much point to all this if it wasn't for her."

"It's good to know ye then, AJ," Foxy smiled. "Bout time we found a human what cared for us like that!" He chortled again, and admittedly, Arthur still wasn't comfortable with it. "Whatever I can do to help, mate, I'm at your service." That, however, was something that Arthur was comfortable with. The extra hand—in this case a literal term—could prove to be invaluable, especially given the harsh constraint of time, and how much of it had been wasted already.

Arthur cast a chaste glance back towards the lifeless skull that adorned the countertop and then over the many parts that littered the ground, incomplete. Like a broken puzzle did the 'Mangle's' body lie there exposed and ruined. There was much that still needed to be done for her, and that was to say nothing of actually reviving her mental faculties and systems, if they could even be revived at all.

"There's a lot of work that goes into resurrecting the dead, Foxy," he said as he returned his gaze to the largely intact animatronic beneath him. "It takes time and patience, and, in her case, a goddamn fortune." He shook his head. "It ain't about the money, though; never was. It's the principal of the matter. The 'Mangle' was a good and beautiful girl; that's how I remember her, and that's what she deserves to be."

"I'm going to make it happen, Foxy, whatever it takes," Arthur persisted as he leaned back onto his heels and extended his hand, palm opened. "For her, I can set aside any indifference we may have had, and if ya are still willing to help me, then I'll take it, 'cause this ain't about you and me; what happened between us don't matter no more. It's all 'bout setting things right for her; that's it. If you wanna be a part of it, then you's reach out and take my hand; if not, you's only wastin' my time."

Foxy glanced towards Arthur's proffered hand and then back to his eyes. His gaze was firm and unwavering; it conveyed absolute truth and conviction towards his words. There was no doubt in his mind, no fleeting wonder if the man honestly cared about the 'Mangle'. He had been willing to kill for her; that, in and of itself, was more than enough to prove his devotion to her. What was more, however, was the lingering sympathy hiding within the darkness beyond his orbs, that shy empathy that dared betray the man's feelings to the animatronic fox, and foretold of his concern for him as well. To whatever extent it may have been, be it even small or insignificant, Arthur cared too about Foxy, and Foxy could not simply let such things slide.

He had been miserable for far too long; he hesitated no more and reached across the yawning void that separated them and gently placed his only paw within Arthur's hand. Arthur did not hesitate at all; he closed his thick fingers around Foxy's mechanical flesh and shook his paw firmly with a smile; a smile that was optimistically mirrored by the android.

"It ain't but a small kindness," thought Foxy. "But it's more than I had in a long time. Maybe, given enough of it, me and this human can become friends? Maybe…Maybe I won't have to be so lonely no more…"

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."