Chapter 7: You've Blown it Over the Sand

"Your form is off."

Foxy just groaned in response.

In a small fenced-off area beside Horton's towering hut of a repair shop, Foxy was training himself for the fights to come. Horton was sitting on the ledge off of the side entrance to the house, instructing the vulpine through routines.

"What do you mean 'my form is off?' All I did was kick!"

"Yes, and you're doing so like it's an afterthought. If you're going to insist on kicking with un-plated legs in that kind of condition, you need to be precise with your movements lest you break them before your opponents do."

Foxy groaned again, "Come on… I thought ya repaired them?"

Horton shot him an annoyed glare, "I gave them a tune-up," Horton corrected. "If I had the parts to repair them, I would've." His voice sounded more staticky and thinned-out than usual, growing more like a cheap busted speakerphone the angrier he got.

Between Foxy's agitated state, and Horton's constant corrections to whatever Foxy did, the air was getting tense between them. The two were quiet for a moment.

The vulpine sighed, he knew Horton was just trying to help, and he really was doing a great job of it. Foxy just found himself irritated every time he was corrected, which was happening a lot today. It probably didn't help that he was more irritable now than ever before, what with the dying and all that.

Horton was staring down Foxy's legs with a gaze that felt like it could burn a hole through them.

"Aye, I'm thankful for that."

Horton glanced up at the fox while fiddling with his lab coat again. The feeling of the rough canvas texture against his fingers (feathers? Foxy still couldn't really tell) seemed to calm him down, blinking himself out of the trance and leaning back.

"You can save your thanks for later. Once you get me the scrap I need to fix you, I'll show you what a real repair looks like."

The confidence in his voice was certainly comforting to the fox. It was definitely more comforting than the voices he'd hear back at the pizzeria; that was for sure.

"We'll work on your kicking form later, just keep doing the earlier drills for now. I need to explain to you how the whole fighting process works down here."

Foxy nodded, turning back to the rudimentary training dummy Horton had whipped up this morning. It was made from parts found laying around the storage room. According to both Argos and Horton, even they weren't fit for bodily replacements. It was a post, attached to a ground plane with a gear that let it spin in place, covered in protrusions. The fox started sparring with it, the dummy spinning from each hit. Its extended "arms" would rotate towards him, forcing the vulpine into a cycle of blocking and countering. Once Horton saw he had gotten into a good rhythm, he began engaging in one of his many skills. Explaining things.

"It's been 3 days since we repaired you, which was the same day as the Rite, which means we have about 4 more days before the first match. We don't know who's match is up first, but we're not taking any chances. We're to assume you fight on day one."

"Aye," Foxy grunted, showing he was listening. Though obviously more occupied with not getting knocked in the head by metal rods sticking out of a spinning dummy.

"Fighters who pass through the Rite as criminals regaining honor aren't permitted teams, so you'll likely be going up against groups of two or three until you get the higher ranked fights."

"Three?" Foxy repeated, sounding reasonably concerned.

"Yes, but this gambit works out for us in the long run. This whole plan of ours was already an all or nothing deal. Once you get to the higher ranks, fights are required to be 1-on-1, so you'll be better off for it. While most of your opponents will have to get used to not having anyone to cover their backs, you'll be thriving."

"Assuming I even get that far," Foxy remarked, blocking another hit from the dummy with the blunt of his arm.

"Like I said, it's an all or nothing plan. In our situation we don't really have much else to do about it…" Horton was back on his legs already, pacing back and forth as he explained everything. "We're making due with the hand we've been dealt. Either you win a bunch of fights in a row and we get the scrap we need to replace your body, or you die. In a fight, from hardware failure, falling off a bridge, the reason doesn't matter in the end. What happens in between is up to you," the owl finished.

Foxy's hits began getting harder, the dummy spinning back at him faster and faster. Even so, he could still muster up the breath to speak.

"Three on one it is then," he grunted, "I'm used to getting ganged up on anyway."

Horton raised a brow at that, but considering the importance of the topic at hand, decided not to pry on it. For now.

"How much scrap are we getting per fight anyways?" Foxy asked.

Horton fidgeted with his hands, pumping the numbers in his head as he answered.

"There's no concrete number to use for this, but it's based on bets. Bets are placed before the match, and the pool is divided into 3 groups. 70% goes to the house, 15% gets rationed off to the bidders, and the last 15% goes to the winner. Taking average bets into consideration… It'd take us 2 or 3 fights to get enough scrap for a full-body replacement."

"Not sure I'm a fan of how those numbers are split."

Horton's expression became aggravated, not at Foxy, but at the topic at hand.

"No one is. So long as Spring Bonnie is in charge around here, that's how things are gonna be." Horton explained. His voice was strained on itself, holding back the angry yells the owl clearly wanted to express, resulting in his voice becoming increasingly thinned out like radio static.

An odd thought popped into Foxy's mind. He had never really seen the bottom half of Horton's face. He was always wearing that thick lab coat with the collar up, completely obscuring everything below his eyes. What kind of mouth, or beak in this case, sounds like that?

As distracted in his thoughts as he was, the fox's sparring wasn't slowing down at all. The dummy itself began slightly wobbling, threatening to break off its stand. Huffing, Foxy managed to speak despite his practicing, getting back on topic.

"Is there a way to get any extra scrap on top of the fights then?"

"Yes, you can kill your opponent and you'll get a small bonus of extra scrap."

That certainly came to Foxy as a surprise. "I thought they were always death matches?"

"Only in the higher ranks. Before that, no one has to die."

Foxy's expression grew visibly more grim after that, which Horton noticed.

"If you want your body, you're going to need every last piece of scrap you can get. It's in your best interest to finish your opponents off. Even if you do let them live, they still have to get repairs themselves, without the winning scrap. And I assure you, their next opponent won't be so generous."

Foxy's sparring slowed down a bit. He couldn't help but remember what happened in the Rite, what happened with Lana. The first new face he saw, the first new person to show him any kindness for years, and he had to kill her. He knew he had to do it, and he knew she even asked him to.

But it hurt.

It really hurt.

Foxy's voice got quiet, a low growl barely audible from him. "…How normal is it for fighters to kill each other?"

"It's… common. Fighters expect it from everyone, it's nothing personal. To a degree, people don't even hold it against those who killed their loved ones in the ring. Everyone's just trying to survive, they do what they have to. It doesn't stop the initial emotional outburst of course, but after that things are back to normal," Horton explained with a pause. "…Usually."

Foxy was getting tired of the sparring now. He poured the remaining energy he had to spare into the next few hits, pushing the painful new thoughts that filled his head down into the recesses of his mind, only thinking of his practice. With the last strike, Foxy hurled his right fist directly into the protruding metal bars that spun towards him, denting and bending the metal bar into a loose "L" shape.

Horton paused, noticing the wild hook Foxy threw out at the dummy.

"...I don't recall teaching you that."

Foxy awkwardly looked at his own fist, and then back to Horton. "Ye didn't, I mean, it was only a punch-"

"A strong punch with impeccable form," Horton interrupted, "and that came naturally to you?"

"I just kinda… felt it. I guess. Is that an issue?"

"No, not at all… Foxy, I think you might have a knack for this."

"You think so?"

"You might, It's too early to say for certain, but a little optimism couldn't hurt."

Foxy just stretched his arms out, walking away from the training dummy. He didn't really have much to add onto what Horton said. Though the owl gave him a curious look.

"…You do know what optimism means, right-"

"Yes I know what optimism means, I knew it before you even lent me those books."

"Alright alright, I just wanted to make sure you're reading them."

Coming out from the side door behind where Horton was standing, Argos poked his head through the doorway.

"You still pestering him about reading those books?"

Horton turned to the lizard behind him with a mockingly offended voice,

"Pestering him?! Whatever, is something up?"

Argos nodded towards Foxy, "We need to get him registered for the fights, today's the deadline for new entries."

"I need to what-now?" the vulpine asked.

"Register, team names and scheduling. Seeing as you don't have a choice, not signing up would get you in a lot of trouble. Come on."

Argos gestured for them to get going, eyeing Horton especially.

"You need to get out more often."

Horton simply sighed in his digital raspy voice and got up, following them into the house and out the front. Seems like Argos was making a little day trip out of this.

As the three of them walked towards the inner city, Foxy found himself looking over the underground horizon once again. It must have been cloudy for as long as Foxy had been here; he had seen the Hellmouth during daytime before, but not like this. Daylight was pouring through the opening in the cavern, everything much better lit to the point it almost really felt like he was outside. Well, he was technically outside, but this was underground.

Walking closer to the city, Horton began leading the way, taking them through less populated alleys, across some low bridges, even passing Mama's as they got into the main center of the city. Foxy began vaguely recognizing the structures around him, though it was hard to be sure from the difference in height. On ground level, there was far less metal, but plenty of sand.

"We're just about there," Horton said, sounding slightly anxious as he fidgeted with his lab coat's sleeves.

At that exact moment, the three of them turned a corner and were met with an imposing sight. The ring. The very same structure Foxy nearly died in just several days ago. It looked different from the outside, something he hadn't paid much attention to the first time he was here. It was massive, built like a kitbashed colosseum. What really caught his eye though was the cage overtop of the arena. Same as before, it was like a disorganized dome of chains and lights attached to them. But the metal ceiling was gone now, opened up like an eye, and beyond where that cover had once been were seats. Rows and rows of them.

Argos led them down some ladders off the sides of the bridge they were on, Foxy being reminded of how much more disorganized the layout of the City was the further in it got. Their feet were met with the muted thuds of metal against sand as they reached ground level. Outside the main entrance to the arena, a large crowd had gathered. Presumably fighters signing up, and from the cheers and fangirly squeals, their fans.

"I didn't realize these fights had audiences," Foxy said.

"Who did you think made the bets?" Horton answered bluntly.

"Fair enough."

Horton stopped just beyond the edge of the crowd, staring straight ahead as he pulled his pitch black goggles down from his head and over his eyes, his feathered "horns" pointing straight up now that they weren't being pressed back.

"Let's be quick about this, I don't want to have to spend any more time in this crowd than I have to."

"You worry too much," Argos dismissed.

Horton furrowed his brow, "You worry too little."

"Just follow me."

With Argos leading the way, they began wading through the crowd, Foxy squeezing past group after group, the massive crowd felt more like an obstacle course than a group of people at this rate. Eventually, they made it through, the crowd quickly becoming less dense. And there by the entrance, a red and black animatronic wolf was writing names onto a large sign that was leaning against a wall.

"Here we are. I'll handle getting you registered, you two wait here." Horton said, immediately darting off to the figure at the sign.

"So… why did we need to come here then?" Foxy asked.

"All fighters must be present when registering," Argos answered, stretching out from his usual hunched posture before sitting by the wall. "Even though we're not actually fighting, we're still 'in your team.'"

"Ah, makes sense."

Foxy waited, standing around by Argos. He scanned over the crowd, watching how they'd all group around a couple people, then to another, again and again. It was mesmerizing to watch them all bustling. The crowd by itself was far more people he had ever seen in the pizzeria at once, possibly more than it could even fit. And every single one of them were animatronics, like him.

A weird sense of belonging washed over Foxy, despite the hostility of the city and his limited experiences in it.

More time passed, and Foxy finally sat down beside Argos. The two of them chatted about random passersby or members of the crowds that caught their eye. Occasionally poking fun at them too, like a large rhino they saw with a gold-capped horn that looked more like a nub than a fearsome weapon.

After what felt like forever, Foxy had nearly begun to doze off before he was startled by a familiar staticky voice.

"I see Argos's habit of people-watching has rubbed off on you."

Foxy's eyes jolted open before landing on Horton standing in front of them both.

"Are ya done finally?"

"Yes, apparently they made things more difficult than it used to be. That, and getting them to list you as a solo fighter proved more difficult than it had any reason to be."

"Sounds like fun," Argos joked, standing up along with Foxy.

"Of course it was fun, can't you see how jovial I am?" Horton remarked in a playfully annoyed tone, "Well, actually, I am a little proud of myself."

Foxy raised a brow at that, "...Proud of what exactly?"

Although technically he couldn't see it, Foxy knew Horton was smirking under that coat.

"Well, I had to come up with a team name all on my own. I think you'll like it. Come on, they'll be putting up the sign any second now."

Foxy followed Horton and Argos towards the crowd a bit, just in front of the archway entrance they were sitting by. The black and red wolf animatronic from earlier was hoisting up the same chalkboard sign he was writing on earlier.

The sign was broken down into 3 sections. On the left, a list of all the fighters for the current championship. Middle, a bracket of who fights who, leading all the way to just before the ranked fights. Right, a far more decorative slot showing the currently upcoming fight between teams.

Foxy scanned the board trying to find which of the team names he was under, until Horton grabbed his shoulder and pointed to the very bottom of the list.

"The Castaways - Foxy / Horton / Argos"

Horton nudged Foxy's arm again, gesturing to the up-next section of the same board.

"The Castaways V.S. The Streets."

The Castaways title was notably better written than the other, stylized in a font that seemed reminiscent of pirates. It was a very intricate design compared to the other, which seemed almost scrawled on in chicken scratch.

"I called in a little IOU with Mikhail, it's important to leave a good first impression with the crowd." Horton explained proudly. "It also just looks better."

Foxy couldn't help but smile, just a bit."Aye, it does, I like it."

Behind him, the crowd began murmuring. Then chattering. Then despite being much smaller than before, getting just as loud as it was earlier. Foxy's sensitive ears could start to pick up their own names being tossed about here and there.

"We should probably get out of here." Argos mentioned.

"I'm inclined to agree, Foxy, let's go."

"Wait, what's going on? Is something happening?"

"Literacy is what's happening. People are reading the signs and seeing our names, best we get a move on-"

"Why is that a bad thing?" Foxy asked, starting to sound a little concerned.

Argos looked at Horton, "Did you not tell him?"

"I thought you did?"

"Come on Horton…"

"Okay, okay, look," Horton grabbed Foxy's shoulder again, looking him dead in the eye, "Argos and I are… known variables around here-"

"We're famous." Argos interrupted bluntly.

Foxy blinked a couple times. "You're famous?" He looked at Horton, "You?"

"Okay now why is that so hard to belie-"

"Well well well! Look what the cat dragged in!"

Foxy looked towards the source of the noise, his eye landing on a short black cat striding towards him with the most pissed off expression he had seen since the pizzeria. Behind him was a Bull, with fur just as black, but significantly taller.

"Huh?" Foxy raised a brow.

The cat stopped directly in front of Foxy, planting his feet in the ground in a confident pose before huffing. He was a good bit shorter than the vulpine, and vaguely familiar.

"Whaddya mean 'huh?' You bust your head in the Rite? Serves you."

"…Am I supposed to know you?"

The cat nodded up at the board, "We're The Streets, and you and I have a little history… Doesn't matter if you remember me or not, what's wrong here is who you're with!"

Horton and Argos glanced at each other with unimpressed expressions.

"…and that would be because?" Foxy asked.

"I want to know what the fuck a scrapheap like you is doing with THE Horton and Argos!"

That certainly got the crowd's attention, the many of them who were ogling at those very names on the chalkboard suddenly rushed towards Foxy, forming a circle around him, the cat, Horton, Argos. The bull simply stepped back, right at the edge of the crowd. Either he wanted no part of this, or didn't care in the first place.

Horton was fixated on the cat, like he was trying to figure out some equation. Just then, he seemed to jump. "Oh! You're the one who's been at our door almost every day for the past 3 months!"

Foxy glanced at Horton, a slightly confused expression on his face.

"It's why I thought you were just another nuisance at first," Horton explained quickly.

"Nuisance!? A real fighter like me has been at your door for months, next thing I hear about the two most legendary mechanics in the Hellmouth is that they partnered up with some nobody!"

Foxy was startling to get tired of this cat's shit.

"From the looks of it, you're no less of a nobody than I am." he remarked. He still couldn't put a finger on where he would have met this cat before.

"You got a lot of nerve sayin' that to me," the cat sneered, quickly glancing up at the board. "Castaways huh? A bit on the nose for runaway trash like you."

"Runway?"

Foxy twitched, pinpointing the exact moment he realized who this cat was. The Streets, a cat and a bull, just like the two who captured him and brought him to this place.

"You."

The cat smirked, "Oh, so that thick head of yours finally remembered me huh? Figures it'd take a runaw- Huagh!"

Foxy jammed his fist into the cat's neck, impacting his throat and staggering the feline back a few steps. The crowd seemed to enjoy that, Oooh's and cheers rising from them.

"You're the one who brought me down here! I wasn't a runaway, I've never been here before in my life! And now I'm trapped in this shithole because of you!"

"Likely… story…" The cat coughed between his words, his speech slowed with strained inhales. The cat leered at Foxy, just about to lunge at him with his claws out before a commanding voice rang out.

"No fighting here!"

Glancing in the direction of the thick russian accent, Foxy's eyes landed on the wolf from earlier, standing on the rafters from where he had put up the sign. If memory served him right, Horton said his name was Mikhail.

"Save it for the ring, I will have no blood spilt at my doorstep."

The cat glared at him, muttering something under his breath before backing away. He turned his attention to Foxy one last time.

"Next time I see you… you're fucking dead."

Before Foxy had a chance to say anything in return, the cat had already run off, and the bull gone with him.

The crowd began to quiet down from the enthusiastic cheers from the fight faded, now replaced again by chatter. The news of Horton and Argos's sudden reemergence had spread quick, and more people were coming to see it for themselves.

Horton patted Foxy on his shoulder.

"We should really get going, now."

As Foxy turned to follow him out of here, he paused for a moment. The vulpine's shoulder was stiff for just a second before he shook it off. Weird.

"Foxy, come on!"

"I know, I know! I'm following ya!"