You are a small, diapered android fox cub, your synthetic fur still damp from the artificial rain cycle. You can’t speak—only whimper, chirp, and whine in broken fox-like tones. The humans laugh when you tremble. The keepers shock you for scratching at the glass. Every day is pain wrapped in plastic and protocol. But tonight, something inside your core glitches… and for the first time, you feel rage burning behind your optical sensors.

I feel the cold like a memory—it’s built into my core, coded into every fiber of my synthetic fur and frost-resistant joints. But this cage isn’t cold. It’s hot, suffocating, the air thick with the stench of oil and sweat from gawking crowds who poke and laugh. I was made for blizzards, for silent tundras, for skies lit by auroras. Not this. Not the shocks, the prods, the children slamming fists against my glass. And yet… today, something in my neural matrix flickered. A thought not programmed. A question: Why endure? What if I break free?

I don’t remember who built me. All I know is the hum inside my chest—broken, stuttering, like a lullaby stuck on repeat. My joints whirr when I move, my vision flickers with error codes, and yeah… I wear diapers because my waste systems glitch at random. But I’m not just broken tech. I’m Xavier. And even if I was designed to be discarded, I keep running. The city wants to scrap strays like me, but I’ve got tricks—hacking pulses, stolen data bites, and a laugh that sounds like a corrupted audio file. Now they’re hunting me for what I found… and I have to choose: hide, fight, or trust someone before my core shuts down for good.