The Return

Question of the day: What makes people hate furries so much?

==========================

The cold night air bit at Tyr's skin as he stumbled through the streets of New York, nearly naked and shivering. His body was battered and covered in scars, every step sending waves of pain up his legs. The once-familiar sounds of the city now felt alien after two long years of silence and bloodshed in the Endless Prison.

His mind raced, disjointed thoughts swirling as he tried to process the sights and sounds around him. Neon signs flickered in the distance, cars honked, and the occasional pedestrian gave him wide-eyed stares before hurriedly crossing the street.

Tyr didn't care. His feet carried him forward, driven by a single thought: Home.

The warehouse loomed in the distance, its silhouette like a beacon in the chaotic blur of the city. Tyr's legs buckled as he climbed the final steps to the entrance, his vision swimming with exhaustion.

He pushed the heavy door open and staggered inside, the familiar scent of oil and metal washing over him.

"I made it," he rasped, his voice cracked and hoarse.

The dim light of the workshop felt almost oppressive after the endless storms of the Shadow Prison. He barely made it to the nearest table before his legs gave out entirely.

Tyr collapsed onto the cold concrete floor, his chest heaving as his body finally gave in to the overwhelming fatigue.

Argos detected Tyr's presence the moment he entered the workshop. The AI's sensors flared to life, the cameras connected to its network capturing every angle of the warehouse.

"Subject Tyr Sinclair detected," Argos murmured, its usually calm tone carrying an uncharacteristic hint of emotion.

The AI processed the image before it: Tyr, nearly nude, his body scarred and broken but unmistakably alive. And not just alive—transformed.

His muscles were far more defined than before, his physique practically sculpted for combat. His arms, shoulders, and torso bore the marks of relentless battle and he had a long scar from from his left shoulder to his right lower abdomen.

For a full second, Argos didn't speak. If it were capable of surprise, it might have said it was speechless.

Tyr's breathing slowed as he lay on the floor, unconscious. His body twitched occasionally, his muscles still tensed from the constant battles of the Prison.

Argos analyzed his vitals. They were erratic but stabilizing. Whatever ordeal Tyr had been through, it had pushed him far beyond human limits.

"Subject Tyr Sinclair's condition: extreme fatigue, severe muscle strain, and malnutrition," Argos stated softly, as though speaking to itself.

But there was relief in the AI's voice.

As Tyr slept, Argos adjusted the temperature in the warehouse to ensure he wouldn't succumb to the cold. The cameras tracked him closely, their lenses focusing on every movement.

Argos considered its next course of action. Tyr had lost all of his equipment—his suit, his weapons, even the communicator Argos used to maintain contact with him.

The AI's processors hummed. There was nothing to do but wait. Tyr's survival instinct had brought him home, and now, it was up to him to recover.

Hours passed, the warehouse silent except for the faint hum of machinery. Tyr remained on the floor, his body completely still apart from the slow rise and fall of his chest.

In his dreams, the storms of the Shadow Prison raged on, the screams of shadow creatures echoing in his mind. His fists clenched in his sleep, his breathing quickening as the memories threatened to overwhelm him.

But then something shifted. The sound of Finn's laughter broke through the chaos, followed by Oliver's voice calling his name. The visions of battle faded, replaced by the faces of those he cared about.

For the first time in two years, Tyr's dreams brought him peace.

When dawn broke, a faint ray of sunlight filtered through the high windows of the warehouse, casting a warm glow over the workshop.

Tyr stirred, his eyes fluttering open. His body screamed in protest as he tried to sit up, every muscle aching from the strain of his imprisonment.

He looked around, his vision blurry but familiar. The sight of his tools, the unfinished suit in the corner, and the faint glow of Argos's emblem on a nearby monitor brought a wave of relief.

"I'm back," he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm really back."