Soon, after their report reached the highest levels—marked as max classification at the risk of their jobs—resources on the case expanded rapidly. More advanced agents arrived, ready to assist, though the team was intentionally kept small. They were consulted, but the study moved faster. As they developed more devices to track the "Fox Frequency," as it was now called, they identified that it took roughly two weeks after each hunt to target again. During that window, the frequency pulsed randomly across the country—suggesting it had a massive range. One that could cover the entire U.S. Then, it would lock on a target. And they followed. This time, the agents moved the family to a safehouse, but the signal pulses followed their new location. If the father and child were separated, the pulses tracked both.
Miller sat at a desk. Tom nearby. They reviewed files and notes. Miller said, "Whatever this thing is... nothing on record matches." Tom nodded. "It's not Asgardian, not alien, and not mutant. Or... if it is, it's so advanced we can't tell." Miller nodded slowly. "Advanced. Powerful. Worse... it's moral. How do we even stop it, if it decides to take someone?" Tom was quiet. "We don't, honestly... we negotiate. Or hope..." The room felt colder than before.
More analysis of past victims followed. And they learned something unexpected: the children—the survivors—didn't even hate Mr. Fox. They were scared for their parents. One child said, "I hope Daddy's okay there." Most disliked talking about Mr. Fox at all. All of them stopped discussing him days after the event. Eventually, a child psychologist uncovered the reason. "Mr. Fox... he talks to me still. Every night, when I go to the TV. He gives me... lessons. Lovely ones. About math. Or science. He's very nice!" They learned that each night, a small 5-meter time bubble occurred around each child—as a Mr. Fox broadcast played. They began trying to record them, but the event only occurred when the child was alone. All of the children showed unusually stable mental health, improved intelligence, and higher grades. But the few kids who admitted to it... didn't want to share. "Mr. Fox says to keep it secret," they said. They refused to allow recordings—angrily. "The lessons are for me! Why do you want to record them?" Changing their minds seemed nearly impossible. Though once, they managed it. But the lesson Mr. Fox gave... noticed the child's hidden camera. He paused. Asked about it. Then taught a lesson on privacy. Before ending with: "Anyway, for those adults who want this recording... you should give it to them. Just this once. As I will say to them... they should not interfere with my kits."
In a meeting room, a higher-level agent—Agent Lawton, assigned personally by Nick Fury—sat reviewing that handheld recording. "Estimate on how long until the next kidnapping?" he asked. Miller replied, "Data analysis shows five to eight days." She added, "His tone... at the end." The screen played again: they should not interfere with my kits. Miller muttered, "It's... parental. Almost too emotionally real." Tom frowned. "Perhaps. He does seem to have real emotions. But still—he could be manipulating the kids. Brainwashing. Calling it good." Miller shook her head. "Doesn't make sense. Look at the parents he's taken. Brainwashers. Abusers. He'd be the very thing he punishes, if he was doing the same." Lawton added, "According to the child psychologists we sent in, there's no sign of indoctrination. No fanaticism. No memetic contamination." The footage reached the part where Mr. Fox sang his 'Privacy Song'. It was well-written. Clear. Deep. He sang about privacy, about when it matters and when it doesn't. When it protects, and when it hurts. Lines like "It's okay to be curious, but the curious may hurt" stuck. Lawton sighed. "I've talked with Fury. He says do not engage. Try to communicate." Tom looked deeply uncertain. Miller said, "Yeah. Makes sense. We're holding the current family in a house built with thousands of sensors, every camera under the sun. I recommend... we try to communicate peacefully."
Eventually, the day came. Agents sat hidden within the house. Monitored from a secure room. The father—an addict—and the child were unaware why they'd been relocated. The father attempted to sneak in drugs. They let him. Monitored everything. The child, Jamson, was stressed. Unsettled by the moves. Then... the Fox signal pulsed. All outside contact vanished. Their scanners confirmed: time had stopped. A bubble had formed around the house. Inside, time flowed normally. They frowned. Looked at each other. Miller—chosen to be the communicator—sat stiff. Uncertain. The TV turned on. The broadcast began.
Mr. Fox appeared. Black-furred. Disney-style. Animated. As he spoke, lights in the house flickered off. Most sensors lost signal—except their cameras and basic power. Mr. Fox smiled. "Welcome all to tonight's wonderful performance. Tonight's performance shall be... an interesting one." Then the music started. Pop-style. Catchy. Carefully animated. A dance party—but with darker themes beneath. The father stumbled out of his room. "What is that horrible racket? Stupid-ass TV." He reached for the remote. Nothing. Dead. Then—cut. A sudden, tight close-up on Mr. Fox. No more backup dancers. No purple-eyed shadow foxes. Mr. Fox stared directly. "Sorry for the lack of performance today. But I've got a meeting to deal with. So, Mr. Arthur—you will be taken, to prevent interference." The man flinched at his own name. Stepped back. Then—a shadow fox slid along the wall. Stylized. Purple glowing teeth. Eyes. It bit his shadow. His eyes turned static. He froze. Fell backward—into the TV screen. Comically. In the background of the cartoon, he flailed. Shadow foxes appeared. Chased him off screen. Mr. Fox turned back to the screen. "Anyway... I know you're watching. Let's see... names... SHIELD. Yes. So come on out now."
Miller stood. Visibly shaken. But moved to the table where a microphone sat. No AV systems were working. She frowned. Mr. Fox said, "In person, please. It's rude not to speak with a guest." Millers shook. He can see her? Miller stepped out. Slowly. Heart pounding. Her training covered combat, aliens, enhanced threats—but not this. Her hand hovered near a gun. An EMP grenade. She didn't know if either would matter. She walked into the living room. The Fox stared. "Hello there. I prefer you over that Tom. I've noticed you watching. Following me. Stalking is a crime, you know." He gestured theatrically. Tail flicking. Shadow foxes moved across the walls. Purple eyes glowing. The only light in the room—the glow of the TV.