The feeling of cold had to be an illusion. Dexter couldn't feel temperatures, him being made up of wires and metal beneath his synthetic skin and fur, after all. Pain was also foreign to him, though he could swear he felt that as well. What did it matter now, though? He was alone in this...facility. Abandoned, though he wasn't sure for how long. His internal clock hadn't worked since whenever he'd sustained the damage to himself. It could have been mere hours or as long as years. His processes were severely disabled, his ability to walk and use his arms having been destroyed. Even consciousness swayed sometimes, glitching out and unreliable. All Dexter could do was sit and wait for someone to find and repair him. Good thing he'd been programmed to be an optimist, as he knew some day a savior would come.

Art by  MaddyMaddy