Fives howls in rage as his arms fall useless, blood from where the glass cut deep into his palm spreading and mingling with the water on the ground. He doesn't even remember what the fox is referencing at first, he's exhausted and muddled and focused only on ending this.

"That's a load of osik," he snarls, trying to remember what he could possibly have said that would be taken that way. When he does remember a moment later it doesn't, as far as he's concerned, change anything. "I didn't promise a damn thing to the kriffing demagolka you serve."