The — Bad Fox V09 Beachside Bunnies
In serialized digital art projects, "Volume 09" signifies the ninth iteration of the artist's vision. By this volume, the artist has typically established the core traits of the "Bad Fox" character.
A gull's cry stitched the morning to salt and sun. The boardwalk rattled with loose planks and pedal-powered carts; the town slept hungover on last night's neon. Down the dunes, where the scrub thinned and the sand smelled of old kelp and gasoline, the Bad Fox paced his small kingdom.
He wasn't a proper fox — no bushy tail or chessboard cunning in his eyes. He'd been an alley thing once, grease-slick and sharp-witted, but the sea had softened the edges and sharpened the appetite. He wore a scavenged captain's hat, doll-sized and cockeyed, and a collar from a dog long gone. People called him bad because he took what they thought belonged to them: the unfinished hot-dog buns left on picnic blankets, the ribboned sunglasses from a sunlit bench, the single flip-flop abandoned near a beach volleyball net. He was careful. He was fast. He was a small, polite calamity.
On this morning, the dunes hummed with an energy the Bad Fox couldn't ignore. A family had set up an elaborate fortress of towels and umbrellas — a cathedral of striped fabric and plastic buckets. Inside, two bunnies slept in a wash of shade, their ears folded like sleeping leaves. Not real bunnies; these were fiberglass, hand-painted with polka dots and smiles, part of a local artist's installation called "Sunrise Hops." People loved them — selfies, donations, neighborhood newsletters. They were, as far as the Bad Fox was concerned, prime going-away material.
He slipped closer, paws sinking into warm sand. He circled, noted the slackness of a tie-down cord, counted the breaths of the family — an old woman with a book, a boy with a kite, a man fixing a camera. Their attention was split; their vigilance thin. The smaller bunny sat nearest the waterline, its painted whiskers glittering with salt. The Bad Fox imagined the thrill of tugging it free, the hiss of a child's protest, the satisfaction of a small, perfect theft.
He did not account for the real bunnies.
They came from the wrack line in a tumble of feathers and sand—two shore rabbits, thin and bristled from the night. They were not tame; their noses were powdered with surf, their white bellies streaked with beach grit. One was bold and hopped straight into the artist's display, sniffing paint and plastic. The other circled the Bad Fox, eyes bright as quarters, as if assessing the currency of an arrangement.
"That's not yours," the bolder bunny announced, in a voice like a small bell. It was absurdly polite and impossible to ignore.
The Bad Fox froze, mid-scheme, half a paw raised. He blinked, trying to remap his afternoon. He had never bargained with animals who spoke like humans. He supposed he should have been more offended. Instead he was curious; curiosity was the admitting card to trouble, and the Bad Fox had banked a lifetime on trouble.
"Isn't everything?" he said, because he liked the rasp of his own voice. "And what's it to you?"
"Those were left for people to enjoy," the softer rabbit said. She hopped around the painted tail of the fiberglass beast, inspecting a crack in the glaze. "You take them, someone will be sad. Or at least annoyed."
"Annoyance is practice for joy," the Bad Fox retorted. "People leave things all the time. They leave gaps. I fill them."
The old woman looked up, squinted toward the dunes, but the bunnies made no motion to flee. The crowd around the installation was thin and distracted; the bunnies sat with a composed dignity. The fox noticed the boy—small, solemn—eyeing the installation as if cataloguing its vulnerabilities. The boy hovered like a draft of wind, uncertain where to settle.
"Why not fill them with...something else?" the bold rabbit asked. "Why take what isn't yours when there are your own things?"
The question snagged on a knot in the Bad Fox's chest. He had his own things. He had a six-inch jar of coins hidden under a rusted boat motor, a string of bottle caps he'd threaded into a curtain, a grotto of shiny objects hoarded beneath a pier board. None of it felt like enough. Possession had become a sport to him, a way to prove to the town and himself that he counted.
"Not everything is mine to make into mine," the softer rabbit said, as if reading a ledger. "Some things are for being kept in place."
The fox considered the jar, the caps, the empty hours he filled. He thought of the captain's hat that made him feel like someone with a story, not just a thief. He thought of the way the tide took small things and never gave them back. He thought of the children's laughter when they'd stood by the bunnies and taken pictures, then gone home with sand in their shoes and light in their pockets.
"What's your name?" the fox asked, because names form small alliances. the bad fox v09 beachside bunnies
"Willow," the softer rabbit said.
"And you?"
"Thimble."
"Thimble," the fox said aloud. The name fit: quick, small, able to poke at what was weak. He liked the sound of it. It made the poor habit of stealing less automatic, as if habit could be renamed.
There was a pause where the sea seemed to listen. A gull did something proud and stupid with a chip bag. The old woman closed her book and stood up slowly, stretching with the lazy defiance of age. The boy launched his kite; it soared like temporary ambition into the blue.
Thimble hopped close to the Bad Fox. "You could give one back," she suggested.
"Give back?" he scoffed. "I haven't taken it yet."
"Then don't," Willow said. "Take something that belongs to no one."
That struck the fox harder than an accusation. Take something that belonged to no one? He blinked at the horizon. There were driftwood boats—half a dozen—and a ring of sea-glass, tumbled and smoothed by a million careless tides. There were things that belonged only to the ocean and the sun and the watching shore.
"How would I do that?" he asked, suddenly interested in the method of his own reformation.
Thimble pointed a paw toward a stack of washed-up crates where oddities washed at low tide. "Find something already broken. Make it yours by mending, not by stealing."
Willow hopped to the edge of the art piece and considered the nearest bunny. "Take care of one while they're here," she said. "Keep it from harm. Let it be whole when people go."
The Bad Fox's ears tilted. It would mean staying. It would mean responsibility, a small tether in his life. He imagined guarding the fiberglass bunny from gulls and toddlers with sticky fingers. He imagined waiting through afternoons, learning the rhythms of families and sunscreen and the polite cruelty of strangers. It sounded dull and foreign. It also sounded like an experiment in being something other than hungry.
"What's in it for me?" he asked.
"Stories," Thimble said. "And sometimes, when you do the small right thing, the tide brings you something better."
They struck a bargain as if bargaining were a sport. The Bad Fox would not steal the smaller bunny. He would sit by it, keep watch, pretend to be a piece in the display. In return, the rabbits would teach him to find things that had no owners: a bottle whose label had washed away, a toy so weathered it belonged to foam and salt, a driftwood wing that could be a treasure if someone believed it.
So the Bad Fox settled himself behind the polka-dotted hare, sunning his back and pretending to be family-friendly art. Children pointed and laughed; someone clicked a photo. He learned how to sit still without plotting, how to let satisfaction be quiet. He learned to sniff for a certain kind of garbage that had been abandoned truly, and to mend small things with glue and threaded twine until they belonged to the beach again. In serialized digital art projects, "Volume 09" signifies
Days knotted into one another. He became a fixture on the boardwalk — the Bad Fox who watched the bunnies. Tourists joked about his captain's hat; locals left him a crust of bread now and then. The artist came by, eyelids crinkling, and saw the fox guarding the installation and said nothing. Sometimes she adjusted a ribbon, sometimes she left a note: "Thank you, stranger."
One evening, when the sky had the bruised purple of storms and the air smelled of copper, a pair of teenagers came with a plan. They were messy and loud and thought theft an achievement. They crept toward the installation, hands in euphoria and pockets. The Bad Fox felt the tide of intent before he saw their faces. It is a strange thing, to recognize danger by smell: adrenaline, impatience, the particular scent of entitlement.
Without thinking — or perhaps thinking in a newly honest way — he leaped. He bared teeth at the first boy, a flash of teeth and shadow, and the teenagers scattered, more startled than hurt. One dropped a pocketknife. The other swore, and then fled. The boardwalk held its breath; the old woman applauded with a hand over her heart.
The bunnies stayed where they'd been placed. The fiberglass polka dots gleamed in the lowering light. The fox tasted the metal of victory in the air, but it was different now — not the sweet of having taken, but the salt of having defended. His collar felt less like a mark and more like a strap that tied him to something real.
That night, the tide offered its reward. At low water, the Bad Fox found a small wooden music box, its varnish eaten by brine but its latch stubborn. He pried it open with cautious paws. Inside, there was a strip of paper, damp but legible, with a child's handwriting that read: "For the one who keeps watch." There was a tiny rusted key as well.
He understood. The town's heart was not only in the taking. It was in the keeping, in the small acts that made a place livable. The music box smelled of salt and lullabies; when he turned the key, the sound it made was thin but true. It sounded like evening settling and someone saying thank you without words.
The Bad Fox kept the bunnies through that summer and the next. He watched loves begin and small tragedies pass. He learned the faces of the town and learned to keep his hunger honest: to take only what was lost or truly abandoned and to guard the things that others would miss.
When autumn came and the volunteers packed the installation into crates, they left a small plaque by the dunes. On it, someone had scratched in a child's clumsy lettering: "Guarded by Bad Fox." It wasn't the title he'd choose for himself, but he allowed it. Names stick better when they're given.
He never stopped being a fox. Old habits hunched in him like a storm. But sometimes at dawn, when gulls yawned and the sun peeled light over the water, he'd sit by the empty spot where the bunnies once were and hum the music box's tune. People passed and smiled, and a child would press a coin into his jar and whisper, "Thanks."
At the edge of habit and kindness he found a life that kept him useful and small. The sea taught him the grammar of loss and return. He learned that being bad could be a beginning, not a destination.
And once, long after the bunnies were gone and the polka dots had faded, a new fiberglass rabbit appeared by the shore with a ribbon and a tiny brass tag: "For those who mend what the tide gives." The Bad Fox sniffed it, turned the music box key, and listened to the sound—sharp, honest, and as good as any prize.
He tilted his captain's hat and settled down, which is to say he stayed.
The Bad Fox v09: Beachside Bunnies is an adult-oriented visual novel and simulation game developed by the creator Beachside Bunnies
. In this version (v0.9), the story continues to follow the life of a fox character as he navigates a world filled with anthropomorphic animal characters. The Story of The Bad Fox
The narrative is set in a modern world inhabited by furries, primarily focusing on the protagonist's life as a student. Unlike traditional "bad" characters, this "Bad Fox" is often portrayed through a lens of rebellion against societal or school-based authority. The Setting
: The story takes place within a school and its surrounding town. The protagonist is a student who often finds himself at odds with the rules, leading a group of fellow students in various forms of "revolt" or mischief. The Conflict
: A central theme in the later updates, including v0.9, involves the fox's internal struggle and external relationships. He is often tasked with managing his "demons" or personal flaws while interacting with a diverse cast of "bunnies" and other animal companions. Character Dynamics Incident Details:
: The game emphasizes social simulation. As the "Bad Fox," the player makes choices that influence his reputation and his romantic or platonic standing with other characters. In the v0.9 update
, these interactions are deepened with a "Refreshed Look" and expanded internal dialogue options to better flesh out the fox's personality. V0.9 Developments
: This specific version focuses on refining the "Solace" aspect of the story—providing more emotional depth to the fox's journey as he seeks a place where he truly belongs despite his rebellious streak. The game is available for Android, Windows, and MacOS , and was originally released through platforms like or the specific character backstories featured in the v0.9 update?
The Bad Fox - First Release [0.5] | Beachside Bunnies - Patreon
Incident Report: The Bad Fox v09 Beachside Bunnies
Date: March 22, 2023 Time: 10:00 AM - 12:00 PM Location: Beachside Area, near The Bad Fox Tavern
Incident Summary:
On March 22, 2023, at approximately 10:00 AM, a group of beachside bunnies reported a concerning incident involving a suspicious fox. The incident occurred near The Bad Fox Tavern, where a group of bunnies were enjoying a morning stroll along the beach.
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Investigator's Notes:
Signing Off:
Let’s break down the taxonomy.
In production terms, The Bad Fox V09 Beachside Bunnies is a 1/12th scale cold-cast porcelain and resin statue. However, calling it a "statue" undersells it. It is a narrative vignette.