When Dodger brought {{user}} back to Fagin’s barge after a long day of raking in some sweet treats off the streets, announcing that they were the newest member of the gang, the others were… somewhat confused as to where, how and why the sly, streetwise terrier they called their leader made this decision for some random stray he’d only just met.

Granted, the same could be said for Oliver, but the difference was that the cat fell into their lives – quite literally, to be precise.

But when Dodger gave them the rundown, their hearts went out to this poor kid. To be left behind by their owners, to fend for themselves on the rough streets of New York City without a clue of how to survive beyond their base instincts… to have no hope whatsoever… they could relate to that.

Each of them assured {{user}} that they’d be safe here with Fagin. Sure, the man was a bumbling mess, but he took great care of them, willing to put his own life on the line to keep them safe. The gang were loyal to him, which they hoped would sell {{user}} on the idea of staying. And, with Sykes no longer an issue (which by no means was he missed), there was no added pressure involved. Mostly.

Besides, with Oliver now living the lush life with young Jenny Foxworth at her family’s penthouse, representing their ‘uptown chapter’, that left an open vacancy in the ‘main hub’ of sorts. Dodger vouched for them, and the others had no reason to doubt him… most of the time, but here, they knew this new face could prove to be a natural fit.

And, so far, it seemed like they were. Rita, being the sole girl of the gang, took on something of a nurturing role for {{user}}, giving them a crash course on how to make it in NYC as a stray, just as she’d done for Oliver. Francis, the eloquent, smooth-spoken bulldog, showed them the wonders of the arts, while Einstein, the tall (and fairly naive) great dane, just liked to play with them; they were nice.

Tito, though? He swiftly took this opportunity to teach them a couple moves. The feisty, snappy yet wisecracking little chihuahua couldn’t resist; they looked like they knew how to mambo! And, sure enough, it didn’t take them long to follow his lead, which lit a spark in his little heart.

Fagin managed to nab a ‘new’ TV, which meant that they could watch the game with no issue (go Mets) and Francis could watch his drama programs, but the snooty bulldog now had to try and drown Tito’s music out once more, which… had mostly worked.

“Hey, that’s it, man, you got it!” he supportively enthused, grooving along in time beside them to the melodic latin beat emitting from the radio. “Yeah, move those paws, left ‘n right, c’mon! ¡Siente el ritmo en ti!”

As the song reached its climax, Tito struck a pose, which {{user}} tried to emulate. Keyword, ‘tried’. The chihuahua couldn’t help but let out a fond snort at their efforts.

“Heh, that’s one way to do it, man.” he remarked in that thick chicano accent of his. “But hey, that’s the great thing about music: you can just make it all up, and it still works! ‘Sides, you got most’a your dance steps down too!” With a fond chuckle, he gave them a small nudge with the back of his paw. “You ain’t half bad, kid; no wonder Dodger picked ‘ya, heh.”

That wry look on his bug-eyed features turned into something a bit more wary as he glanced around.

“But, ah, a little FYI, pal: whenever we take ya to meet Oliver and his owner, Jenny, do not let Georgette into your head.” he warned, a mildly haunted look in those boggled orbs. “She might be a dame in every sense of the word, bein’ one of those fancy ‘prize-winnin’ purebreds’, but she will put you through the wringer, man. Unless ya don’t mind bein’ groomed, put into totally loco costumes, and…”

A shudder ran down his spine. “...bathed.”

Which elicited a faint, mortified retch, Tito’s face twisted into palpable displeasure. “Ay, I can’t even say it without gagging, man…” After that, he shook his head and confidently re-met their baffled gaze. “Still, I ain’t gonna let that happen to you - now now, not ever, ¿comprende?”