It was on an unmistakable August day that heat and humidity conspired against the pedestrians foolish enough to brave the sidewalks of Fairfield Avenue. The street was not like those in the deep city where tall glass monuments served as million dollar awnings. The street was not like those of the suburbs where fair-skinned prey strolled along under their parasols. The street barely deserved its own title when its decrepit brick would devolve into dirt just a few blocks from the heart of what passed as their town. This was the street of a collared slum.
Among the few souls walking the sidewalk was a pair of red foxes: James Wilde, father; and Nicholas Wilde, son. James wore a collared white shirt and black dress pants. From a distance, the clothing appeared fine, but upon close inspection it bore a plethora of small stains and frayed stitchings.
Above the shirt's neckband was a different collar which his mind worked hard to avoid. A band of pristine black carbon fiber wrapped around his neck, its opposite ends meeting at a shiny metallic node. The node possessed a small opening for a speaker, a light, and another opening towards the bottom which teased of a key. Its sleek look was betrayed by the pair of metal fangs on the underside which buried into the orange fur and maintained constant contact with his skin.
His fur possessed three accents. The first was the silvery-gray of age that seemed to follow him everywhere from his worn back paws to his tired yellow eyes. The second was black, mostly around his paws and tail. There was a third, unnatural gray hidden beneath his choke.
Nick, at 16, was not as built or as worn as his father, but he was grown enough to see eye to amber eye. He wore a loose-fitting white tee and baggy khaki shorts. There was no collar around his neck, and there was no weight in his eyes. Today, that would change.
The two of them walked down the cracked concrete, keeping a brisk pace while they passed a number of squatting skinny preds in ragged clothes. Shop windows were barred with wrought iron, and those that weren't were abandoned. A single car drove down the street. The heavy beat of music arrived and left as it turned a corner. Off in one of the unseen alleys, an argument was taking place. The foxes kept their eyes forward and their hands in their pockets.
They stopped in front of a larger brick store. In big, broken wood letters, a name was scrawled across the building: Zenmart. The pair walked in.
There was a ding of a bell as the door opened. Fans could be heard, at least six, pushing air with whatever force they could muster. It didn't do much to fight the heat, but relief was relief nonetheless. A newspaper rustled as the sheep behind the counter lowered it to look at his patrons.
"Dave," James said, walking up to the counter.
"James," the clerk replied.
"I'm uh," James sighed, "I'm looking to get my son collared."
The sheep curled up his newspaper and leaned on the counter.
"So the kid's already ready for high school, huh?" Dave rhetorically asked. His eyes were on Nick.
The sheep took a swig of water and said, "I'll be right back," as he got up from his post and disappeared into a small room.
Sun reflected off the waxed sheen of the vinyl tiles. Dave returned, plastic gray box in hoof. He set the box down and clicked it open. He pulled out the TAME collar, another cloth collar with a different looking node, and a wristband.
"Alright kid, you're going to need to put this around your neck and this around your wrist," he said, handing Nick the cloth collar and the wristband.
"Why?" Nick asked, putting them on.
"These are going to monitor your vitals and calibrate the collar. Don't calibrate the collar and it might shock you when it don't need to. Now go and walk around a bit," Dave gestured to the rest of the store. "Shouldn't take too long to calibrate and you can be on your way."
The clerk returned to his paper, and Nick and his dad waded into the shop.
"How was it when you got your collar dad?" Nick asked, eyeing the snack aisle.
His father sighed, "It was different. Back then you got it at a doctor's office or a clinic. The nurse would calibrate it manually. If she messed up, it was a week of pain and walking on eggshells before you could get it tuned down."
"They never tuned it too low?" Nick stopped to look at his father.
"I've never met a mammal whose collar was tuned low."
His dad stopped in front of a table piled high with collared shirts and ties. He picked up a dark indigo tie with red and blue stripes.
"Here you go, Nick."
Nick took the tie from his father with a look of confusion on his face.
"A tie? Why?" he asked.
"You're growing up Nick, and every man needs a tie," James smiled and pat his son on the shoulder.
Nick smiled back.
"Hey, calibration's finished!" Doug called from across the store.
The two of them peeled away from the table and returned to the counter.
"Alright. You'll wanna be home before you put this thing on; it'll zap you a few times to figure out how hard it needs to do it. With the tie there, the total comes to $30.83. You're supposed to send in the card that comes with the collar to get a government rebate but I ain't never seen one of those checks arrive much less clear, so it's up to you," Doug said while he collected the calibration tools from Nick.
James took out his wallet and scanned his card. Approved flashed across the screen.
"Good luck, kid," the clerk said, handing Nick a bag with the collar and the tie.
The foxes walked through the exit and stopped outside.
Nick's dad opened his mouth to speak but stopped midway. His nose twitched as he sniffed the air.
Looking down at his son with narrow eyes, he held out his paw, "Hand it to me."
Nick huffed as he pulled a candy bar from his pocket.
"You can't do that, Nick."
Nick raised his arms in protest, "But you said—"
His father interrupted him, "I said we do it when we need to. You shouldn't make it a habit, Nick. Doing it because you feel like it isn't an excuse. We need to be better than that, otherwise all this," he motioned to the score of collared mammals scattered around the street, "is never gonna change. And Dave is our friend, Nick. You don't do this to friends, because in the end, it just hurts both of you."
"I'm sorry, dad," Nick hung his head.
"Well don't tell me, tell Dave," he breathed.
Nick looked back up to his father, "Alright."
"Now go fix that; I'm gonna finish up at work. We'll meet up in a few hours to go and get school supplies, okay?" he finished, patting his son on the back.
Nick nodded, and his father walked off down the street. He went back into the store, paid for his candy bar, and began to head towards his house.
He hiked down the sidewalk, past the stale smell of cigarettes and the sights of graffitied tumbledown houses. The thin walls of the buildings that weren't condemned betrayed the cries of children and the profanities of heated arguments. Somewhere, over the din of a hundred swamp coolers, a door slammed shut.
Nick stopped in front of his own house, a small one-story white place with a tiny porch. A ragged Zootopian flag hung from one of the porch beams, and much of the paint was in the process of being chipped away by the unforgiving cycle of sun and rain. Next to the other beam was a wind chime being kicked into life by a brief merciful breeze.
Nick stopped in the wind and shut his eyes to enjoy the brief respite. When the breeze died, he opened his eyes and sighed. Pulling out his keys, he climbed the creaking steps and opened the door to his house.
The sound of fans filled his ears once again. He closed the door and walked back towards the kitchen, setting the grocery bag down as he arrived. Nick's eyes wandered over to the couch. His mother was sprawled across its length snoring, one paw clutching a remote and the other near an empty orange pill bottle. Her collar blinked green. He sighed and looked at the TV. It was muted on the news channel. Pictures of Mayor Bellwether and President Swinton shaking hooves flashed across the screen before switching to a clip of anti-pred protesters.
Nick looked away and walked into his room. He laid down on his bed, staring into the swirling fan overhead. Even with the lights off, it was too hot to nap, much less climb under covers. The fan spun and spun. He took out his phone, flipped it open, and looked at the time. 14:27. It would be almost three hours until his father was done with work.
Nick's thoughts wandered to the gray plastic box that laid on the kitchen counter.
"Well," he said to himself, "I do have three hours."
He got up and walked back to the kitchen. Trying his best not to make much noise, he removed the box from the bag and set it on the counter. Careful paws undid the two latches with a muted click, and Nick opened the box.
The collar sat like some futuristic artifact in a dais of black foam. Nick poked it. It did nothing. He used both paws to remove the collar from its seat with guarded curiosity, eyeing its metal teeth with uncertainty. He flexed the carbon fiber band. The strange tension was alien compared to the materials he had known. His paw ran along the unhooked end of the band, feeling a slight bump at the termination point. Nick spied a slot on the unused end of the node which he figured was where the strap fed in.
Nick peered at his mom, and seeing her as idle as ever, took the collar into his room. He shut the door behind him and walked into the bathroom. He took a long look at himself in the mirror. Feeling around his neck, he looked down at the collar. He stretched it to its full length and held it up to the glass. Slowly, he brought it up to his neck and wrapped the band around. His paws pinched the end of the band close to the entrance on the node, just so he could see what it looked like. The cold tip of the metal prongs on his skin made him shudder.
Without warning, the machinery in the collar clicked to life and sucked the band into place. Nick reeled back in surprise. His paws fought with the collar for a few seconds until he realized it was no use. He calmed himself and moved his body closer to the mirror to see again. The collar blinked white three times, then green, then yellow, then red. He expected something to happen, but the light simply turned green again. It emitted a series of beeps, differing in tone but low in volume.
Nick sighed. Then the light turned red. A high-pitched electronic whine came from the collar itself as it started charging. Nick closed his eyes. It discharged what amounted to a tickle.
"Heh, that wasn't so bad."
It discharged again, causing Nick to wince. And again, leaving Nick to grasp at his chest. It let out a final shock, and a form of pain Nick had never before experienced crossed his entire body. Every muscle in him seemed to contract. He lost his footing, and his head made contact with the counter. Falling. Falling. Ground. Black.
Nick awoke curled on the bathroom floor. His everything seemed to ache. Dragging himself up, he looked into the mirror. He reached for his head, reeling at the sting of his own touch. There was no blood, at least.
He pulled out his phone. 17:55. Missed Calls (1). Voice Mail (2). Nick grunted and walked out of the bathroom. With some effort, he was able to open his door and make it to the living room. His mother was nowhere to be found, but the TV was still on. He looked.
Robbery at local market. 1 dead. Nick's eyes widened. The collar light turned yellow. Zenmart.
Nick bolted for the door, fumbling to lock it as he left. He ran down the street as fast as his paws would take him, plowing through several people on his way. Their objections were all but inaudible.
The scene he arrived at was almost surreal. Two cruisers were parked outside with lights flashing. There was a cordon across a shop front of broken glass. A large cape buffalo with sergeant stripes stood guard, glaring at the few mammals that peered inside.
His body carried him forward through the sea of radio chatter and shimmering light. He walked up to the edge of the cordon and looked inside. Orange fur. White shirt. Dress pants. Blood.
In the periphery of the haze that was beginning to envelop him, a hoof was placed on his chest. Nick looked up to see the buffalo's lips moving. He didn't care. He shoved his elbow into the crotch of the officer and jumped the cordon. His collar turned red as he ran into the shop. He screamed and collapsed on the vinyl tiles, staring into amber eyes that had seemed so alive only hours ago before leaving consciousness.
Nick found himself on the coldness of an unfamiliar concrete floor. The scent of piss flooded his nose and forced him to rise. He looked around; he was in a holding cell. A voice caused him to turn around.
"Morning sleeping beauty."
It was another officer, a sheep holding his hooves to his hips.
"Ugh," Nick managed.
"It lives. Well, count yourself lucky. The chief decided not to press charges for interfering with the crime scene given the, uh, circumstances," the sheep stuttered, "but the officer you elbowed is not so pleased. He's filing assault charges, so you're probably going to have to deal with that in a month. Just watch your mail."
"Is my dad dead?" Nick asked, holding his head.
The sheep looked away from him and spoke, "Yeah. He got shot when he tried to stop the burglary. That's what we gathered at least. The guy got away but we're still looking for him."
"Are you really?" Nick seethed at the officer.
Instead of responding, the officer unlocked the door and held it open. The sheep handed him his phone as Nick left the cell. Nick ambled down the hallway and through exit to the foyer. His mother was waiting on the other side. He huffed and approached her.
"Hi, mom," he said.
She looked up from her phone with bloodshot eyes, "You need to go talk to the life insurance agent."
"That's it? That's all you've got to say?" Nick demanded, throwing out his arms.
"No. Get a job," she responded with a pretend smile.
He stared blankly at her.
"Now are you coming or not?" she asked, getting up.
"I'd rather walk, thanks."
With a shrug, she left the building. Nick could only bury his head in his paws.