As you may know, this story was originally planned by Exalley, who did 2 (I think) versions of it before she no longer had the time to write. She has passed the plotline over to me, and together we have worked out a (hopefully) plot-hole-free version, set in what we call 'Old Zootopia', a medieval-like Zootopia. If Exalley has time, she might help write, but for the meantime, I will be the one writing this fan fiction.

Also apologies, 'Nick' isn't exactly how 'Nick' might be in the movie at the moment, personality wise, but I promise that will come later on. Anyway, here is the first part of the new and polished Cliffside. I do hope you enjoy! :)

...

Half of a memory

Most palaces had hallways lined with tall arched windows. There was an image in his mind—one he was sure did not belong to him, but perhaps a story he had once been told—of how sunrays would beam through the colored glass and create grand mosaics of light on the white walls and floor. This palace hallway had tapestries to make up for the loss of windows. As large and intricate as they were in detail, the beautiful structures and bustling mammals they displayed bothered Nickolas, for they belonged to a city, long abandoned to the stench of dead lives amongst blackened wood.

It had to be linked to his mother, the fall of Cliffside, just like it had to be linked to the lord Harhowl himself. He did not know how, and perhaps he never would, but he did know this great lord kept Nickolas' mother's possessions locked away somewhere special, separate from the rest of the retrieved rubble that had been put into the basement.

Reverting his eyes from the tapestries washed away any pain he had begun to feel. Now was not the time for pain. The fall of the city and the death of his mother were twenty years in the past, so long ago any memory he might have had of the catastrophe had faded with his kit age. Still, there was a memory of hate he had grown then, and rather than fading, this hate grew with each day his one true enemy lived. Nickolas put a slight spring to his step, and a hummed song to the still air, then a paw to his back where his claws brushed the hilt of a quarterstaff.

It was only moments before the first guard came leaping for him from around a corner, twice as tall as he yet only half as fast. The wolf was down in a matter of seconds, bleeding from the side of his head. The second arrived instantly thereafter, grinning stupidly as he looked his opponent up and down, but fell to the staff rammed into his side and neck. Nickolas slid the wooden stick back into its sheath, deciding that the humming could wait until the true fighting began; he didn't see the need to attract more attention than he should in the lair of his enemy.

So he strolled the halls in silence, the sweet melody of the tune he loved repeating itself over in his mind. The more turns he made and spiraling stairways he climbed, the closer he got to his goal, but also closer to danger. Now in the most upper part of the cave-like realm, in the highest quarters of the stone-walled palace that belonged to the Harhowl family, He risked running into a rival with every step he took.

But then he stopped in his tracks.

"…Lord, surely there is another choice."

The words would not have been caught if not for his sensitive ears. His eyebrows raised in curiosity and he tracked the voice to the closest doorway, arched and twice as tall as it was wide. The thick wooden doors engraved in carvings stood slightly ajar, enough to peak through to catch a glimpse of two mammals. A weasel and a wolf. His teeth bared. The memory of hate that had grown over the years became a firm stone in his chest. Out of the two, it was only one of these animals he narrowed his eyes at with ire.

...

"Another choice?" the laugh echoed eerily through the long chamber, which he had always thought lacked decoration. Grimmund lounged on his grand seat he often liked to imagine as a throne, and irritably ran his claws along the indents of claw marks on the armrest, which he himself had made in instants of anger. He could feel his muscles tensing in annoyance already, but the fact the weasel before him flinched each time his claws made that whispering scrape kept him from bellowing out at the mammal. Fear was such a satisfying thing. "Another option? Tell me, what other option can there possibly be, Weasleton?"

"My lord, she is a bunny." As meek as Weasleton appeared to act around him, there was never a moment he did not speak with a scowl on his muzzle as if disagreeing with everything Grimmund said. Another flinch followed his words, however.

"Indeed!" Grimmund snarled. "I would not risk exposure with only half a chance of succeeding with another more suitable mammal. With no one easier to reach except the widowed Lady Big, who you know would make house Harhowl look weak if not a laughing stock, the unbetrothed daughter of the Hopps about to go into her eighteenth year is a perfect choice. But please, speak up if you can suggest a better alternative."

Weasleton hunched over as much as his slinky form would let him and scoffed. "Apologies for speaking up, my lord." It was hard to tell whether he meant it sincerely.

Grimmund flicked a hand in a dismissive manner and sighed. The mammal would be taught manners another day, but time was running short. "Take as many soldiers as you must. I expect her brought to me in a weeks time, Understand? Good, now scurry along, they have a ball in three days. I assume that is where she is most vulnerable, surrounded by sugary dresses and gossip rather than guards."

The weasel looked as if he'd protest, but nodded grimly and scurry away like he was told to do.

Grimmund was left alone, with nothing but his nails going scrape against the wooden seat, and the continuous rasp of the waterfall against the one and only window. If he looked beyond that curtain of water which ran along the wall of his home, he could see a small yellow speck of light shrinking as the sun began to set. The chamber grew dark with but one lantern to give off light. Time was running short.

...

Nickolas felt like half of his memories rested with his mother's possessions, but he left them behind for another time when he chose to run away. Whether it was for the sake of the innocent he had still to meet, the safety of Zootopia or his own personal revenge, he was not sure. He was sure, however, that the plans of that particular wolf would not succeed at whatever cost. He was sure of it with all the passion in his heart; with the other half of his memories—the hate, which warned him that the wolf caused the fall of the Cliffside realm, and would cause the fall of the others too.

He had a three-day race to win.