The Time in Between
In every burrough there was a neighborhood where the concrete had broken down, and green life had begun to force its way through. Trees in the middle of allies, prairies carpeting empty lots. The buildings near these places were always broken down in their own right, and more often than not shone with graffiti. But the light always felt soft and the voices that seeped out from behind the broken doors were never angry. Benign decay.
It was in one of these groves that Nick was waiting. A single oak tree towered above the sidewalk, and Nick lay on one of the upper branches, limbs hanging loosely below him. A trifolded piece of paper was nestled in his right paw. Every now and then a gust of wind would nearly tug it free, but every time Nick adjusted his grip and brought it back under control. His eyes were closed.
"Come on, come on," he kept muttering. It was an unusually hot day for the Forest district; the Weather Works were on the fritz again. Nick desperately wished he was an animal that could sweat, or, better yet, that he could afford air conditioning. The weathermen had been prostrated themselves on television all afternoon, apologizing for allowing deep summer to interrupt their regularly scheduled spring. Nick moved his snout from directly on top of the branch to resting against the side, and began to pant. Beside the whirring of insects his breathing was the only sound.
Eventually, a noise broke the neighborhood's silence. Nick's ear twitched. A terrible rumbling filled the air, the sound of an old and unmuffled engine. Nick waited until he heard the sharp sound of the car turning on its rusted axles before opening his eyes. He turned to see Finnick's van barreling down the street towards him. Nick sighed – Finnick wasn't blasting music. Everything was always so much more difficult when he drove in silence.
The van screeched to a stop beneath Nick's branch. The door didn't open. The van just sat there, idling. Exhaust floated up into Nick's face. He tried not to cough.
"Stereo busted?" Nick called down.
No response. Nick could see Finnick's arm hanging out the driver side window, his tiny hand tap-tap-tapping against the door.
"Or was it stolen again?" Nick's voice was a slow drawl. "I keep telling you to get those locks fixed."
The tiny hand's tapping became more rapid, agitated. The engine revved and a fresh cloud of exhaust blew up into Nick's face. He smirked. This is the game they always ended up playing – who can get the other's goat first? First to lose his composure loses advantage, and is that much more likely to get the short end of whatever shtick they were going to pull. The image of Finnick in the elephant PJs rose in Nick's mind, and he had trouble not laughing as he spoke again.
"But that's always been a part of your general aesthetic, no? Not just broke, but too broke for even a car worth driving."
The engine kicked up another notch and the exhaust cloud bloomed in unison. For these little power games Nick had his tongue and Finnick had whatever was at hand. Today that meant an overactive exhaust pipe.
"Course even if it wasn't, you can always get away with it: no one who sees you driving is going to know you've had that car for ten years. They only see those tiny hands on that duct taped wheel and think – 'aww, kiddo's first car! Maybe it's a junker, but he still—"
"HEY!" Finnick's head popped out the window, face skyward and scowling. "Call my van "junk" one more time, Nick, just one more time, and I'm gonna have you stuffed and mount on my living room wall."
Nick swung down and hung by one paw. The other, still clutching the paper, was raised to his mouth in mock surprise. "What's all this about wanting to mount me? Why Finnick, I had no idea you felt this way!"
Finnick's ears folded flat against his skull and his voice dropped to little more than a low rumble. "Very funny. Just get to what you wanted to talk about already."
They eyed each other for one more second. "Right. Let's take a ride."
He dropped onto the roof of the van, drawing violent protest from Finnick, and from there slipped in through the passenger side window. Nick glanced over at the tower of phonebooks Finnick was perched on, remark on his tongue, when something caught his eye.
"Holy crap, someone actually stole your stereo?"
Finnick just glared at him.
#
They drove aimlessly about the Forest borough, sticking mainly to the main thoroughfares. Finnick drove like a maniac – swerving between lanes, constantly on laying on the horn, inching right up to the bumper of every car that had the misfortune to be in front on him. They had been driving for half an hour, but all he'd said in the last ten minutes had been threats to surrounding motorists. Nick watched him closely. Finnick kept his eyes locked on the road ahead.
"So, what do you think? " Nick prodded. Finnick chewed his cheek for another minute before responding.
"I thought you working for the fuzz was supposed to end after two days."
"It was." The voice of a patient parent, matched with the eyes of, well, Nick.
"I though it was a good joke. A good joke on you. A stupid sticker badge and that dumb look on yo face when that cop dragged you off. Man, I was laughing for days."
"I'm so glad to hear that you enjoyed yourself."
"Yeah, emphasize that past tense. En-joy-ED. Tch. What you expect me to do now – all the best scams we got are two fox deals. HEY MOVE IT 'FORE I BREAK YOU BIRDBRAIN."
"Take it easy, Finnick. That poor lady must have been at least ninety.
"She was a SLOTH."
"Which is why birdbrain was a little ill-fitting, don't you think? 'Slowpoke' would have been better, maybe even 'snail'."
"Nick."
"Snail brain? Naw. Slugs are slow: slug? Slug face? Eh, starting to get a little off-message.
"Nick."
"Or you could have just properly run her off the road. No need for witticisms if you had gone for a touch of the good old ultra–"
"Nick, I swear that if you don't shut up for one minute and let me think I'm going to crash this thing on purpose, just to send you through that rhino's back window. DRIVE LIKE YOU'VE GOT A PULSE, JERKWAD."
So Nick leaned back and watched the carnage, only opening his mouth when a police cruiser slid into the view behind them. Shortly after, Finnick turned off the main thoroughfare and onto a side road that curved back to the borough center. There were fewer drivers on this avenue, few people to verbally abuse. Finnick's fingers began drumming against the wheel.
"Honestly," Nick said," I didn't expect you to take it so –"
Finnick held one finger up, so close to Nicks face it nearly poked his eye.
"This isn't a scam, is it?" He kept the hand raise. Nick rolled his to looked around it, as though it was large enough to actually block his vision.
"It isn't."
"And it isn't your poor idea of a joke."
"Correct."
"Then why?" Finnick's face twisted sideways for a second, just a second, before snapping back to his scowl.
"Because I want to."
"That's not answering the question."
Pause. Finnick barely misses a goat-biker. When he spoke, Nick's voice wasn't so much soft as inaudible.
"It's my chance at a pack, Finnick."
"What?"
"I said 'it's my chance at a pack'."
Finnick finally looked at Nick, his expression slack with confusion.
"Man, what are you talking about?"
"Nevermind. Forget I said anything."
"A pack? You want a pack? You're a fox, stupid."
"I said forget it."
"You spend your whole life fleecing people, and you just suddenly want to be a cop because you want a damn pack!?" Finnick's voice had begun to rise.
Nick rubbed his eyes and sighed.
"Just nevermind, okay? It's not all I wanted to talk about."
"What the hell else then?"
Nick slid the piece of paper, which he had kept in his lap this entire time, across the dashboard.
"What's this?" Finnick said.
"An application for the police academy."
"What, can't fill it out yourself? Need me to do it for you?" Finnick sneered.
"No, mine is right here," Nick said, patting his pocket, "I want you to fill that out for yourself."
"Myself." Finnick repeated blankly.
"I thought you should apply to. Join the academy with me." Nick rubbed his neck. "We've been pulling scams for years, Finnick. I've enjoyed every second of it, but I'm moving on. I just figured that if you join too then we can still—"
"Get out."
"—have our wait, what?"
"I said, 'get out'." Finnick's voice was flat. The van screeched to a stop, drawing horn honks from all around. Nick's eyebrows knit together.
"Finnick…"
"I said, 'GET OUT'!" Finnick screamed, and started to push Nick towards the door. Nick didn't fight back. He just stared down at Finnick, gaping.
"Hey, calm down! Finnick, jeez, stop-ah, no biting!"
"Out, out, out!"
Finnick kept shoving while Nick backed away, opening the door with one hand while the other was raised against Finnick's tiny claws. He stumbled backwards out onto the pavement. The door slammed shut, and Finnick stuck his entire upper body through the window. He whipped the crumpled application down at Nick. It bounced high off his head.
"I ain't gonna be part of your posse, pig!"
Nick watched, stunned, as the van pulled away, turned a corner, and was gone. He ignored the cars swerving around him, as well s the pigs on the sidewalk muttering angrily about "such hurtful language. He just stared at the spot of empty air where the van had disappeared from sight.
"Well, crap." He said at last.
#
You'd be forgiven for calling the city hospital a zoo. The city had only one, Zootopia General, and it was a massive of construct, as old as the city itself. It was always packed. A strange amalgamation of architectures, each new addition over the years had been done in a different style, and the wings ran the gamut from white-washed brick to sleek expanses of steel and glass.
The place practically hummed with activity. Every entrance had mammals coursing through them, but some were less crowded than others. One, which Nick eyed for a long time before walking past, was thronged by reporters. A line of police held them in check, making sure only patients made it through the doors.
Experience had taught Nick to seek out the busiest entrance, which was today, per usual, the doors to the emergency room. Nick slipped into the crowd streaming in, beside a kangaroo whose pouch carried a howling joey. Nick smiled.
The interior was in a state of near-perfect chaos. Nurses dealt with patients who always seemed two size classes larger than them. An otter taking the vitals of a hippo scrunched into a tiny plastic chair. A hedgehog telling a wild-looking grizzly to sit back because sir we are doing our best and everyone needs to wait their turn. Nick walked up to the nurses' station, pulling a slim envelope from his pocket. The porcupine manning the desk seemed to be answering five different phones at once. She looked flustered, stressed, probably sleep deprived as well. Nick smile widened for a moment before he dropped it and adopted a harassed look of his own.
"Ma'am, ma'am. Excuse me, ma'am!" Nick said, sliding up against the desk. He leaned over slightly, locking eyes with the nurse.
"What can I help you – yes, Zootopia General Hospital. Mhm. Let me transfer you to admissions." The nurse shifted her gaze to a phone console and jabbed a rapid sequence of buttons. The moment she looked away Nick's eyes began to dart across the desk, lingering on memo titles, room lists, patient's charts, and, holy of holies, a call list. When the nurse looked away from the phone Nick's eyes were locked once more on her face, as though they had never looked away.
"I'm sorry, what can I, uh, help you with?" The nurse said.
"Courier service. I have papers for Doctor Ratline."
"He's on rounds right now. Just hand them over and I'll get them to him." She raised her hand expectantly. Nick stared at it, looking apologetic.
"I'm sorry, it's just that I need to serve these myself, if you catch my drift. What department is he in?"
"Sir, you can't just wander about the hospital on your own. If you wait here, I'll—"
"What if I get one of those security guards to take me? I can see a little post of them down the hall."
"Sir, I'm sorry but—"
"Please," Nick pleaded. "I'm behind schedule. If I wait here for the good Dr my boss will tan my hide for wasting time. Just tell me what department and I promise I'll be gone in a flash."
The nurse stared at him for a second, then sighed.
"Fine. Head down and ask them to take you to psych. And stick this on your shirt so they know its fine," she said, handing him an initialed visitor pass. Then a phone rang and she tilted her head back to the receiver. Nick mouthed a thank you, and walked off.
Once he was out of sight his smirk crept back immediately. Signs on the wall pointed to the ways to the different wings. A pink arrow told Nick that the psych ward was to his left, and a blue arrow said the small mammal wards lay to the right. Before he was even halfway to the security post Nick turned down a side hall, heading right.
Before long he'd made his way back to the area infested by reporters. He glared through the glass doors at them, and couldn't help but catch a few snippets of conversation.
"How can she still not want to interview- it's been three days already!"
"That police briefing wasn't nearly enough, we need details."
"Officer Hops wishes to be left in peace." The police repeated over and over.
Nick found himself growling quietly. Journalists, reporters, photographers – their mere presence put him on edge. He moved on, a slimy feeling sticking in his throat.
When Judy had called him the day before she had briefly mentioned what her room was like. It was on the third floor, with a window overlooking a park far below. This was just before she'd said Chief Bogo had "advised" her to refuse all visitors, especially reporters. 'It looks like I won't be able to see you until I'm let out', she'd said apologetically, a statement to which Nick could only smile in response.
When the elevator doors opened to the third floor, Nick walked out pushing a mop bucket. The bucket, as well as a blue janitor's jumper and hat, had been swiped from a supply closet on the ground floor. And while it was hardly ideal (for one, the sour smell of tobacco clung to the jumper) he was glad he had taken the precaution: two police officers, leopards both, waited outside a room halfway down the hall. Judy's, he could only assume. The only luck here was that Nick didn't think he'd run into either officer before.
Nick took a deep breath, pulled the hat's brim down low, and walked down the hallway. He paused occasionally to dab at a spot on the floor, so that when he arrived at the officers the bucket water was a nasty shade of grey. Then, trying not to overact, he tipped the bucket over.
The officers tried to spring out of the way, but neither was quick enough. They both ended up soaked from the knees down in dirty water. They yelled at Nick, whose only response was to tilt his head down and mumble apologetically. As he mopped the water up he watched the officers' tails flick about. He could practically hear the internal debate. Soon enough, they both wandered off, muttering something about "just a minute" and "Spares in the break room". Nick waited until they had turned the corner before turning the door knob and going inside.
The TV was on low, showing an old episode of Leave it to The Beaver. Opposite the screen was the room's only bed, and in it lay Judy, asleep. Her foot was raised in a white plaster cast.
Nick quietly pushed the mop and bucket off the side, then slipped out of the jumper. He pulled up a chair beside her bed and sat down, resting his feet on the bed's frame. He watched her for a minute, wondering if it would be better to wake her or not. Her nose twitched as she slept.
He decided to wait, at least until the episode of Beaver playing wrapped up. Just sitting there, mid-afternoon light shining in, was pleasant change of pace.