Author's notes: I'd like to thank the kind members of the Fallen Discord, mainly FoxFury333 and DaFunkySquirrel, for proofing this Fic.
In the same way that Disney originally had a dark version of Zootopia, before settling for a lighter one, so to did I with this Fic. Originally conceived as a reverse Goodnight Mister Tom, I realised that the dark elements of this story clashed with the light and fluffy ones, so I split it in two. I'll eventually release the light version of this story, with Nick and Judy having all sorts of adventures in the country. But, for now, enjoy this hurriedly completed dark version, with the darkness turned up to 11 for your halloween enjoyment.
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Chapter 1
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Otto Hopps was not a buck of few words.
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Indeed, many of his former friends had distanced themselves from him over the years due to how often he spoke up about this and that. 'The Crops will be good this year' or 'we're digging down a new level of the burrow' were the most common things to come up. However, this was the kind of gentle talk over a ploughman's and a Saturday afternoon's drink that all the other farmers would do. The Thumpers, the Lops, the Whitefoots and pretty much every other bunny family would have the same thing on their tongues at this stage or that of their lives. Indeed, after a long day of overseeing their respective burrows, there was nothing that each ones patriarch enjoyed more than nursing an imperial ouncer of beer and hearing how their colleagues were engaged in similar, but not quite the same, challenges as they were.
It was the many other topics that Otto Hopps brought up that turned his former friends into just that. Old Bill Cottontail, for one, had been munching some pickle laden celery one day when Otto had decided to go on one of his long and rambling talks about the Knights, in doing so making the pleasant malt acidity of the formers Ramston pickle mix go sour along with their friendship.
Many of those around the table had shifted their eyes between each other, exchanging dark and wordless looks, before giving a sigh of weariness at what they knew was bound to come up.
The Knights hadn't marched through Bunnyburrow in at least two generations. Even Paul Skipson, who'd long ago been a knave in their town's last Knights parade and cross burning, had, in the many years past, conceded that the whole affair was rather stupid. Yes, when he'd been a young kit he'd looked up wide eyed at the shining white enamel armour and the decorative shields and flairs. Even the exotic names, such as Templar and Paladin helped to inspire the awe so many had felt. He'd marched along and sung the songs and proudly vowed to protect the women and children of Bunnyburrow from the ever-lurking hunger and savagery of stalking, prowling predators. Heck, he'd even bowed to their local prince, Otto Hopps himself, as he eagerly awaited his full induction into the order.
Despite all this, Paul had changed in the many years since. His prejudices had worn down greatly in the intermeaning years. Sure, he'd scoffed at the new city police academy which pumped out more predator graduates than prey, but that all changed when his lost daughter had been tracked down by one of those very preds, a big-bad wolf no less! Then there were the many other tree climbers, preds who'd arrive every autumn to clean his orchards of their fruit. And, while he personally thought a mega-bat like a flying fox would be better adapted for the job, he couldn't help but feel gratitude for the cheetah who ran emergency dispatches to and from the post office. Even his oldest and deepest prejudice, the age-old adage to never trust a fox, had been mostly worn away given that his draft horse farmhands had been reshod by a caravan of travelling gray foxes for years now.
All in all, as Otto carried on his rambling nonsense about the need for a new crusade against 'The Chomper Horde', his former prodigy politely stayed quiet. If anything, he was glad the knights had wound down before he could be fully inducted in, given that the rite of passage to do so involved 'defending' someone from an aggressive pred (or, more often than not, attacking a poor sod who just happened to sniff the wrong way).
But if Skipson had given up on the 'Knights of the Muzzle' in response to the advantages of working with preds, then Hopps had only gained enthusiasm. And so, on that day, he'd proudly boasted of how there should be a warning march every day, and how one knight should be stationed in each and every classroom with a pred in, in order to 'stop them going savage' or 'polluting the young ones minds with their vile, cunning fox propaganda'. His tirades had gone on for the best part of an hour after that, while most bucks had phased out in muted response. Drinking more ouncers of beer, finishing their food, reading the papers about the sudden annexation of Katavulpia by the Cud Reich. However, while Paul and the others had just accepted the semi-common rambles as one of Otto's flaws on that day, William Albert Cottontail had given up, both on Otto and his own celery with Ramston pickle. In those long minutes in which Otto talked about how it was part of 'the great conspiracy' that all his 'beautiful tools of justice' were lying in the basement gathering dust, Bill Cottontail decided he didn't like the older buck's company at all.
And so, he stood up and walked off to join another set of farmers who'd likely taken the same action long ago. Out of one cloud of smoke, across the moody noise filled room and past the bar, till he entered a new cloud of smoke. Here, Bill settled down and said 'Hello' to the other farm owners. Soon, jokes were passing between them, along with the expected small talk of how it was getting harder to dig new burrow floors, or how the newest generation were getting ever more rebellious. In that conversation, there was even a passing mention of how it would be easier when Otto, who was a generation older than all the others in the two groups, would depart from this world. Bill felt a twinge of distaste at that, and voice his discomfort at the sentiment. The (relatively) young hare who raised it apologised, before saying that they could at least hope that Otto would get better.
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When war was declared, it got worse.
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Far worse.
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"It's stupid!" Otto cried, as he took in another deep swig of his beer. On either side of him, all along the varnished wooden bar, the other bucks just stayed silent. Ears down, eyes front, just let it all blow over. That had long been their mantra for such occasions, with there being two main reasons that they didn't just storm out right there.
The first (and probably most important reason) was the respect they still somewhat held for the groups sole septuagenarian. Age, of course, improved one's standing in the community, even though in Otto's case it didn't seem to have begot wisdom. More than that, the very way Otto had aged added to his standing and presence greatly. Rather than being infirm and weak, he still had a decent bit of strength in him, and was more involved than any of them in both the management of his farm and the management of his family. His voice had clout and volume, matched by the power of the thwacks his cane could give if anyone ever disrespected him.
The second factor was that the barmaid didn't like the tirades either. She busied herself, jiggling things at the back to make it look like she was productive, with the rather fine by-product of a fit and spunky young tail pointing right back at the gallery of bucks. The fact they were all over fifty and well married, while she was barely out of school, didn't matter. The men could wipe the dust from their paws and enjoy some local produce surely?
"The Cud Reich finally has the guts to do something about those filthy chompers and what do we do? We declare war on them! ON THEM!"
"Calm down Otty," one of the fellow farmers, a certain buck by the name of Richard Warren warned, only to flinch back as the elderly buck slammed his fist down on the bar table with enough force to knock many of the beer-tap labels hanging up above them all right off their hooks. They fell down onto the bar, the barmaid groaned and turned to pick them up, and many of the other farmers sighing at both the futility of Warren's actions and the removal of their entertainment. Instead, they turned their gaze to their reflections in the brass beer taps as he continued.
"DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Otto ranted back, "Not when we're attacking the only nation with the guts to do what is needed!"
"And what is that?" came a call from across the pub. Otto turned to face the new caller, squinting and adjusting his glasses as he set them on a familiar bunny.
"Purge those filthy chompers Bill!" Otto said, his bony fist clenched with pride and determination. "But all those in our once great nation have gone soft! It's as if most people don't even acknowledge the predator problem anymore!"
"The predators' problem is they're unfortunate enough to live in a world with the likes of you!" William Cottontail called back, instantly sending half of the crowd of regulars into a chorus of deep laughs.
"A toast to Bill, the Otto tamer," one called, holding his beer up high, before finishing it and turning back to the barmaid to order another.
Otto just looked from side to side, his greying muzzle badly disguising his disgust, before he grabbed the handle of his cane and held it up high. "It is their problem!" Otto said proudly. "Just like a teacher's belt is a problem for a class ruffian. Always a pred, of course."
"Come now Otto," Richard Warren said. "I was always hiding behind the big preds in my class. We all were, given how they were the only ones the class bully wouldn't go after."
Otto snorted. "It's like the people who say all these bloody pred coppers mean we can trust predators the world over! They're only solving a problem that they made, and we treat them like bread from heaven. Not like the spawn of hell they really are!"
"Our class bully was a bull," Richard clarified. "His toady was a deer who'd grown in his antlers a good few years too early. And I tell you one thing, it was us and a few of the smaller preds who worked out how to get back at them. We sawed the antlers off the one and stuck 'em up the arse of the other!"
The whole bar erupted into laughter, the fellow punters screaming out their toast to Dicky Warren's good health. Even Otto couldn't resist letting the smallest of small smiles grow across his muzzle, before it resumed back to its usual scowl.
"Still…" Otto mused. "The Reich are solving the pred problem, getting rid of the chompers. Everything would be so much better here if they could come over quickly and do the same."
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"You taking the piss, Hopps?"
Otto blinked a few times, before turning to face Bill Warren, who'd got off his seat and was marching over. "No," he scowled in return. "No more than you pred sympathisers are!"
Bill stopped short of Otto, his mouth twitching around before he spat down at the floor. "My sons, and most of my grandsons who are old enough, have volunteered up and are in the army! Fourth burrows division. Third tunnellers… Hell, many of the lightest ones were advised to train as fighter and bomber pilots! So, when you go about asking those scum in the Cud Reich to come over here and do what they're currently doing to Poleland, don't you dare say you're not pulling my whiskers!"
Otto shrugged, before turning back to face the bar. "If we must have a war, why not a short one? A quick one? The last war was four years of hell. I know that. I was there! Pushed into the trenches by the machinations of the pred conspirators, all to feed their bloodlust and let them make a fortune selling weapons and the like! Don't you think that it would all be better if we have a quick defeat, and then they take care of our pred problem for us, rather than half a decade spent bleeding!?"
"Pred problem, pred problem," Bill sneered. "It's always the pred problem with you. But what problem? Most of us employ preds in some way or another! Most of us have worked out that the 'Knights of the Muzzle' were stupid and it's a good thing the order's dead!"
"And what if a filthy devil spawn fox comes to drag you and your family off to throw into his pot?" Otto asked, still facing away from Bill.
"I'm a farmer. I have a shotgun," the younger buck said back, gritting his teeth. "Also, five bunnies with pitchforks and the like can easily fend off the biggest, baddest fox you can imagine. And that's the whole point, isn't it? Stopping this old nonsense and learning to work together. To tolerate, or at least pretending to tolerate each other in pleasant conversation, benefits everyone! Damn it, I did it enough with you, didn't I?"
"Preds evolved to work and think for themselves," Otto replied back. "An inability to function in society is as inbred into them as their latent savagery! Those Chompers only think about themselves and putting the next meal into their greedy stomachs!"
"What about wolves?" Richard Warren called from down the bar, sending the whole group into a murmur of agreement.
"Ferrets cleaned out my plumbing system," said one.
"And I had an ermine sweep my chimneys," said another.
"I recommended that company," a third bunny farmer said, "and I've had sniffers help me detect crop pests…"
"ENOUGH!" Otto screamed. He stood up and scowled, scanning around the room like a paranoid meerkat looking out for any attackers. "Fraternizers…" he cursed, spitting out the word like it hurt. "The lot of you, taken in by the enemy! They're gonna get you, and they're doing it so slowly you don't even notice! Well, if you lot don't see sense, I see no reason to stay here. Good day!" And with that, he threw down some spare change to pay for his tab, slipped himself off his barstool and began marching out, the rhythmic tap of his cane on the worn wooden floor the only sound breaking the awkward silence until he left the building.
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"A TOAST TO BILL COTTONTAIL! THE OTTO TAMER!" one of the rabbits shouted, his beer held high. Within seconds, all the others were holding their own glasses up, cheering and crying out in support.
"Well then," he chuckled, before he brought up his own beer. "To the good health of my fellow tamer, Dicky Warren!"
A second round of cheers went up, as Richard Warren took a bow, before giving the third and final toast of the evening. "To the benefit of all predators in a hundred miles of us! May they sleep safe at night, even while Otto Hopps stalks the land!"
A ruckus of laughs and cheers went up as Otto Hopps, who was walking down the road to go back home, lifted his ears up to listen in. Scowling, he just grumbled and cursed as he carried on.
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"Hear the news from the front?"
Answering the question, Otto Hopps shuffled across the bench to get a closer look at Paul Skipson's newspaper. He only got a quick glance at the report of the fourth army's encirclement on the coastal dunes of Northern Furance before Paul Skipson turned to face him. "Your son-in-law is in that army, isn't he?"
"Half of them are," Otto replied.
"No, but your biggest one is, isn't he?"
"I assume you mean Stuart," Otto said plainly.
"Do you have any other son-in-laws who you forced to take your daughters last name?" Paul asked, making Otto chuckle.
"I had to make sure he'd take care of my baby Bonnie, didn't I?" Otto replied. "And in any case, he was falling over to do it." Hopps settled back into his seat and smiled. Bonnie was the last bunny of his dear wife's last litter. He'd made certain to instil some proper discipline into her. Respect for elders. Politeness. Even despite the fetid 'let's all get along with the murder machines' doctrine she was being fed in school, he'd even made her relatively wary of the Chomper menace. In response to that, he had to make sure his investment wouldn't be squandered by her marrying someone who threw out all those vital bunny values. Stuart had been the perfect choice. Strong. Cautious. An excellent farmer, but humble. Most importantly, he was a man of the earth and burrow, and he would never try to leap above his station like many others these days. He'd pushed the two together, making sure Bonnie didn't waver at any point (even if he had to threaten to punish her like a kit again on some occasions) and it had worked. They came together, productive and raising a massive new generation who were at least somewhat less affected by the rot than many others. If things went right, he'd still be around to sort out some of the silly childhood delusions that some members of his daughter's fledgling family had before he passed, and so his hard-earned legacy would carry on.
"And a good thing too," Paul replied back. "Last time I heard, they were approaching three hundred kits."
"Two-seven-five," Otto clarified. "Though that's a quarter of my total grandchildren. Rather good thing I made him take the Hopps name, wasn't it?"
"Certainly," Paul agreed. "I mean, I'm happy with one tenth that."
"As was I," Otto agreed. "And hopefully when he gets back, there'll be plenty more!"
Paul turned back to the reports, before looking back at Otto. "If…"
Otto smiled slightly. "Don't worry."
"They're pretty well encircled," Paul stated, a warning in his voice. "While they're likely planning a breakout to retreat back to the main forces, there'll be some bloodshed. And Stuart was… Well, given a few more years he'd likely be too old to join, wouldn't he?"
"I said don't worry. Hell, I'll bet that it'll be a Hopps boy who gets the first medal!"
Paul smiled deviously and folded up his paper. Placing it down, he stood up on his chair, glass and fork in paws, before ringing one against the other to bring the whole room to attention. "You hear that fellows! Otto here wants a bet! Whose son gets the first medal!"
The whole room was suddenly filled up with rumbles of agreement, as bunny after bunny stepped forwards to join in on the wager.
"I beg to dampen your mood fellows," came a call from the barmaid. "But don't you want a prize for the winner?"
"YES!" Otto said proudly, his fist clenched high. "Something to get the Hopps family paws around. Something to last for the ages!"
"Like what?" came a call from a long-faced horse drinking in the back. "Your own orchard?"
"Half of us already have one of those, you dummy," Paul Skipson said. "But I think I have a better idea."
"What's that then?" a farmer called out.
"It says here," Paul replied, pointing to his paper, "that they're planning to evacuate all the children from in the city out to the country!"
"The officers already came down to my farm," Richard Warren announced. "Said we each have to take in children from one family, and I said I'd take in three!"
"That's because you and your kits can't breed for nothin'," Otto jeered. "Five kits. Twenty-seven grandkits. Pah!"
Richard ignored him, and turned back to Paul. "So, what are you thinking?"
"With these city kids, there'll be some clever clogs among them," he explained. "Ones who know how to read well and do sums just as good as our best grandkits! I bet we can get them to help our kits out, doing far more than just working in fields, though for that there'll also be some strong ones in the mix too. I say, whoever wins the bet will automatically get the smartest child in the group!"
"I'll raise a glass to that," someone said, before the room rang out to the calls of agreement. Bunny after bunny, along with multiple sheep, goats and other farmers agreed to it. Soon, the rumour spread and, by the following week, every family in Bunnyburrow had signed up.
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The week after Paul had called his bet, the news came in. A tank charge, along with some heavy air and naval support, had allowed the bulk of the encircled fourth army to escape. But, for every seventeen mammals who'd survived, another three had either been captured, injured or killed in action. While censorship was critical, it was deemed acceptable to reveal that a company of volunteers had held a vital town, along with the artillery emplacements within, to enable the evacuation. While there were some snide remarks about it being a place for cowards who, deeming capture as a near guarantee , had stepped forward knowing they'd spend the rest of the war safe in a camp; those who'd held the town were generally hailed as heroes and were officially treated as such. About the same time, Otto Hopps, returning from the pub, came home to find his youngest daughter holding a letter in front of her.
She'd been crying.
His sudden pang of dread vanished as he saw the smile on her face.
"Bonnie," he said slowly, as he walked over to comfort her. "What's happened?"
"Stewie was one of the volunteers," she said. "He… he was captured. But he's safe. He's safe."
Otto felt a wave of relief flow over him. He walked forward and held his daughter tight, hugging her as she cried into him. As he did so, he looked over at the letter and noticed three words printed near the end.
'Exemplary Service medal…'
Through her sobs, Bonnie never felt the soft rumble of her father's proud chuckle. She just wanted to cry out her stress and tears, before getting on with the day to day business of helping to run the farm. In any case, tomorrow would be a very busy day indeed. She'd just got a letter telling her that her family was due to take in an evacuee from the city on the morrow, and she didn't want to give the little boy or girl anything less than the Hopps family's famous hospitality. She daren't think of doing it, especially with her father in charge.
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Later that evening, in one of the oldest rooms of the burrow, Bonnie Hopps was busy at work. Hospitality had been taught to her since the time she could walk, and surely taking in a stranger in need was the grandest test to prove this. Her heart went out to whoever it was who was leaving their parents behind in the big city, to shelter here for the war.
Then again, she'd heard horror stories of life in some of the slums. Crowded terraces, multiple families to a single outside toilet and who knew what else. Worst of all was the fleas and mange. In the town hall, she'd always organised bake sales to help fund new rounds of delousing here and there. Of course, it would always be for the 'prey slums', as per father's orders. While father had taught her that preds were violent and foxes were red as they were made by the devil, she didn't really see why they didn't deserve delousing too. Sure, she knew to keep her head down and ears up whenever she bumped into one at the shops, but as long as they all stayed safely apart then surely everything would be fine? In any case, a screaming child was a screaming child, and her heart told her that charity should spread across species boundaries.
One occasion stood out to her. When she'd once heard screams from one of the fields, she'd ran across it with a primal concern in her heart. When it turned out that Gideon Grey, a particularly nasty fox some of her own children had run into, was the source, Bonnie hadn't been affected in the slightest. She'd patched up the bruises, cuts and even a gore mark from a horn, before taking him home to his parents. After that, she'd stayed somewhat in contact with Mrs Grey for a bit and, while she couldn't be sure, she felt that the opportunity to voice her concerns about Gideon's misdemeanours to them had resulted in some major effects for the better.
She shook her head to dismiss the train of thought: charity, delousing and the rest. While her heart always told her that there were predators in equal need, it constantly reinforced (in a much louder voice) that she should respect her father's voice and wisdom, lest she invoke his wrath. Her head also told her that it was always simpler to not argue with him, just to accept his talk about 'letting God do his work, spreading his righteous plague among them' and how it was their moral duty to avoid 'strengthening the enemy'.
"Need some help?"
Bonnie stood upright before turning down to the new voice. She smiled to herself as she saw one of her most notable daughters standing next to her. "That would be lovely Judy, thank you," she answered. "Could you fold those sheets and put them away?"
Judy got to work as Bonnie turned back to the matter at hand. Her father had said that the farmers had agreed to let him have the smartest evacuee of all those going to Bunnyburrow. She'd had her reservations, though she didn't voice them of course. Ideally, they'd get a mammal that was similar in size to a bunny, or smaller. She knew she was being selfish wishing for a mouse or rat or something, but maybe a squirrel or groundhog? She quite like the idea of a sheep, though she knew that that was even more selfish. She'd always enjoyed knitting, and had been doing it more frequently to relieve all the stress the war was causing her, what with the rationing, increased production requirements and, of course, knowing her dearest and many of their children were out there. A local source of wool would be ideal, particularly given the sheep land girls who'd arrived to take over much of the manual work kept it all for themselves.
"Is this where the city kid is going to sleep?" Judy asked as she lumbered over to a draw, her paws filled with sheets.
"Yes, it is," Bonnie replied.
"Why isn't he getting the guest room?" she asked.
"Well," Bonnie began, only to pause, not wanting to disrespect father. "We don't quite know what kind of mammal he's going to be. He might be a bit smaller, might be a bit larger. So, because he might be too large for the guest room, I thought we'd give him this room."
"Because we don't need it anymore," Judy said.
"That's right," Bonnie replied sadly. She looked around, her eyes lingering on the bed she'd spent many tired nights on, along with the surrounding cribs. It was the birthing room, where she'd given birth and raised all her kits, Judy included, for the first few days of their lives. After that, when they had their names and she knew nothing bad was going to happen, she'd move them down into one of the proper nurseries. Ever since Stuart had volunteered, coming up on six months ago, she'd felt a hole in her heart, her motherly instincts gnawing away. She loved all her kits, but there was something very special about the very youngest. It was just her looking after them. She and them, before her elder children began taking over most of the work.
"You okay Mum?"
"Fine," Bonnie lied, as he began grabbing the cribs and rolling them away. The windows were open and, as the room had the special privilege of being both above ground and on a corner of the burrow, there was a brisk breeze coming through. She didn't want her new visitor, whatever species they were, coping with the lingering smell of soiled nappies and stale air.
"Do you think I can be friends with her?"
"Or him?" Bonnie shot back.
"Or him!" Judy parroted.
"Oh, I'm sure," Bonnie replied. "You can tell them how much you helped to clean and tidy this room." She sighed as she looked around. "I don't think they'll like all the baby murals, so once we know what they're favourite colour is, we can repaint everything and both you and they can help."
"And we can have a paint fight!"
Bonnie chuckled, before looking over to Judy. "That's not very ladylike, is it?"
"I don't want to be a lady!" Judy pouted back. "I want to be a firemammal. Or a policemammal. Or a soldier!"
"Oh Judy," Bonnie said, as she went over to bring her daughter into a hug. She couldn't help but feel concerned for her. All she wanted to do was go out and do things, make the world a better place or serve the king. If she were any other species or even in any other bunny family she'd support it. But it wasn't part of father's plan, was it? He'd so far tolerated her on the few occasions that such conversations arose, though Bonnie feared what would happen if she grew older and yet didn't grow out of her flights of fancy. He was quick to temper, and she didn't want any of her kits, from the weakest to the bravest, to ever get hurt.
"I know…" she whined. "I'm a bunny, I have to do bunny things…"
"Yes," Bonnie agreed. "Pop-Pop is an old, clever bunny, and he has a plan for all of us."
"And I don't want to make Pop-Pop mad," Judy sighed.
"That's right," her mother agreed grimly. "That's right. It's for the best. For all of us."
Bonnie turned back to look around the room. After clearing it out, it was big and it was light. It wasn't below ground, as she knew some mammals hated that. She silently vowed to herself that whoever would be staying with her would have a wonderful time.
"Are you looking forward to this new mammal?"
Bonnie smiled, turning down to face Judy. "Yes, I am," she said back. "Yes I am!" And she was. The same maternal instincts that had been deprived these last months would be filled in. She hoped that by the end of this, the child would love her as much as his real mother, and Judy and her other kits like brothers and sisters. After all, she was a Hopps, and her father had told her many times that hospitality was her biggest duty.
"Can I go pick him up from the station?" Judy asked.
"Ask Pop-pop," Bonnie replied. "He may take you there in the truck, and you can take him in when the train comes in."
"I heard that they're coming in on the slip coach," Judy replied, and a pang of worry came over Bonnie. Two lines came through Bunnyburrow, one a branch line that connected to the main from Zootopia's Ramsmoor station at Woolpack; the other the mainline from Zootopia Central. While you could catch the branch line shuttle to Woolpack junction and catch an express to Ramsmoor, most trains on the central mainline didn't stop when travelling down from Zootopia, instead releasing a slip coach. It wouldn't be an issue, bar the fact that the neighbourhoods around Central and the mainline were filled with predators.
"It doesn't matter, Judy," Bonnie replied. In any case, even those areas still had more prey than preds, and it wasn't like the smartest kid would be one of the latter, would it?