Four years. A lot had changed in that time. Bogo was still running the ZPD, and crime was still at a manageable level, she assumed. It didn't matter much anymore—why would it? She was sat down at the bar called Ruff, a dive bar that stunk of wet dog, and was filled with foxes, thieves, and butch predators. Rhinos played pool down the other end, barely visible through the smoke. She sat nursing her fourth beer with hunched-up shoulders and listened to the distant rhythm of an old song she couldn't remember the name of. The fox at the bar sporting a black vest and crooked teeth grabbed the empty bottle near her. "Another, hops for Hopps?"
"Yes," she replied with no energy to look at him.
The fox slid the beer over to her. Judy was preoccupied, staring at the stranger in the mirror. Between the stacked spirits, she could see herself; the leather jacket, and red vest. Resting under her arm was the custom-built pistol; a black Beretta. It came with the job, now that she was under the detective division. She'd put in a transfer three weeks after Nick's death, and things had changed rapidly in the first year. Now the gun was just as much a part of her as the badge, and she didn't dislike that as much as she should have, she thought.
While before she felt worried, but always wanting to make the world a better place, now she didn't care so much. It wasn't that she wasn't trying to make things better, it just felt like a world without Nick wasn't one that could be changed in a positive way anyway. As she chugged back on the beer, feeling the coolness of it slide down her neck the door behind her opened with a forceful kick. A familiar crème coloured fox stepped in and looked over to Judy who hadn't bothered to even look back. "Finnick," she said with a little slur.
"Ju'," he replied as he dragged a stool over close to her.
He fumbled the climb onto it; his foot slipping off the top. When he got comfortable there was already a drink waiting for him. He nodded to the fox who gave him a sly smile and a wink before walking off to serve a rowdy group of wolves. He looked Judy over; her eyelids were as droopy as her ears, and she looked exhausted. Her fur was matted and unclean and she didn't smell any better.
"How are things?" she croaked.
"You know I only see you once a year—every anniversary you wanna drink yourself into a mess. D'you even remember the last thing we spoke about, Fluff?"
"I think it was about the...I don't know. I can't remember, but that's okay," she slurred. She looked at herself in the mirror again. "I'm just sad. It's the hardest time of the year and the drink is a good way to numb it a little. You don't miss him?"
Finnick looked down and let out a sigh. "Yeah," he said. "I do, but I came here to tell you that I can't do this no more wichu. I'mma miss him every day just like you do, but four years of comin' here and seein' you like this is enough for me. You ain't that dedicated, hustlin' bunny I knew. You changed for the bad."
There wasn't anything for her to shoot back with. Finnick was right, she was not the same. The bubbly bunny had been chewed up and spit out by Zootopia. As she looked in his eyes, she realized the letdown in them would be no different if Nick was sat in front of her. Tears built up in her but she swallowed them back down with the beer. "You're right, Fin'. You are right. I'm not the same, and that's the world we have to live in now. Because he isn't coming back."
"Why don't you go home, bunny?" said Fin, his voice full of sincerity. "Go recharge."
"Go back to carrots and fields? No, I can't do that anymore. This is all I have left to remind me of the past."
Her ears drooped. She felt the soft paw on her hand and turned to Finnick, wrapping her arms around him, enveloping him fully. "I miss him," she said, trying to catch her breath. "I don't know how to get past this." It came out as a whisper. Finnick stroked her back gently and they felt eyes upon them from everywhere in the bar. Judy didn't care. It felt nice to open herself up a little a times, and she didn't have anybody close to Nick besides him anyway. She allowed herself the one day of the year to cry, to feel sad, and then it would be business as normal tomorrow.
Roarke watched the pig limp down the alleyway; a smile across his face as smoke invaded his eyes from the cigarette in his mouth. The van he was leaning on rocked back and forth with the sound of muffled roars and screeches. Not much longer now, he thought. Give the porky a few more minutes of fear to really get the senses going. The two uniformed wolves on either side of him were prepping their tranquilizer guns—preparing for the worst, but it wouldn't matter. They'd run straight for the fat mistake ahead. They'd smell that bastard before anything else.
Peter had been tenderized. His left leg felt like it had been snapped. Crazy tiger—he'd harassed him for days! Now they'd got him on the ropes and he was screaming like crazy for somebody, anybody to help him. Why were they doing this to him? What did he ever do to anybody. The tiger had punched him until he was half-dead, and even now he didn't know what was keeping him going. Please don't let me die here in this alleyway. He thought of his litter of piglets. Janey couldn't look after them all on her own and run the store.
He had to find a way out into the street, to where the stench of stale food and the taste of copper in his mouth wouldn't feel so bad. Up the alleyway he could hear something. Roarke's voice cut through the sounds of the city around him. Peter turned back only to see the doors of a van burst open. What escaped was nothing more than blurred colours of orange, white, and black as they rushed towards him. He turned back with a gasp, trying to run as fast as his good leg could carry him. He heard growls and roars and then they were upon him. Teeth sunk into his face, breaking the skin and spraying blood across the floor. Oh God, Janey, I love you. The colours tore at his arms and legs, ripping them from their sockets. He could only feel pain all over until it was too much and darkness washed over him like an ocean. I want to see my children.
Roarke watched from the side of the van. The body of Peter was quickly becoming nothing more than pork chops. He grinned at the thought and turned to the two wolves who were keeping aim on the group of foxes. The one in orange let out a roar as it sunk its teeth deep into what he assumed was Peter's neck. Crimson stained its muzzle as it gulped down chunks of pig.
When the message was clear, he nodded to his two employees. "Tag em, bag em, get em back in the van." The two wolves silently approached the group with their guns, aiming them upon the three foxes. The white one went down fast, followed by a yelp and thud from the black one. The orange one was too quick. It slid to the left of the corpse and ran across a rusted chain-link fence separating dumpsters. It scraped across it with a yelp, and then jumped for the top. The wolves fired again, this time hitting the target. It fell to the floor with a thud, and didn't move again as they began pulling it back to the van.
Roarke watched in silence from his own car; a phone next to his ear as he stared at them. The orange one was a liability, but he was doing the best work out of every single one he'd used. He'd feed him extra for it, he thought. The person on the other end of the line picked up. "What?"
"You've got your free building now. Peter won't be causing you any more legal issues."
Silence. He listened, waiting for an answer. "Very good. I'll send them around tomorrow to discuss the papers with his wife."
"Only two left before you do your part with us," said Roarke, goading him.
"I know. I know."
He hung up and smiled again. It wouldn't always be like this. He was getting tired of offing mistakes in such a way. As he drove through Savanna, lamenting on what could be done for the future, he could only smile and light another cigarette. Soon, he thought. Soon there'd be change.
