Warning: potentially tear-jerking chapter ahead. If you do not wish to read, skip to the last section, for it is the most important part.


Mrs. Wilde's apartment, 9 years, 51 weeks and 5 days ago:


"Please, stop it Nicholas. I know you've been lying to me, and I know what you've really been doing."

It was Nick's twenty-third birthday, and he had gone over to his mother's apartment for a birthday dinner. While waiting to start on dessert she had turned the conversation to what he did for a living, for which he had prepared a decent cover story as usual, or so he thought.

"I don't know what you mean, Mom. I'm a salesmammal, I-"

"I was cleaning house this morning for your arrival, and while vacuuming through your old room I found this," Mrs. Wilde slammed an old, dusty notebook on the counter in front of her, "hidden under a loose section of carpet."

Nick felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized the thing: he had written in it during his early hustling days when he was twelve, and one day had hidden it in his room and eventually forgotten about it. His mother flipped open the book and started running her finger down the first page.

"This first page is about sodas: I see written here a list of different brands and sizes, calculations of how much they would cost if purchased in bulk, and totals of how much money would be made if they were resold at school," she raised an eyebrow, her green eyes surveying her son, "I seem to remember a period when you were in junior high and you seemed happy that they had removed the vending machines."

She flipped the page.

"Next, same thing for chip bags and candy bars." She flipped some more pages. "And for pencils, pens and bottles of musk-mask too…"

Nick leapt to his defense. "I did that when I was twelve, Mom. Back when you lost your job at the movie theater, and we were in danger of getting evicted. I was just trying to make money so we could keep our home."

"That was my responsibility Nicky, not yours. And as I recall, back when you handed me a stack of cash saying it for the rent, you told me you got a part-time job washing dishes. But now that I think about it, you never did mention where exactly."

Nick shuffled guiltily. "Okay, I admit: I sold sodas and school supplies out of my locker in junior high and I didn't tell you because I didn't think you'd be happy that I might've broken a couple school rules doing it." He said, "Can we please talk about this some other time, and just enjoy my birthday now?"

But Mrs. Wilde wasn't done; she flipped some more pages. "I see a number of other things written in here as well: 'Blind Beggar act', 'Dime-and-Pin' raffle, cutting up elephant blankets into rodent-sized ones, something called paw-psicles…"

Nick's heart dropped into his stomach. "Those were… just ideas. I never did any of them."

When I was twelve. He thought.

His mother looked up at him. "And ever since you finished high school and moved out, I've barely seen you. You come over maybe twice a year, rarely call, and automatically dodge and deflect any questions I have about college or what you do for a living!"

Nick said nothing, so Mrs. Wilde continued: "Last month, my friend Maria was downtown, and she saw a fox that looked just like you in an alley, exchanging money with a shady-looking skunk. I told her it couldn't possibly be you, my son is no criminal." She slammed the notebook shut, her eyes pleading at him. "That really was you, wasn't it?"

Nick opened his mouth, tried to give an answer, and gulped it down. He couldn't do it. Not one more lie. So instead he just shrugged, lifted his paws, and slapped them down against his sides in defeat. His mother's eyes widened at this confirmation.

"Nicky, I, I just…" Mrs. Wilde swooned, reeling in shock. …"Why? Why have you chosen this life, why…" she moved over to the dining table where she had set out dessert and collapsed into her chair, eyes gazing up at him begging for understanding. "Why did you lie to me?"

Feeling a flush of remorse Nick moved over another chair and sat with paws folded, facing her. "Because you never would have understood, Mom."

"Well, try me now, son. Cards on the table: what are you?"

Nick sighed, ears drooping in shame. "It's what you think, Mom: I'm a confox. A grifter, a hustler, one of those no-goodniks you always warned me not to be. I started off doing it for you, and I found I was good at it, so I kept going. But I swear I'm not a criminal. I always make sure everything I do is legal, or at least somewhere in the grey area. I've never crossed that line."

"Then who was that skunk you were exchanging money with?" Mrs. Wilde asked.

"He was selling me…fur."

"Fur? What for?"

"…To make rugs."

"RUGS? From skunk fur? Nicky, how is that not crossing the line?"

"It is in the grey area, but it is definitely legal as long as the fur is freely given."

Mrs. Wilde slapped her paws on the table, her eyes rolling with disbelief, "But WHY? You were always so bright, so talented, you could be doing so much more!"

Nick visibly stiffened. That was rich, coming from her. "Mom, nobody hires foxes for decent jobs, no matter how bright and talented they may be. You know what I'm talking about; I had no choice."

"There's ALWAYS a choice, Nicky."

"Yeah, and look at what you chose." Nick said, his voice raising all of a sudden. "Spending your life slaving away working dead-end jobs and never getting anything but flack just for what you are! Like when you were fired from the theater, remember that? The new manager didn't even wait until the old one was out the door before he fired you for being a FOX!"

"Please, Nicky…" Mrs. Wilde pleaded, "This isn't the real you, I KNOW it isn't!"

"Then what IS, Mother?!" Nick shouted, "I've met so many mammals eager to share their opinions on that, I would love to hear what yours is!"

"Hold on!" Mrs. Wilde got up and ran out of the kitchen. Nick started, wondering what she could possibly have to show him before she returned holding a small red bundle in her paws. She sat back down and unfolded it, revealing a long piece of crimson cloth with a distinctive pattern Nick recognized: it was the neckerchief from his old ranger scouts uniform.

"You see this?" She cried, "You remember that day, when I helped you recite your oath? You promised with all your heart to be brave, loyal, helpful and trustworthy! I haven't forgotten, Nick!"

She held the neckerchief up higher, almost in front of Nick's nose. "That's what you really are, Sweetie. That brave, big-hearted kit eager to help others and make the world a better place. My little Robin Hood."

Nick took the fabric in his paws, a spark of regret flashing in his eyes for a second, before it was replaced by anger.

"You know what happened, Mom. You know that oath was a lie; why should I follow it when none of the other scouts bothered with it?"

Mrs. Wilde started, the neckerchief clearly not having the effect she had hoped for. "Follow it to prove them wrong! Show you're better than them!"

"Yeah, that's what you told me when I was eight. But you know what – I've learned! There's no proving anything to them and you know it! All people are ever going to see is shifty low-life foxes when they look at us! Might as well just give them what they want, and maybe we can get by!"

Nick stood up in a fury, upending his chair in the process, and stormed over to the door. "If you can't accept what I am and what I do, then I have nothing more to say to you. Not now, now ever!" The door banged the wall as he yanked it open.

Mrs. Wilde stretched her paw out towards him, her face distraught. "Nicky, please!"

Nick stopped, his face losing expression, but his eyes betraying how he truly felt. "I'm sorry Mom, but I'm not your little Robin Hood anymore, and I'm done pretending to be."

And without another word he stormed out of his mother's apartment, slamming the door behind him. Mrs. Wilde stood there for almost a whole minute, her vivid green eyes glazed over and her outstretched arm still frozen in place. Then she turned and collapsed into her chair, and gazed over at the cake she had baked for him on the table. It was Nick's favorite: Tasmanian Devil's Food with a ring of coffee beans and a bright red cherry on top. With a wail of grief she half-pushed, half-threw the thing away from her, the beautiful cake smashing to the floor in a mess of frosting and broken glass from the crystal plate. Feeling herself begin to break down she hunched over and buried her face in her paws, sobbing.


Nick trudged out into the streets, where it had begun to rain. As water began soaking his shirt and fur he looked back at the building, the very one he had grown up in, and angry, bubbling shame began to fill his heart. She'll never understand…

His phone started ringing in his pocket. Nick pulled it out, and was not surprised when he saw his mother's name on the screen. He flipped it open, and his thumb wavered over the green accept button for a second, before it shifted over and hit end instead.

That was it. Ten years of lies, omissions and half-truths had finally come to a head, and as he predicted, it had finally destroyed his relationship with his one and only close relative. Never let them see they get to you… that had been his mantra since he was eight years old, but in the face of his mother that well-honed mask had shattered, and it had all come pouring out. Never again, he vowed.

As Nick tucked his phone into his pocket, it was then that he finally noticed: the red neckerchief was still in his other paw. He gripped the fabric tightly and steeled for a moment, ready to tear it in half and throw the pieces away. But then he stopped, and stuffed it into his other pocket instead as he started walking for home, rain still bearing down on him.


Nick's basement suite, 1 year and 6 weeks ago:


Nick pulled the old, now-wrinkled red neckerchief out of his pocket and contemplated it for a moment, grateful to Judy for cleaning and returning it after he had used it to bandage her leg at the museum. Then he folded it, and put in in a small storage box atop a little pile of other paraphernalia: a necktie that had belonged to his father, an old book with Robin Hood emblazoned on the spine, assorted documents, an envelope filled with emergency cash, two school medals for being part of the track team, some old birthday and Christmas cards, and a framed photo of his mother holding him when he was a newborn kit; he had lost any more recent photos of her when his old cell phone had died.

"You ready to go, Nick?" Judy Hopps called out from the kitchen.

"Coming!" Nick grabbed two folded Pawaiian shirts, put them on top of the other knick-knacks, and closed the lid on the box. Then he picked it up from the bed along with his packed duffel bag, and carried both out to the kitchen where Judy was waiting by the door to drive him to the Zootopia Police academy.

"What's in the box?" she asked. Nick glanced down at it.

"Oh, just shirts and stuff I don't want to go missing while Finnick and his buddies are living here," Nick lifted the lid and showed Judy the shirts inside. "Any chance I could stash this at your place while I'm away?"

"Sure, no problem!" Judy took the box from him and turned around to get the door, the contents inside faintly rattling as she did so. The rabbit paused a little and her ears perked up with curiosity, and Nick mentally wished he had put a lock on the box. Even though it was only mementos inside he didn't fancy Judy going through his things and finding questions to ask.

"Promise you won't open it?" he asked in the lightest tone possible.

"Promise!" said Judy, clearly still curious but now honor-bound not to peek.


If anyone cried, sorry about that! This chapter was necessary, and it's all uphill from here, promise! Or is that downhill? The two seem to be interchangeable.