A Weekend At Livia's

It was now high noon at the Wesiltone residence. For once in the Rainforest District's existence, the sky was clear, though the carved platforms leading up the side of the tree-tower were still slick and damp from previous storms. While the sun may have been shining overhead, the overhanging canopy still cast an uneven shadow over the platforms. The District certainly played the part of looking like a rainforest, but it was still technically urban territory; as such, it wasn't so good at sounding like one. Fortunately, at this particular time, the loud creaking of the platforms as a particularly heavy figure walked up them was enough to cover up the sound of cars, boats and airships in the distance.

Or if not that, then the loud arguing.

"So wait… you're telling me that for a whole year after you joined the force, you didn't know that Lou Fangmeyer was a tigress? And I thought us rhinos were short-sighted…" Officer McHorn said; him being the source of the creaks. He stood closer to the tree, knowing that it'd better support his rhinoceros weight at this height.

"Hey, don't be like that, Vic!" his partner Officer Wolford responded, flanking him to the right. "I mean, what the hell were you expectin' when you call her 'Lou' all the freakin' time?! I mean, who the hell even does that? Whatever's wrong with 'Louise'? It's only one extra syllable!"

"That kinda misses the point, though, don't it? You couldn't tell that Lou was female from lookin' at her? It really isn't that difficult."

"Maybe for you it ain't, Mister Ultimate Detective," Wolford said with a point, "but I always thought she looked… well, y'know…" the wolf began to roll his paws around once he saw the rhino looking down at him with a mean squint. "I-I mean, there ain't nothin' wrong with that! Hell, I actually thought she looked- looks great! Real nice! The very model of feline… uh… well, y'know what I mean!"

McHorn stopped squinting and put his massive hands on his hips. "Yeah, an' it might be a good idea to stop thinkin' that, or at the very least avoid sayin' it to her muzzle."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, she's married! This nose an' these ears pay more attention than ya think!" Wolford said, pointing at his nose and ears in turn. "Besides, even ignorin' the obvious implication that I'm somehow not allowed to say I think a member o' the opposite gender looks nice without implyin' I gotta crush on 'em, you know I don't do that romance crap! It's too much hassle. That's why I'm a lone wolf! Just gimme a beer, some no-good punks to arrest, an' some gratuitously violent video games; that's all I need!" Wolford folded his arms and nodded, grinning.

"That's good to know, Dennis, but I was actually referring to the implication that you mistook Officer Fangmeyer for a tomcat 'cause of a 'masculine' appearance," McHorn said with 'air quotes'. "Stan – the other Fangmeyer – made the same mistake when she was still known as Lou Stryper, an' she was none too pleased. As in, 'tased in the vitals' none too pleased."

"Well, thank you for showin' such concern for my safety," Wolford threw his paws into the air, "but it's a tad too late now, ain't it? I mean, I coulda been tasered in the vitals for that whole first year an' you didn't tell me?" he continued, now pointing at said 'vitals'. "Were you withholdin' that information for sheer comic relief or somethin'?"

"No, I just reasonably assumed you'd figure it out on your own," McHorn said, brushing a nostril. "It's not my fault you need someone else to tell you what gender your colleagues are. You'd have figured it out real fast if you actually talked to her."

"I do talk to her!"

"Yeah, after you found out."

"It had nothin' to do with my findin' out, I was just reluctant to approach her! I mean, she's kinda stoic, y'know; she don't talk much. Kinda like Oates, 'cept without the fixation with speakin' in freakin' riddles all the time. Still, even he can see the humour inherent in the idea of a three-humped camel…" Wolford gazed off the side of the platform, shaking his head.

"Are you seriously still on that?"

"YES!" the wolf looked back immediately, his paws to his sides like an indignant pup.

"Well, I'm not. Anyway, we're here, at last," Officer McHorn announced, having approached the front door of the Wesiltones' Apartment, #56. He stopped, hooking his thumbs onto his belt. "Now shut up and knock on the door."

"Why me?!" Wolford stopped after a delay, pointing at himself incredulously, "'Shut up an' knock on the door', yerself!"

"Because I'm a rhino? And this is a weasel residence? I might break the thing?" McHorn cocked his head to the side and pointed down at the door, not even half his height. His hand alone would probably be enough to punch straight through it. "I don't need to remind you what happened with that jackal family over by Pack Street, do I?"

"Fine, whatever." Wolford waved him off, turning to approach the door with fist raised; himself about a head taller than the door. "But I'm only doin' it 'cause I want to, not 'cause you asked or nothin'."

"Didn't want to just a second ago," McHorn muttered.

"I changed my mind!" Wolford said, his fist still raised in preparation. "D'you want me to, or not?!"

"Just do it, already."

With a sigh, the timber wolf lightly tapped the door with his knuckles, to the tune of 'a shave and a furcut'. It didn't take especially long for the door to be answered. It soon swung open, and the two cops found themselves staring face-to-face with an aged and slightly irate-looking female weasel in a leopard-print blazer, in the process of smoking a cigarette.

Wolford raised a claw and opened his mouth to introduce themselves, only to be cut off by McHorn.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. Are you Livia Wesiltone?" the rhino said, kneeling down on one knee to make his face visible to the much smaller mammal.

"Depends who's askin'. I don't s'pose you two are here to tell me I've won the lottery, are ya?" she said, taking a drag from her cigarette.

McHorn hesitantly looked off to the side. "…Nnnno," he cleared his throat, looked back and pointed at his badge. "I'm Officer Victor McHorn, ZPD. This is Officer Dennis Wolford," he said, looking down at his partner, "also ZPD. We've come to ask you a couple questions about your son, Dante. Or 'Duke Weaselton', as he's apparently known."

After McHorn had finished, he gently tapped his partner on the shoulder, prompting him to regain his attention to the current goings-on. He pulled out a notepad and pen from his belt in short order.

"Dante don't live 'ere no more. His ass is gone," Mrs. Wesiltone replied, waving her cigarette.

Both the cops narrowed their eyes at this news. "What do you mean?" McHorn asked.

Mrs. Wesiltone shook her head and grumbled something under her breath. "I mean he left. He pissed off. He skipped town. He fled the burrow. He vanished. Scomparso. Shall I go on? An' I hope yer notin' this all down, Officah Moondog," she finished, taking another drag to blow smoke into Wolford's muzzle. The wolf, who had been taking notes, was stopped by the smoke and the forced coughs.

McHorn, anticipating that his partner might get incensed by this, strategically opted to push him back with his hand before he could say anything. "I see. Do you know where he's gone? We just need to talk to him about something."

"Pfft, sure ya do," Mrs. Wesiltone spat at her feet. "I know you fuzz types probably wanna arrest him for loiterin' or somethin', but I got no freakin' idea where he is. He left home months ago an' he ain't been in contact with me at all. I mean, ya weren't seriously expectin' him to still be livin' with his ma, were ya? A fully-grown weasel? Honestly. Some 'detectives' you are."

McHorn paused to scratch his horn in thought, a brow raising with suspicion. "Hmm… I see. That's a shame. Unfortunately, you probably didn't know, but your son might have-"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," the weasel cut him off, waving her cigarette around.

"But don't you want to know what your son has-"

"Quite frankly, I couldn't give a rat's ass, so that'd be a no. His business is his business, not mine. Now, I got stuff to do an' places to be, so this conversation's ovah. Come back with a warrant or don't come back at all, capisce?"

Mrs. Wesiltone then proceeded to rather violently slam the door in their faces. Or where their faces would have been, had they been smaller. The noise was still enough to make both their ears twitch.

"Well, this was a colossal waste o' time!" Wolford said, throwing his paws into the air again.

McHorn scratched his horn some more and exhaled sharply, making his way back down the platform. "I knew this would happen. That's why Oates sent us up here instead of doing it himself."

"That so, Rhinock?" Wolford said as he followed, holding his paws out. "I thought he only sent us up here 'cause he's a lazy, cryptic old bastard an' he couldn't get Wilde an' Hopps to do it like he normally does! An' another thing, how come you didn't let me say anythin'?! I swear, you never let me say anythin'!"

"Because you're the note-taker. I'm the one who does the talking. I thought we already discussed this..."

"Well, I wanna renegotiate! Why don't you take the notes an' I do the talkin' next time?"

"Hey, if you wanna pay for a rhino-size notepad and pen, I'm all for it!"

An unfortunate side-effect of the cops' bickering was rendering them somewhat oblivious to the less obvious aspects of their surroundings. So what neither of them realised as they headed back down the platform from whence they came was one of the wooden struts connected to the tree tower, keeping the platform stable. Or, more precisely, what was hidden behind it, just around the corner from the Wesiltone residence.

Three mammals had been lying in wait, all three of them smaller than the two cops. Duke's cousin, Dribs, and two accomplices. One of them a pack rat, the other a beaver. With one paw gripping his cane, Dribs held up his other paw, his fingers splayed. One by one, he tucked his fingers away, counting off seconds, until he'd formed a fist. Having decided the cops were now out of earshot, he limped his way around the corner. The rat began to skittle after him, but was forced to stop and poke the beaver to get her attention, her otherwise being fully occupied with the phone in her claws.

Without waiting for either of them, Dribs knocked on the front door. It took even less time for Mrs. Wesiltone to answer.

"God, gimme strength! I already told ya, you horn-headed dumbass! Duke ain't here no more!" she began to rant, before noticing the new figures at the door. "Oh, nevah mind. Who the hell are you?"

Dribs rubbed the back of his head, urgently looking from side to side. "I'm Doriano. Y'know, yer nephew?"

Mrs. Wesiltone leaned in a bit, squinting and scanning the weasel's form. After a while, she allowed him a small and very brief smile, disappearing once the other two mammals had caught up. "Ah yeah, I remember you. The bomb-throwin' anarchist with a crappy leg. That's how yer pa put it, anyway. An' who the hell are these two jokers?" she said, leaning to the side and waving a paw in the direction of the rat.

Dribs rubbed one of his twisted whiskers. "They're some, uh… friends o' mine. That's Dino…" he said, pointing at the rat, "…and that's Phern," addressing the beaver. "Can we come in? Duke needs our help with-"

"Cousin Dribs!" a familiar voice piped up from further within the apartment, though getting rapidly louder. Soon enough, Duke Weaselton – now having replaced his lost tank top and put on a fresh pair of sweatpants – stepped into view from behind his ma, who stepped away, resigning herself to being spoken over again. Duke almost forcibly grabbed his cousin by the shoulder and pulled him in for a hug. He grunted and almost tripped up, his injured leg having been disregarded.

"Good to see ya, cousin! Y'know, I thought they threw you in the pound again. What 'appened, didya play possum an' get thrown into the sewer? Guess you've had practice, eh, eh? So how's that campaign o' yours goin', anyhow? Still fundraisin', doin' errands for wolverines?"

In response, Dribs forcibly pushed his cousin off of him, almost wildly twitching. "Duke, d'you mind?! I was outta the city for a reason, then I come back an' yer askin' all these questions right underneath all the freakin' government spy planes! Let's just get inside, already!"

Duke flinched upon the sight, stepping back inside the house; though thankfully, he noticed, not so much to trigger that stupid fur-dryer. He rubbed at his neck, removing a few errant bits of sweat he just created. "Alright, cousin! If you were in some kinda rush, y'only needed to say so!" he said, knowing better than to question Dribs too much. He knew Dribs was involved in some far deeper stuff than he was, and he'd rather keep himself in the dark. For his own safety.

Turning around and keeping a close eye on where he stepped, Duke turned around, stepped aside and beckoned his guests into the apartment, even bowing for that extra flourish. He noticed that his ma had evidently gotten bored and wandered off somewhere else during the introductions. Good for him; less chance of any awkward questions being raised.

Once all of the guests had made their way inside, Duke briefly poked his head outside, surveying the area. Checking for cops. Or Minsko's hitmammals. Or possibly even these 'government spy planes' that his cousin kept going on about. Hell, maybe he was right. They could be there. Felt like everyone was after him, now. This whole situation might be some government experiment to see how royally screwed one mammal can get in just a few days.

Duke shook his head – perhaps trying to shake off the situation – pulling himself back inside and closed the door. This was no way to be acting in company; otherwise he'd just become a carbon copy of his cousin, soon enough. He needed to show classic Wesiltone resolve.

"Gentlemammals, gentlemammals!" he began to say, standing up straight as a board and putting on his cockiest face, walking on over to the couch. "I got a feelin' we're gonna be here for some time, so please, put yer paws up, put some music on, get a drink from the bar… uh, that is, the kitchen! O-or some food, you can also do that! Make yerselves at home! Mi casa, su casa!"

Duke's crew proceeded to sit down on the couch in front of the TV, with Dart the rat perching himself atop an armrest. "Aaaaaalright!" Duke clapped very loudly, drawing all eyes to him. With his ma still in earshot, it seemed like an ideal time to play boss. "Everyone, gather 'round the TV! C'mon, we ain't got all day! So… it's been a while, so before we get down to brass tacks, I think a re-introduction is… in… order…" Duke began to trail off as he did a double-take.

These weren't the mammals he was expecting! Well, one of them was. He'd recognise his trembling, limping cousin any day of the week. But these other two mammals were strangers. Strangers his cousin had just invited into his home. His cousin. Inviting strangers. Into his home. His paranoid cousin. It didn't add up at all!

Duke decided he'd scan them over. He started with the beaver, his jaw dropping slightly at the sight of her; not that she reacted at all, since she was busy with her phone. Using his 'honed senses of deduction', Duke reckoned the slightly-chubby beaver was obviously younger than everyone else in the room. She was probably some sort of juvenile delinquent, not unlike himself at her age. She wore a red cardigan with a horribly mismatched blue dress, some kind of choker, spiked wristbands, and perhaps most alarmingly, bright pink fur transplants on her head that she'd tied back. And no she-delinquent of the rodent persuasion would be complete without jewelled buckteeth. It was always with the buckteeth…

He then shifted his gaze over to the pack rat. He looked a lot like Dart, which he realised probably threw him off when they first came in. But Dart definitely had brown fur; this rat had grey fur. He also lacked the confidence that Dart had. The rat wore a messy black suit he'd clearly just thrown on and didn't even bother to iron, and he did his best to stare out the window with eyes of concern, wringing his little scaly hands together.

"Uh… cousin, who the hell are these two clowns?" Duke finally asked, folding his arms, consciously channelling his ma. "I asked for Dinks and Dart, not… generic rodent A an' generic rodent B!"

"Well, the thing is, cousin," Dribs began, managing to turn his trembling into teeth-baring and digging his claws into his cane, "when ya screwed up as bad as ya did, turns out it's real hard to get yer old partners to go along with ya! I found Dinks, but he's m… m-moochin' off his mouse girlfriend, the security guard, an' he told me that Dart quit the game to go into go-kart racin'; neither o' them are gonna drop their new cushy, b…b-big-mammal-provided lifestyles for another shot at gettin' sent to Verdant Corrals by y-yer graces!" he began to tremble again, his cane shaking, his eyes twitching at regular intervals. "S-so I – at great… risk… to myself, I might add – went all around the district to find replacements! I hope y'appreciate m-my sacrifice, cousin! Any one o' those f-freakin' crooks coulda been an undercover cop, or worse!"

"Well, how d'ya know they aren't anyway?" Duke asked with brow exaggeratedly raised, leaning forward. "I mean, where'd ya pick 'em up? A box in the back of a truck or somethin'? I don't s'pose that truck said 'ZOE'S PRETTY DAFFODILS' on the side, did it?" he said, gesturing to indicate the words on an imaginary sign in front of him.

"Don't… say stuff like that, cousin!" Dribs hissed, banging his cane on the floor for emphasis. "I f-forgot to take my meds this mornin'! That's not what I wanna hear when they wear off! I got issues!" he said through his teeth, now having upgraded from 'trembling' to full-on 'shaking'.

"Alright, capo. I'll hear it from them. Startin' with…" Duke began, miming 'eeny, meeny, miney, mail, catch a weasel by his tail…' as he pointed at the anxious rat and the disinterested beaver in succession. He found himself thrown off once he remembered how horribly speciesist the rhyme was, though, his strong point suddenly faulting. He couldn't just enable such long-standing injustices against mustelid-kind to persist. …Even if he was a criminal, to be sure. He had to be respected!

He cleared his throat. Wasn't he supposed to be picking someone? Oh yes, he noticed. The rat, whom his finger had last pointed at. Reminding himself to replace with 'weasel' with… 'vulpine', perhaps, next time he did the eeny meeny routine, he straightened his stance, pulling up his sweatpants. "Mister Rat! What's your deal, eh?"

The rat, who had already been attempting to discreetly fidget away from Dribs, was taken off guard; he looked at Duke, eyes wide and pointing at himself for a moment. "Oh! Uh… right, I haven't said anythin' yet. O' course," he said, clearing his own throat and attempting to straighten his tie, to no avail. "I'm Dino Ratto! I'll be honest with ya, I'm new to this whole thing. I've got a job an' an income, but I have a bit of a… gamblin' problem. Oh yeah, an' I need to pay a fine. Real big one. An' I have a very bad hoardin' problem, too. So when your… cousin, was it? Yeah. When your cousin said I could get that money real quick-like if I just went along with… whatever it is you have planned, how could I say no? I-I mean, us rats, we're… well, It goes without sayin' that we're small and not easily noticed. So I think…" he started to sound more confident, slouching back on the armrest and putting his claws behind his head, "…I can be of use to ya. But because I don't claim to be an expert on the, uh… organised crime… circuit… I'm just gonna sit here an' listen. I won't say nothin', I won't question nothin'."

Taking it all in, Duke began to rub his twisted whiskers with one paw, putting his other paw behind his back. "Hmm… well, I gotta say, I 'dig' that attitude! …But it seems a li'l too convenient for me, don't it? And 'Dino Ratto'? That's a mighty appropriate name for a rat… maybe a li'l too appropriate!"

"Cousin, I s-swear…" Dribs hissed out under his breath, barely stopping himself from compulsively biting on his cane.

Duke squinted at the rat, who now seemed to be looking away, possibly to avoid arousing suspicion! But when he took a closer look, he could've sworn he'd seen that mug before. Especially when it was putting on a more complacent – dare he say smarmy – expression. The face seemed far too fake. And what sort of rat would wear a suit to a casual occasion? …Not that this was a casual occasion, Duke reminded himself. God no. This occasion was of the utmost importance! Frankly, Duke knew he was being generous simply for not kicking them all out for their obvious levity. Especially the beaver punk. But still, that rat's face…

"Wait a sec… are you Dino Roditore? The lounge singer?"

Almost immediately, Dino's fake expression was gone and he found himself rapidly looking between the curious Duke, the equally-curious Dribs, and the front door. Which was now closed. No way for a rat like him to get out.

"Um… no!" he said, tugging at his sweaty collar. "I'm no lounge singer! Hell, who does that anymore, huh? I mean, what rat in their right mind would seriously sing… in a lounge? For what might as well be minimum rodents' wage? And get all his freakin' money stolen over the internet? Not me; I'm not that dumb! O' course, I never heard of any 'Dino Roditore', but whoever he is, he'd be preeeetty dumb to do… the things I just said!"

"Uh-huh," Duke said, nodding. Without wishing to waste any more time, he turned his attention to the beaver. "An' what about you, chippy?"

A pause. Everyone currently in the room looked over at the beaver, who continued to obliviously tap away at her phone.

"Uh… Chipwick? Chippendale? Chipotle? I'm talkin' to ya!"

"…Huh?" she finally looked up from her phone. Looking around at everyone else, she finally cottoned onto what was happening. Not that it got her eyes anything further than half-lidded. "Oh, right. I have a name, yeah. Phern," she said, before immediately going back to her phone.

Duke rubbed his chin. "Phern who?"

She groaned, rolling her eyes. "Phern Imogen Staker. Geez…"

"I see. And what d'you hope to get outta this?"

She groaned once more; much sharper this time, and 'slapped' her phone into her lap. "I don't know! What are you, my dad or somethin'?"

The sudden 'outburst' of sorts prompted Duke to step back a bit, cautiously, his paws out. "Alright, alright, calm down, lady!"

"D-don't worry 'bout her, cousin, I know her," Dribs cut in, momentarily twitching back like he was fighting some invisible force pushing against his head. "Sh-she used to help me steal gasoline from the… f-faculty at Bushveld University. Trust me, cousin, we had long discussions on the mistakes of former mayor Tusken's administration! Sh-she's good!"

"Well, you're s'posed to be the paranoid one, so I'll take yer word for it," Duke said, regaining his appearance of confidence. He clapped again, inhaling sharply. "SO! Since at least one o' yous is new to this game, ya got any pertinent questions y'wanna pose to me, Duke Weaselton?"

Dino raised his hand. "So…" Duke said, turning his attention to the rat. "Whaddya wanna know?"

"Yeah, uh… what exactly are we doin' here?"

"Now that is a good question!" Duke replied, pointing both fingers at the rat in a show of confidence. A show of confidence that quickly deteriorated as his own eyes began to twitch and indistinct sounds began to splutter out his mouth. "Uh… w-w… I… th-the thing, uh… well…"

He stopped to slap himself on the side of his snout, since his ma wasn't around to do it for him. This almost reflexively made him stand at attention, clearing his throat and puffing his chest like he was about to address a far larger crowd than he was actually addressing. "Well, my good rodent! Are we about to give a great big finger to the big mammal and show 'em we're free to do whatever the hell we want? Yeah! Yeah, we freakin' are!"

"Yaaaaay…" Duke could hear at the edge of his attention span, coming from a very non-absorbed Phern Staker.

Duke was about to point at her to offer a 'snappy, totally-on-the-fly' retort, but Dino cut in while he was busy thinking of one. "Well… okay, but ya kinda didn't really answer my question. You just asked a completely different question and answered that question."

Duke paused again as he tried to think of something else, his eyes darting around the room. "Yyyyyyes, that's true, smart-ass! I-in any case, uh… um… ah yeah! What we're doin' is… we're…" he slapped himself again, making him stand back to attention. This time, however, he turned his head in the direction of the stairs his ma had ascended earlier and raised his voice. "…We're about to sort out some travel arrangements! To be precise, we're goin' to figure out a way to smuggle yours truly outta the country undetected!"

With that out the way, the weasel quickly pulled back towards his 'audience', craning forward and began to whisper. "That's not actually why yer all here, I'm just sayin' that for the benefit o' my ma so she don't start freakin' meddlin' in my business again! She yells at me 'cause she wants me to disobey, 'less I turn into some namby-pamby grazer! I am a weasel! An' a weasel can't rely on his ma to help 'im weasel! That'd be a freakin' insult to my dignity an' the dignity o' the Wesiltone family's long an' proud history o' self-determination an' sheer guts!" he lectured, repeatedly slamming a fist onto his other palm.

"Y-yeah, real great history!" Dribs suddenly spoke up, rapidly tapping at his cane. "An' look where that got us! Our family's so-called 'criminal empire' has been reduced to four weasels an' two… h-hangers-on! Yer f…f-freakin' deluded, cousin!"

It was then that Duke abruptly dropped any pretence of subtlety and just started yelling. "Oh, will you shaaaaaddaaaaap, cousin?! You're almost as bad as ma!"

"I HEARD THAT, YOU TACTLESS LI'L INGRATE!" Mrs. Wesiltone bellowed in from the other room.

Duke sighed and briefly turned back to face the stairs. "Sorry, ma!" he sent back before returning his attention to his audience. "Now… what we're really doin' is plannin'… a robbery! Now… Dribs here may have lead you to believe that I'm some kinda incompetent, 'cause my last attempt at a robbery went about as well as the shoot for Apocalypse Cow! Well, since that incident, I've been cyclin' and re-cyclin' everythin' that happened over an' over in this magic factory up here!" he said, pointing at his skull.

"Um, cousin…" Dribs attempted to interrupt, to no avail.

"…Goin' to jail made me wiser. More careful. More of a thinkin' weasel, y'know. This time, we're gonna get away with the big haul, an' we're gonna do it right under the stupid, gawkin' noses o' the big mammal! An' I think I've figured out exactly why that heist went as badly as it did the first time. In fact, I can confirm that there are two; count 'em, two," he reiterated, holding up two fingers, "main reasons! First of all, Dart! Matter o' fact, I'm glad that dirty rat ain't here – no offence, Dino – 'cause he was completely useless! I told him a million times to bring a car that could carry all of us an' the loot, an' he shows up in a freakin' toymobile! It'd'a been better if we just sold the freakin' car to some hippo pre-schooler for five bucks! An' Dinks weren't much better, since all he did was bring Dart into it an' spent the rest o' the heist seein' if he could shoot through bulletproof glass!"

"Cousin…"

"Oh yeah, an' Dribs' attempts to cut in brings me nicely onto the second reason we screwed up last time! The team fell apart! Soon as things started goin' wrong, all we did was start runnin' around like we'd been beheaded or somethin', yellin' at each other, blamin' each other for who's fault was what an' who ratted out who… which as we now know is a pointless argument, 'cause it was all Dart's fault! If he brought a bigger car we coulda at least got away from the cops! It couldn't even support our combined weight, for ferret's sake!"

"Cousin!"

Duke finally groaned, throwing his paws into the air. "What?!"

"Cousin, whaddya tellin' 'em all this for?!" Dribs said, now grinding his cane against the wooden floor. "I s-s…s-specifically didn't tell 'em precisely so they wouldn't get put off, you idiot!"

Duke raised a finger to retort, only to stop with his jaw open as his cousin's words sank in. Duke's eyes widening, he quickly checked up on his two guests. Phern was still as disinterested as ever, tapping away at her phone. Good. Dino… well, Dino hadn't really changed. He still looked anxious, but that was probably because he was new. Couldn't fault him, really. Everyone goes back to being a kit when taking their first step into the game; Duke just had the good fortune of having actually started back then. He'd had all the time in the world to master the art of weaselling, which was why he was in charge here!

"Yeah?! Well… I just felt like lettin' 'em know! In case you gave 'em any false impressions! I know everyone thinks I'm some coward who sticks to the cheap but risk-free jobs, but that ain't true! I'm always willin' to branch out, an' any mammal with any degree of empathy's gonna find it reassurin' to know that I already had my trial run; this time we're doin' things for real!"

"Cousin, admit it!" Dribs belted back in his face, now practically hugging his cane as he shook. "It was your fault an' your fault alone! Of all the freakin' jewellery stores in town, you pick the elephant-size one! We needed three mammals to carry out one goddamn ring! There ain't a car in the world that coulda carried all o' that while bein' d-drivable by a rat! An' don't forget the rotatin' door, neither!"

"Okay, there was no way I coulda known about the door; it literally broke while we were usin' it! That was just bad luck! Not like your genius decision to jump over the freakin' counter an' break yer leg!" Duke yelled, pointing at the cane his cousin was keeping close to his chest. As he saw him self-consciously hold it away from him, Duke cleared his throat and stood up straight once more. "Alright, we're gettin' off-track here. Let's just agree that it was a combination o' Dart an' bad luck that screwed up our heist! All in favour o' this motion say 'aye'. AYE!" he quickly blurted out, holding his paw up. "Motion carried, discussion ovah!"

"That was not a freakin' vote!" Dribs once more slammed his cane on the ground, loud enough to make Dino jump. "That was dictatorship, cousin! Dictatorship! I f-freakin' hate dictatorship! This is the problem, cousin! Yer dictatorial methods, thinkin' yer the big mammal, the 'king' o' the operation! We're a team! Yer gonna sink us again, I know it! It's every mammal for 'imself!"

"Well, great, you've officially lost it… knew it was only a matter o' time. Alright, let's try democracy again, shall we? Has anyone got any questions that ain't got anythin' to do with all this crap?"

Dino raised his hand again. "Dino, the rat pack's pack rat!" Duke said, pointing in his direction. "What else can I enlighten ya 'bout?"

"Yeeaahh… I already sorta knew what we were doin', but… well, what exactly are we doin'? Like, who, what, where?"

"Ah!" Duke deflated once more, realising that he was wasting enough time already delaying things. If only that stupid contact would hurry his ass up.

"Well, the truth is," he began, "I don't know who we're robbin' yet, or how we're robbin' 'em, or what we're robbin', or what time we're doin' it, or any o' that crap. BUT… before you all start whinin' like kits again, I got it covered! Couple hours ago, I called up an ol' contact o' mine," he said, putting his paw close to his ear with a phone gesture, "real high up in the… uh… auto industry! An' he tells me he's got a powerful friend who might need a favour doin', an' call me optimistic, but I'm willin' to bet he'd pay a pretty penny for our services, even if he wanted us to steal the formula for that… meat substitute that they make from mushrooms, whatevah the hell it's called!"

"Gyah!" Dribs suddenly went, twitching so hard he almost jumped off his seat. "We ain't gonna be workin' for the big mammal, are we?! I hate the big mammal! He's the reason we're doin' this crap in the first place, an' not swimmin' in our executive swimmin' pools while gettin' served Martenes by those peace foxes in bikinis an' snortin' catnip off our own belly buttons!"

"Reeee-lax, cousin! Desperate times call for desperate measures! All we gotta do… is wait."

Duke leaned back against the TV, ending on a high note. A high note worthy of a smarmy smile, even. A smile that stuck around for a good ten seconds before he checked the clock on the wall opposite.

This could take a while.

On the precipice between the high-rises of Otterdam, the not-so-high rises of Acorn Heights, and the western border between Savannah Central and Sahara Square, the Otterdam Aquatic Centre stood. Inside this wave-shaped building was the city's largest and most popular swimming pool. Its location made a lot of sense; it attracted the heat-stricken residents of Sahara Square, the sporty, cosmopolitan residents of midtown Savannah Central, and of course, was easily accessible to a certain population of semi-aquatic mammals indicated by the name of the district it is located in.

The pool's sheer size and extreme variance in depth clearly indicated it was meant for mammals of all sizes residing within Zootopia. From swarms of mice on the shallow ends, to clustered groups of otters further down, to large seals and hippos keeping space between each other at the deepest end. Kits, pups and other juveniles were forbidden from entering at this hour, but that did not stop the vast room from being consumed by a cacophony of splashes, chattering and the occasional whistle-and-yell combo from one of the leopard seal pool guards, and of course, the place reeked of chlorine.

In the midst of all this activity, Small Fry the red squirrel seemed tiny, both figuratively and literally. He sat on the edge of the pool, in the area that could be considered 'deep' for an otter, having wisely traded all his usual clothes for a pair of green swimming trunks. In one paw he held a stopwatch, but in spite of all the activity, he kept his gaze locked firmly on the stopwatch he held in his paw, his other paw readied to shield himself from any splashes. He paid particular attention to the time, for he knew that past a certain point, a certain something would happen, and at the precise moment his ear twitched, he was to stop the clock.

Soon enough, Small Fry could see a distinct long, brown, furry shape approach him from beneath the water, and he felt his ear twitch as Dmitry Minsko suddenly burst forth above the surface - instinctively stopping the clock at that moment. Dmitry stopped to catch his breath, floating towards the edge of the pool. The mink, too, had been wise enough not to go swimming in a suit, having traded it for some black trunks.

Detective Oates was surveying all these happenings from some distance away, having just emerged into the room. While he had to question the wisdom of showing up to a swimming pool in his usual attire, he knew it was a good thing he was wearing a tie; it was what he needed to keep him focused on the task at hand, lest he get nostalgic about his athletics days. 'I could have gone Animalympic', it'd always go, 'before I lent my skills to justice'. Even the detective had to admit it was getting old. Much like he was. Inconvenient, but true.

This was no good; he was getting distracted, he realised, flicking the side of his long snout to bring him back to speed. Nickering to psyche himself up, he began to walk alongside the pool, his hooves making a distinct 'clop' sound against the tiled floor. His badge drew a lot of attention from onlookers; at the shallow end, a group of rodents and the beaver making waves for them with his tail gazed at him, as did a series of mustelids floating across in specialised plastic spheres.

By the time he'd approached Dmitry and his squirrel companion, the mink had climbed out of the pool, his soaked fur dripping, and had sat down next to his squirrel companion. Said squirrel exchanged glances with Oates as he approached.

"Mr. Minsko?" Oates said, putting his fore-hooves on his hips.

"…Ah! Privet!" Minsko began, slotting the words between his heavy breaths. "Good afternoon… it is a good day for physical exercise, yes? Especially that which puts you back in touch with roots, yes?" he asked, leaning over Small Fry's shoulder to take a look at the time he had recorded. "This is good news, it is. Zero-point-twenty second improvement," he took another breath, stretching his arms from side to side. "I like this sort of progress. It is, how you say, reflection of life, no? One must gnaw a little here, a little there, and before you know it, you gnaw straight into earth's core. Something my friend here should know about, yes?" Minsko finished, chuckling. Small Fry nodded in response, but his look was clearly unfocused, like it was an instinctual response. "You look like you could swim well for horse; you ever indulged in aquatic pursuits, Mister…?"

Detective Oates hadn't paid much attention to Dmitry's words; none of them were important, that much he knew. He was clearly trying to put him at ease, distract him from his duties; he had known this was something he did regularly. The squirrel's reaction told him everything.

"Mm-hmm," was all Oates said in response. He took hold of his badge and held it in front of him. "Detective Quail Oates, ZPD. Since you asked, yes, though I used to be a track runner. I could have gone Animalympic before I lent my skills to justice."

Oates coughed as he realised. Damn. He said it again. Oh well.

The horse cleared his throat. "I'm here to ask you some questions about a case. I presume you're aware that your car was stolen and destroyed following a lengthy pursuit last night."

Minsko, only half-paying attention to him, delayed his answer, pointing up a claw to indicate thought. "…Yes, I am aware of that. It is very common where I come from, so I understand need to ask; I may have become so desensitised it could slip under my radar, no? But thanks anyway," he said as he and the squirrel stood up, beginning to slowly saunter alongside the pool.

Oates followed with ease, removing his notepad and pen from his belt. "I see," he began, making a note that Minsko hadn't denied anything yet. "You'd probably like to know that we've identified the one responsible for the incident. Dante Wesiltone, also known as Duke Weaselton. Least Weasel. I don't suppose you know him?"

Dmitry began to brush water off his arms, gazing out the enormous window on the side of the room. "…Nnnnno, cannot say it… what is the phrase? Rings a cowbell? Uh… no, never heard of this weasel!" he said with wide eyes, shrugging his shoulders. "It is shame it has to be weasel, though. I mean, here I am, coming all the way to Zootopia from the old country to contribute to the economy in a reasonable fashion, and then opportunistic thugs like this… 'Duke Weaselton' feel need to come in and ruin it for all of us! Mammals like that, they are disgrace to honest mustelids everywhere! Mustelids that raised this part of the city! …Very interesting story behind Otterdam, by the way." he suddenly lowered his voice. "It may have been otters, to be sure, but it is inspirational tales like that that made me want to move here. Anyone truly can be anything, yes?"

Oates took a moment to look back at the squirrel, but unfortunately, it seemed he'd cottoned onto his observation; he'd now resorted to staring off into the window alongside his boss, ignoring his presence. "Well, as a member of the ZPD, I don't feel I'd be able to respond to that without in some way colourin' it with my experiences. The racer at the front's gonna think the world is too slow, the racer at back will think it's too fast."

Dmitry momentarily stopped in his tracks to click with his claws, clucking his tongue at the same time, and cast a grin at Oates. "A-ha! Very true! I think I like you, Detective. You seem like good mammal to have at party, especially mustelid party. Is always good to have token large mammal, but if I pick any large mammal, I pick horse, every time."

"I see…" Oates said, raising a brow. "So you say you don't know Duke Weaselton. Fair enough. What about… Doriano Wesiltone? Gerry Dinka? D'Artagnan Pettigrew? Uh…" Oates began to think 'deeper'; he was sure there was someone he was missing. Some other figure in drug-land… someone connected to… Dribs, maybe? "…Chuckles? Any of these names sound familiar?"

"…I am afraid not, no," Minsko said, rubbing his chin. Soon his face twisted into a look of disbelief as he finally cottoned onto something. "'Chuckles', you say? A mother actually called her kit that? You have strangest names in this country. Fry, you hear of these strangers before?"

Dmitry turned to look at his squirrel companion, who merely shook his head in silence, still staring out the window.

"Well, looks like matter is settled," Dmitry said, turning back to a sceptical horse. "With all due respect to local culture, this may be technological age, but we do not all know each other. I mean, I barely know how to use MuzzleTime. In old country, we prefer to do business vis-à-vis," he said, pointing at his own eyes and Oates in succession, the strength of the gesture faltering soon after. "…Is that how you say it? You see, is very old language, means visage-to-visage, yes?"

"I understand what you mean," Oates began, brushing a bit of his mane out of his eyes and allowing himself to slouch slightly. He knew he'd need to get a bit more casual if he wanted to get anything out of Dmitry; stoop to his level. Otherwise they'd be talking two different languages.

"In my line of work, you'd be surprised how often you find mammals who know each other. When you're racin' in a little-known league, you learn to not pay attention when you end up in the same stables. And I understand the whole 'culture shock' thing, too; my parents came here from Shireland."

Minsko's face lit up; he'd almost look excited, like a five-year-old who'd just learned this country existed. "Shireland, eh? Never been there, myself. You been there, Fry?"

Once again, Small Fry simply shook his head.

Dmitry chuckled, folding his arms. "Didn't think so. Fry here, he is not very outgoing mammal, as I'm sure you can tell. Downright workaholic, even. Doesn't even get in pool after getting changed. Seems crazy, I know," he shrugged, sighing with resignation, "but is actually quite familiar to me; in Bearuska, is common to go along with things even when they seem silly. Means we suffer a lot, but hey, I'm sure that's something you Shirish can relate to. What does not kill your community makes it stronger, eh?" he asked, waving in Oates' direction.

"Yeah," Oates nodded, beginning to slightly swing one of his legs back and forth. "It's just like the quadriceps; one o' the most important muscles for a racer. Damage and reinforce, damage and reinforce. That's what my coach used to say. …Though he also used to say that horses can't swim."

Oates cleared his throat and regained his posture. That was enough 'casual' for now. "Anyway. I have a suspicion that the incident with your car didn't happen in a vacuum."

The mink scratched his wet head, his brow furrowing. "Vacuum? I am confused, what does housekeeping have to do with…?"

"I mean, it wasn't just a crime of opportunity. I think someone might have hired Duke to steal your car."

"Oh? What makes you think that? Who would want to do that?" Minsko stood up straight, pointing at himself defensively. "I am just a simple foreign businessmammal! Isn't that right, Fry?"

Small Fry briefly looked back at the pair of them to give a short nod.

"Well, everyone has enemies," Oates said, noting down that Dmitry was now denying a lot of things. Probably. "Especially the darkhorses in the race. Perhaps you could name some?"

"No. I cannot," Minsko said apologetically, shaking his head and shrugging. "I am sorry, but my memory is not too good, you know… when you work in club business, is very lively. Bar tabs get negotiated, VIMs come and go on occasion… you know, perhaps the odd brawl now and then."

"Hmm… see, I'm not so sure," Oates began to summarise, lowering his notes to step further. "Because after your car… exploded – and we believe it was from a ruptured hydrogen fuel cell – we had our forensics team investigate the wreck, and discovered it had been reinforced. That particular model of car doesn't come with reinforcement as standard, so you must have ordered it as an extra. And perhaps I'm keepin' a closer eye on the sunflower at the side of the track than the track itself, but those of us with Shirish blood, we've got a strong… 'gut sense', shall we say. I think you were preparing yourself for a confrontation with an enemy of yours."

Dmitry and Small Fry stopped in their tracks to look at each other for a moment. The squirrel wordlessly shrugged his own little shoulders. Soon, Dmitry was, once again, clucking his tongue and pointing at Oates, grinning. "Well, you certainly have vivid imagination, I tell you that. Mammals in this country, you love a good story, much more than they do back home; prefer to focus on boring, dreary reality when starving and broke in dairy farm being attacked by blizzard. I appreciate that in a mammal! But, like I said, I do not remember, I am just a simple foreign businessmammal!" he said, shrugging again. "But… it is true, I may have accumulated enemies. Various…" he trailed off, circling his fingers around, "non-specific enemies. Is always good to be prepared. If you ask the raccoon who sold me the car, he'd tell you same thing."

"I see…" Oates said, pretending to note down all his irrelevant babble. "…And who was it who sold you the car?"

"Phil Rasconovitch, at the… Hamsda showroom in Otterdam. He's a raccoon of many things, to many mammals."

"Phil… yeah, I think I know him…" Oates muttered, shaking his head. That raccoon was no good. A huge reason why it sometimes seemed like judging books by covers is a perfectly viable strategy… a killing blow to a city where 'anyone can be anything'. First Mister Rasconovitch was suspected in the vandalism of multiple used car dealerships, then trespassing into an industrial waste disposal facility, then he became a phony lawyer defending the equally-troublesome Chuckles. And now he was showing up again. "…Guess we are in a li'l known league, after all," he said, remembering something former chief Tusken used to say when he first joined up; when a suspect is on your radar more than three times, you know you're destined to clash with them until either death or prison.

Unfortunately, as he stood there, brushing the bristles on his chin, remembering days past, he was soon propelled back to reality. A hippo opted to – perhaps unwisely – cannonball into the middle section of the pool from a very tall springboard, ignoring the verbal warnings from the pool guard.

Once he hit the water, the three of them were soon caught in the hippo's 'splash radius', soaking them to the skin. Little concern for Dmitry and Small Fry, prepared as they were, but not so much for Oates, who now stood there with his tail having been turned into a mop, his notepad soggy, his hooves shining and his damp clothes sticking to his hair.

The horse tried to shrug it off, nonchalantly putting away his notepad. He nickered, spraying additional globules of water over the smaller mammals. "Thank you, sir," he said, somewhat urgently. "You've been extremely helpful."

With that, he made his exit, the clopping of his hooves now accompanied by the light splash of the miniature puddles that followed him around.

"No problem, detective! Do svidaniya, and good luck catching that bastard weasel!" Dmitry called, giving a brief one-fingered salute. Small Fry, meanwhile, still frowning, gave a different sort of one-fingered salute once his back was turned. Soon, he was out of earshot. Dmitry's expression turned sour, and he whispered to himself…

"…Desperate mudak."

"Do I look like I'm here to play water polo?!" Finnick said, edging on yelling as he gazed up at the desk. He attempted to tip-toe to get a better view, but was thwarted by the weight of the duffle bag he wore on his back; a bag that was almost as big as him.

"I ain't here on leisure, I'm here on business! I know for a fact he's in there, an' I don't plan on stickin' around, neither, for reasons I shouldn't have to explain!" he said, stepping back and gesturing to indicate the depth of the water in any 'dignified' part of the pool; that is, any deeper than mouse-friendly. "All I wanna do is go in there for… I dunno, ten minutes at most, talk to him, an' walk right on out! I ain't payin' three goddamn bucks just for that!"

The otter receptionist stayed perfectly still, not wanting to risk offending the small mammal by leaning over the desk. "Sir, I can't just take you at your word that you're only going in to meet someone," he said, calmly. "If I did that, anyone could say what you're saying in and get in for free; or they could in the brief window of time before I lost my job. If this meeting is so important, surely three dollars isn't much of a price to pay. Or you could always wait for him to come out."

"Grrgghnnn…" Finnick began to growl under his breath, clenching his fists to the point that he could feel them sting. His ears twitched wildly, as he could hear Razor fumbling with a vending machine elsewhere in the room. But he knew he daren't look at him, the loud-mouthed, tactless idiot; that'd just make his rising tide of frustration spill over even further. He looked around the room, desperate for any excuse for him to calm down.

Luck struck at that moment, as he noticed another mammal making an exit; a tall and rather bemused-looking horse in otherwise-smart attire, completely drenched in water. The sight alone made him intensely curious if only for a moment, but it was the sight of the ZPD badge worn around his neck that made him stop seething with rage. For all his own imprudent behaviours, Finnick at least had it hammered into him when he was supposed to reel them in.

"Okay, fine, I'll pay," Finnick said with a sigh, relaxing his posture and turning back to the Aquatic Centre's receptionist. "I don't plan on gettin' banned from another business establishment. I just had a real crappy mornin', y'know? I get agitated real easy…"

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," the otter replied, as Finnick looked down, beginning to rummage through one of his pockets for any change. He soon retrieved three dollars in coins, but soon noticed an embarrassing problem preventing him from handing it over.

"Right, so, um…" he stuttered, trying in vain to reach the top of the reception desk.

"If you're having trouble reaching the desk," the otter said, waving to indicate a much smaller desk nearby, "we could move to the small mammals' desk."

"No. I ain't a small mammal. I ain't a rodent. I can reach. Hnng… geh…" he began to strain, balancing on the very tips of the claws on his toes. It was no good. He'd sooner suffer the indignity of having Razor hand over the money instead of being treated like a mouse. Which reminded him… "Uh… Raze? Razor, a li'l help would be nice!"

"Oh, you gotta be KIDDIN' ME!" the boar yelled at the vending machine as Finnick looked over. "Get unstuck, you stupid-ass piece o' junk!" he attempted to browbeat the machine into submission, facing some unseen issue. When this didn't work, he resorted to banging and shaking the machine around.

Finnick walked in closer to see what exactly he was mad about this time, discovering that he'd paid for a bag of bacon-flavoured potato chips – typical wannabite behaviour, as it were – which had gotten stuck against the glass, costing him his dollar. Which would be a reasonable thing to get mad about if it he wasn't doing it… Razor-style.

"Sir, you'll be asked to leave if you keep banging on the vending machine," the otter called over before Finnick could attempt to counter-yell.

"Why does yo' sickle-phantic musty-ass self care about some other mammals' machines, anyways?" Razor asked in said that 'style', again, pushing himself off the vending machine to point at the otter. "I mean, they can't possibly be payin' yo' ass enough to care about these!"

Finnick, once more, found himself clenching his fists as he attempted to bear through the humiliation and the danger of being in public with this maniac, and again, he felt a sharp sting. But at the corner of his eye, he caught the horse from earlier walking back in, tapping Razor on the shoulder.

"An' what the freakin' hell d'you want?!" he squealed as he turned around, only to flinch upon being greeted with the horse's long, dripping face staring back down at him, and his shining police badge. "Oh… uh… sorry, officer."

The horse wordlessly shoved the boar out of the way, removed a coin from his own pocket, and inserted it into the vending machine. Typing in a number, another bag of potato chips slid off a hook inside the machine, directly above the one that had gotten stuck. Thus, it landed atop the first bag, knocking it out of place and getting it unstuck. The horse quickly kneeled down to retrieve the one he'd paid for and walked off, leaving the boar to look on, dumbfounded.

"Uh… thanks, officer. 'Preciate it," Razor said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head.

It was around this time that a grinning Finnick, having felt a strong tickling sensation in his chest, suddenly began to breathlessly laugh for a straight fifteen seconds, booming across the room. "Pff…haaAAHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" he went. This was exactly what he needed; all the frustration he'd built up over the morning was unleashed, his laughter like the whistle of a burst balloon.

"'Ey, shut up, midget-ass gekkerer!" Razor attempted to stop him, but it was useless. The fennec had by now been reduced to giggling and even snorting not unlike a wild boar, leaning against the reception desk, helplessly slapping it.

"Ehehe… ahah…" Finnick stopped to clutch his chest, "oh, God… ahah… that was… so much for stickin' it to the police, huh?" he asked, pointing back at him.

Snorting angrily, Razor hastily retrieved his bag of chips from the vending machine, holding it out in front of him. "You ain't gonna tell no-one 'bout this, 'less I shove this bag o' chips up yo'-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting a date?" a nearby voice cut in, partly obscured by a mouth full.

All three parties present – Finnick, Razor and the receptionist – turned to face the source. Dmitry Minsko and Small Fry had wandered in, both of them now wearing matching track jackets with their swimming trunks. Dmitry had put his glasses back on, one paw in pocket, the other paw holding the granola bar from which he was eating.

"…Just joking, you know I love you both!" he said, before turning to address the otter receptionist. "Very nice team dynamic they encourage around here. Back home, arguments just lead to everyone getting horribly murdered in the woods."

The otter awkwardly stared for a moment, biting his lip. "…Right."

"Ah! Apologies, even after twelve years I still cannot remember local manners! Here, for your trouble," Dmitry said in an attempt at conciliation, pulling out a five-dollar bill from his pocket and sliding it over the desk.

"Um… thank you, sir," the otter responded, hesitantly taking the tip. "Have a nice day."

"You too!" Dmitry said with a grin-and-point, before turned to leave, addressing the others. "Gentlemammals, shall we get our 'asses' outside?"

Dmitry was the first out the front door, with Finnick, adjusting the straps on his bag, not far behind. Razor's response was slow, as he attempted to distract himself from the ongoing conundrum by loudly opening up his bag of chips while mumbling something to himself about being made a 'grazer' in public. Small Fry was the last to leave, as he took a moment to turn back to the receptionist, silently miming a chatty mouth with his paw; a mime-chatty mouth which soon turned into a mime-gun, with which he mimed shooting him in the head.

The four of them headed outside to the parking lot, bathed in the midday sunlight. With the colossal monstrosity that was Downtown hill looming over them, and the heatwaves from nearby Sahara Square already making themselves apparent, Finnick and Razor rushed to follow Dmitry to his car. His other car, that is – a small white Hamsda hatchback, a Civilian Type-M – a much more functional alternative to the sports car he had lost.

Dmitry unlocked the car and casually clambered into the driver's seat, with Small Fry in the passenger seat and the two debt collectors in the back seats.

"So… Misters Chamberlain and Jackson…" Dmitry said, turning back to face them as he chewed on the last of his granola bar, discarding his now-empty wrapper on the dashboard. "It is so good of you to show up for your shift today! Please, do make yourselves at home in the back seat of my car. I'd ask if you want coffee from the Snarlbucks across the street, but at this point it'd be a little redundant."

"Mister Minsko, I'd like to apologise for bein' so late today," Finnick said with his paws out, pleadingly. "I mean, we woulda got Antonov's money to ya sooner, but Phil Rasconovitch had to run to the bank, then Raze made me drive all the way over to the Hutch Sisters' to pick up some drugs, as y'all know, an' we had a li'l problem with a meter maid on the way out…"

"Ah yes, I remember getting that phone call from the elder Hutch, which means that Mister Jackson has compromised the security of her, and therefore, our operation…" Dmitry paused to swallow and turn to Small Fry, who shook his head in disapproval. It was during this lull in the conversation that they noticed the sound of Razor obliviously and messily crunching away at his bacon-flavour chips. All three of them looked at him and the crumbs he was scattering on the back seat; not even Razor needed to say 'what?' before he stopped.

"…But let's put that to one side for a moment," Dmitry continued. "In all seriousness, you could have spent the afternoon at the Cirque Du Souris watching sloths do slow-motion trapeze jumps and elephants cycling across tightropes for all I care, just as long as you have Antonov's money when you eventually come to me." Dmitry pointed to Finnick's bag. "I'm assuming that bag isn't full of mouldy coconuts."

"Oh, yeah. O' course," Finnick said, fidgeting about in his seat as he removed the bag from his shoulder. He soon passed it over to Minsko, who unzipped it, inspecting the contents. Small Fry also leaned in to get his own, independent check. After a few moments, they both nodded.

"Well, seems like everything's in order, so you're all good!"

"…Wait…" Finnick almost wheezed out after a lengthy pause, briefly looking over at Razor. He rubbed the inside of his ear. "Aren't y'gonna yell at us for messin' up the Hutch Sisters' security arrangements?"

"That is a very good question, Mister Chamberlain, and I will give you the answer," Dmitry declared with another point. "You see… under normal circumstances, I would be… what's the phrase… 'pissed off'," he said with 'air quotes', "but Antonov and myself have been reconsidering the arrangement I worked out with those two little bunnies to manufacture 'Primal Jazz', as it was. Now, I'm sure you will not take it personally when I say the exact details of our discussion are on a need-to-know basis, but the shortening is… we don't like the fact that my single biggest source of income hinges on a pair of Dylo-smoking College dropouts. And, on a more business-oriented note, we think we could make a lot more money if we just started manufacturing Primal Jazz ourselves. The only problem is that we need the formula from them; preferably for free. But once that's been worked out, you two can rest assured, we'll all be… how you say it… 'loaded'!"

Minsko paused momentarily as he looked at Small Fry, who rubbed a thumb and finger together. "I say this because I remember the concerns Mister Jackson here raised before about his pay rate. Which reminds me… your cut of Antonov's cash. Small Fry, if you please?"

It was at this moment that Razor began to pay more attention, sitting forward and grinning with anticipation; though Finnick cut in to hold his paw out and receive the money, giving him a look that indicated the boar's hoof was too greasy and crumb-stained to take it.

The squirrel rummaged around inside Finnick's bag, soon bringing out a wad of cash in unevenly-sized bills. He handed it off to Dmitry, who started to count it. "Let me see… so, you brought in 62,000 in total… five percent of that would be 3,100 dollars to share between you! Not a bad cut for three months' worth of Antonov's debts, eh?" he said, handing the cash to the fennec.

"Thank you very much, Mister Minsko," Finnick said, nodding, as he gently transferred it from the mink's paws to his. "So, uh… d'you want us to… 'liberate' the Primal Jazz formula?"

"I'm afraid not. Those two bunnies will recognise you, and I can't afford to take any risks. Don't worry about it; I'll look for a professional, someone from out of town. I like the initiative, though. You'll get far in this business with such a forward-thinking attitude."

Before Minsko could say anything further on the matter, however, he could hear his phone ringing from inside his pocket. Removing it, he glanced at the screen, and Finnick could vaguely see the name displayed: Antonov.

"Hmm, speak of the devil…" he muttered to himself, before raising the phone to his ear. "Privet? …Yes, as a matter of fact, I've just received the last collection of the day. ...Yes, they were a little late, but don't worry. They're very good. Brought in a tidy sum. I should introduce you to them sometime. ...Hmm? …What?!" Minsko raised his voice, beginning to fidget about in his seat.

"No, they're not informants! …Yes, one of them is a fox, but- no no, a fennec, not a red fox! …Well, funny you should say that, because the detective came around a few minutes ago, and… no, it's fine! I didn't tell him anything! Nothing important, anyway. I told him who I bought the car from just to shut him up. What? Yes, I know, but… Antonov, please! Calm! Down! We've almost got S.C. covered and you've got the ear of city hall; this is no time to be getting delusional! …N-no, I'm not saying you're delusional, it's just, I've seen too many mammals go drunk with their power and lash out against conspiracies that aren't there. …Yes? No… no, I'm not saying don't run things your way, you just need to get over that survival of the fittest thing; it's of no use to anyone in this day! …Yes, I know, I'm sorry. So… who was it you needed me to meet? …The Pandese? So you want me to, uh… 'collect some takeout'? Right, I'm on my way."

Finnick and Razor didn't even need any prompting to know that this was their cue to leave; though Finnick did have to poke the boar first before he cottoned onto that fact. Exiting the car, they stood on opposite sides and watched as Dmitry started up the engine and lowered the driver's window.

"I'll have more work for you soon, Chamberlain, but just remember one thing: you've only gotten this far because, unlike most of your ex-street gang compatriots, you've had the good sense to not rip me off. Antonov asked me to ask you to keep it that way," he said, squinting menacingly from beneath his glasses, as Small Fry looked over and did a 'we're watching you' gesture.

Dmitry almost instantly regained a sunny expression as he switched on the radio, backing up the car to the sound of foreign pop music. "Chandra, Brambra, Chandra, Chandra, Bendram… wooaahhh-oooahh, woooaahh-oooaahhh…"

As they drove off, Razor continued to scarf on his potato chips. "I dunno 'bout you, Fin, but I freakin' hate that musty ass-clown!"

"Oh, will you cut it out, already?!" Finnick belted back, beginning to walk over to his van, parked some distance away. "Minsko ain't bad! Ya realise there's hundreds o' low-life gang-bangers in Gnu York that'd eat their own mothers for a gig like this? Y'all should be glad I got it before no-one else could!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mister So-High-An'-Mighty-I-Need-A-Freakin'-Stepladder-Just-To-Talk-To-Him! Thank ya for gettin' me a dead-end job workin' as a freakin' truffle hog for a musty ass-clown who's so cheap he won't even give us a ten-percent cut!"

Finnick stopped next to his van to point. "First, couldya atop with the goddamn height jokes?! They were sorta funny the first billion times, but they're gettin' real stale now! Second, you oughta consider yourself lucky just to get that!" he said, beginning to compulsively slap one paw against his other. "Do I need to remind y'all that you an' your big freakin' mouth almost got us thrown back into the pen mere hours ago?! Literally the only reason we're still free right now is 'cause that meter maid was eighty years old and couldn't tell the difference between a pred and a delusional-ass wild boar who thinks he's a pred!"

"Ya still don't get it, do ya, Fin?!" Razor yelled back again, screwing up his now-empty bag of potato chips and tossing them onto the ground in front of him. "I act like a crazy-ass killer on purpose! It's all part o' my master plan! You're the muscle, you go 'round gettin' us the paper from Minsko, talkin' all tough an' stuff, while I sit in the background, hidin' in plain sight, trickin' all our enemies into thinkin' I'm just a dumb thug, when really I'm secretly plottin' an' plannin' to take us to top o' the game, foo'!"

"Well…" Finnick said exasperatedly, shaking his head, as he opened up his van and pulled himself into the driver's seat. "…If your plan was to lure mammals into a false sense o' security, then mission accomplished, but it ain't for the reasons you think it is! An' what's this about 'takin' us to the top o' the game?' I dunno, I always thought gettin' our fuzzy asses riddled with bullets because you decided to smash a wolf against his own bike right outside a coach party full of 'em was a real atrocious way to get us to the top o' the game, but then, maybe I just ain't ambitious enough! Maybe your idea o' the 'top o' the game' is heaven!"

"There y'go again!" Razor said, having now joined the fennec in the passenger seat, slamming the door closed. "Y'see, that's yo' problem! You got no respect for pred culture! Y'all just some sad, fragile li'l shell with zero ambition!"

"I ain't got zero ambition! Raze, I got ambition comin' outta my ass!" Finnick pointed a thumb backwards, indicating said body part. "The difference is I got reasonable, calm ambition, while you have got poorly-thought-out, get-yo'-ass-killed-in-ten-seconds-flat ambition!"

"You got ambition, huh?" Razor folded his arms, nodding like a mocking bobblehead toy. "Yeah, I guess ya do; explains why ya feel the need to act all holier-than-thou, thinkin' yo' midget ass is somehow superior to all us lowlife, bottom-feedin' scumbags from the streets!"

"Oh, for the love o' Renard… so not only are you delusional, you're also a goddamn hypocrite." Finnick sighed and looked down, clenching the steering wheel tight to relieve stress. "I can't believe I'm hearin' this… an' after everythin' I did for you! I found you a place to live while I'm still livin' in this van, I found you a job, and I let you borrow all my Vulpes Inculta CDs – which I still ain't got back, by the way! An' I did all this so you wouldn't go off an' get yourself killed tryin' to rob a police officers' convention with nothin' but fake claws an' colourful language!"

"Yeah, well y'know what? I'd rather go back to Verdant Corrals than keep workin' for that musty ass-clown at those rates! I deserve more respect for what I do! It's what I was promised, pred!"

"Well, I don't want yo' ass to go back to jail, 'cause in all likelihood you'd drag my ass back in with y'all, given half a chance. So with that option ruled out, what do you suggest we do, if you're so freakin' dead-set on gettin' us to the top o' the game?"

Razor paused to unfold his arms. He fidgeted and he somewhat exaggeratedly looked around in all directions, even sticking his head out the open passenger window to check if anyone was there. Struggling to pull his head back inside without disturbing his trademark fox hat, he soon leaned in towards Finnick.

"The Primal Jazz formula, Pred," he whispered. "Screw Minsko, screw Antonov, screw all of 'em; we should take it for ourselves an' sell it to the highest bidder!"

Finnick's ears flattened once more and he looked straight ahead, pursing his lip.

"No."

"Aww, come oooooon! Really?!" Razor lamented, slapping his hooves against the dashboard.

"I'm not screwin' 'em over," Finnick said, not moving a muscle. "You know what Minsko does to traitors. He don't shoot them an' drag them to his savage honey badger, he just gives 'em to Small Fry. Y'know why they call him that?" he asked, finally turning to face him, "I'll give you a clue. It ain't got nothin' to do with his height, or the fact that he sometimes carries around a fryin' pan. Just think o' what a fryin' pan is typically used for, an' you'll have the right idea!"

Finnick couldn't help but sigh once more as he noticed Razor pause, his eyes wide, as he gave his rationalisation some thought; he even seemed to wince upon digging deep enough with what limited imagination he had, but soon enough, he was at it again. "Don't be such a freakin' pessimist, pred! We could pull it off, no problem! It's only cheatin' if you get caught, right?"

"The answer is NO!" Finnick belted out again, slapping his own paws against the steering wheel. It was at that moment that he noticed a few cuts on one of his palms, from which he could see tiny streams of blood – obviously caused by his claws, and worsened by gripping the steering wheel so hard. He found himself wincing at the sight, but he tried to brush it off; literally, wiping his paw against his driver's seat.

"Well…" Razor began to say, "fine, then, I'll just rob 'em myself! I'll keep all the riches for myself, an' you won't get jack squat!"

Finnick chuckled, shaking his head yet again. "If you wanna try it yourself, go right ahead. I've seen how tight they locked the place down; you'll never pull it off without a small mammal to help, an' good luck findin' one o' those! That is, if you can even be assed to hail a taxi an' walk inside yourself, 'cause I ain't givin' you a lift again, neither!"

"You know I'll do it, pred! Not like some midget gekkerer would be o' much help to me, anyways! An' if I get caught, I'll… I'll tell 'em you put me up to it!" Razor said, pointing almost right in Finnick's eye. "An' then we both get fried!"

Finnick turned back to give a retort, but was forced to stop with his mouth hanging open as a rather uncomfortable realisation set in. Minsko is a rational mammal; he's all about business. Cares more about business than he does the mammals in the business, including himself. If it makes money, it stays. If it's a liability, it's gotta go. Finnick himself hadn't been a liability… yet. But Razor was about to make himself one.

Finnick turned back to the steering wheel, softly hitting his head against the thankfully-broken horn repeatedly.

This was his fault and he knew it. He was the one who got Razor into the organisation. That meant Razor was his responsibility. Razor's bad decisions were his bad decisions. If Razor made himself a liability, then Finnick would also become a liability, because he'd just demonstrated he'd let someone like Razor into the organisation in the first place. And the worst part was, it seemed that Razor had just figured this out. He now knew he could do whatever he damn well pleased because Finnick was obligated to bail him out of trouble. And there was nothing he could do about it, except perhaps shooting him. But even if that wouldn't change the fact that he'd be exposed as a liability anyway, he didn't stab his partners in the back, he didn't leave them to die, and he certainly wasn't a hitmammal. He'd turned his back on that sort of business a long time ago.

The small fox groaned, rapidly punching the steering wheel now. "Alright, alright!" he finally relented, pushing himself off. He sighed; he'd just come up with a plan to hopefully curtail the damage that Razor might cause, but knowing it had a limited chance of success, he slowly shook his head.

"Now… just to be clear, I still don't wanna screw Minsko over, for reasons I've already explained. If I help you steal that formula, you have to promise that you'll give it to Minsko immediately afterwards! Trust me on this; if we got the formula for him before anyone else did, he'd at least give us a pay rise. It's a better option for both of us in the long term, an' more importantly, if we screw it up, we might at least be able to salvage our lives from it!"

Not even Finnick could stop himself from leaning forward in anticipation, his ears and tail twitching slightly. Razor had leaned back and began to brush his chin for a painfully long time; Finnick's big ears could practically hear the wheels in his head turning.

Finally, he shrugged. "Okay, fine, ya got me. Deal."

So yeah, this one took me a while. I really wanted to avoid exceeding the 15k+ word length of the last chapter, so I ended up cutting large parts of it. As a result, what was originally the entire second half of this chapter will now become its own chapter. That chapter will also feature much more Duke, too, and hopefully it won't take as long since I've already written up a few sections.

Incidentally, today marks a year and a day since I first saw Zootopia in theatres! I originally wanted to post on that actual anniversary, 22nd April, but, well... I've probably not built up a reputation for sticking to promised schedules by this point. :/