Michelle leaned her head back in the seat of a taxi. She had forgone her stage attire for an unassuming grey hoodie and pair of sweatpants. She had intentionally messed up the delicate curls in her hair, leaving it straight down the right side of her face. She had kept her voice low and avoided direct eye contact with the driver, and he still kept shooting glances at her from the front seat. Hopefully he wouldn't put two and two together. She pulled a smartphone out from her pocket and switched it on. There were twelve new notifications, three emails from her manager about possible new venues and fundraisers, eight app update notifications and a text message from her brother Michal. She responded to the text first.

OMG, it was the boss' birthday today and a bunch of us decided to surprise her with a cake and this was the face she made, I'm crying. The text was followed by several emojis and a file attachment. She clicked on it and a picture of her brother's boss, Mrs. Cheney popped up. She wore a look of profound shock, her head tilted away from the cake and her eyes bugged out. Michelle chuckled quietly before responding with a simple LOL. She looked at the E-mails next. The first had Tundratown as the subject.

I know you don't like performing here, but it's been awhile since the last one, and I've heard a few murmurs of discontent among the citizens. Let me know what you want to do.

-James

Michelle sighed quietly. She'd always had a strong dislike of the cold, and Tundratown was probably her least favorite part of Zootopia. Still, she had quite a few fans hailing from that particular district and she didn't want to let them down. I'm going to regret this. She lamented internally. She knew that she would hate every minute of the performance, but the contentment of her fans was worth it. She quickly tapped out a reply:

When's the soonest we can schedule a concert? In the town square if possible.

She sent the message and looked at the next email.

The Make a Wish Foundation sent me this. Let me know what you think. -James

Michelle opened the attached file. A picture of a small leopard boy around five or six filled her screen. He was laying in a hospital bed and had oxygen tubes coming out of his nose. Most of the fur on his body had fallen out, and he was unhealthily thin. Michelle felt sorrow creep up in her mind, a dark and ominous cloud that threatened to overwhelm. She knew what was wanted of her without reading the caption on the picture. The child was terminally ill, and his one wish was to meet Gazelle. She both hated and loved this. On one hand, it was extremely touching that a dying child would use their only wish to meet her. On the other hand, the child was going to die. There was no getting around that fact. She had done this sort of thing several times before, and it always left her thoroughly depressed. But she couldn't bring herself to turn them down. Her reply was short:

I'll do it.

The third and final email made her grin uncontrollably.

Hey, fantastic news! Try Everything just went platinum!

Below was a screenshot of the current record sales for the album in question. The number indeed had breached one million copies sold worldwide. Michelle was barely able to contain herself. One million copies sold. Today was a good day. She dismissed the app update notifications and set her phone to vibrate. She slid the device into her hoodies' pocket and gazed out of the taxi's window, still smiling. She'd just finished a charity concert in the Rainforest District. The event had gone off without a hitch and had left her in a good mood. Such a good mood, in fact, that she tipped the cab driver an extra fifty dollars when he dropped her off at her apartment building. She turned and entered the complex as the sound of the cab faded into the distance of Sahra Square. She climbed the stairs quietly, not wishing to disturb the other tenants. A sign on the second floor landing proclaimed the complex's name in uniform black letters on a white backdrop with a red sun rising in the top left corner: Sahara Suites. The complex was modest, only three stories. Michelle had chosen it because it was small and unassuming, as well as offering a measure of anonymity. She appreciated her fame of course, but the constant attention was exhausting as well as annoying at times. The quiet was nice sometimes. As she climbed onto the third floor, her neighbor Carlos nearly slammed into her.

"Oh!" He exclaimed as the jaguar skidded to a stop inches away from the gazelle. "Desculpa, Michelle! I didn't see you there." He said, rubbing the back of his neck abashedly. Michelle smiled.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Where's the fire anyway?" She asked. Carlos grinned.

"I just got an email from the Sparrow," He said, using the local comic shops' owners nickname. "They're having a sale, five bucks for seven books. I guess I got a little too excited."

Michelle chuckled.

"That's quite the deal. But do be more careful, alright?" She said seriously. Carlos nodded.

"You got it." He said before descending the staircase. Michelle smiled and shook her head as she heard him start running again as soon as he was out of sight. Carlos may be in his late twenty's but he still had the fire of a teenager. Michelle headed towards her apartment at the end of the hall. As she walked, she couldn't help but hear snippets of conversations from some of the doors. The Justice's, a married sheep couple in 305 were having a loud conversation about whether or not the books of Fifty Shades of Prey were better than the movies. In 319, Jacob the silverback gorilla was laughing loudly, presumably at something his son, Anthony had said. She could hear faint jazz music coming from 333, belonging to Mr. Antilles, the old Silky Anteater. Finally, she came to 342, the last apartment on the left. Her apartment. She withdrew a keyring from her sweatpants pocket and unlocked the door. She flicked on the light as she closed the door behind her. The living room was small and cozy. A brown leather armchair sati in front of a thirty-five inch flatscreen which rested on a plain oaken stand. A remote rested on he left arm of the chair. The cable box and blu-ray player were stacked on top of each other neatly to the left of the TV stand. On the right of the stand was a floor-to-ceiling ebony bookshelf. Sailboats upon waves were intricately carved into the edges. The books lining the shelves were organised alphabetically by author. There were several shelves filled with Stephen Lorde's works, almost every book he'd ever written under that name. He had written other books under aliases in the past, but Michelle had had very little luck in tracking those down over the years. The entire Harry Otter series by G.K Yearling was beneath those. Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire, and several other series filled the rest of the left-most bookcase. The right was full of nonfiction books on various topics including musical theory. A small coffee table sat in between the chair and TV. Several pieces of paper were scattered across it, each one filled with scratched out lyrics and annotations. Michelle had been toying around with the idea of a song about the truth of war for sometime now, but had held off, not knowing enough about the subject to effectively capture its essence in song. That was partly why she approached the lynx Fang at the park the other day. People who air drummed that furiously had bigger things to worry about than looking ridiculous. Although, now that she thought about it, she supposed he might simply not care about how other people see him. The main reason she had approached him however was genuine curiosity. She had indeed thought him a panther at first. She had never seen any other mammal with completely black fur. Michelle had done some more research into melanism. Apparently, the odds of a lynx being born with it were astronomically high. Fang was probably the only one on the continent. She sighed, wishing for the millionth time he would call or even text her. But he was probably busy with his top-secret assignment. She understood it was an executive decision, but it was still slightly annoying, not being able to talk about one's work. She moved into the kitchen, located behind the recliner, and flicked on the lights. The entire room was only about ten feet long and eight wide. A granite top counter ran along the left wall with a sink embedded in the middle and a dishwasher in the front of the counter, just right of the sink. A small microwave oven sat above the dishwasher and a white cutting board next to it. A line of cabinets ran above the counter, housing cups, dishes and silverware. Along the right wall was a stainless steel refrigerator with a freezer. Next to the fridge was a small table pressed up against the wall. It was made almost entirely out of polished mahogany and had two leaves to extend it, which were currently in the back of the closet. Michelle opened the fridge and grabbed a plastic container filled with Ants on a Log, her favorite snack and brought it back into the living room. Sitting down in the rocker, she popped the lid off and switched the TV on. She sat the container in her lap as she started eating.

With one hand, she flipped through the channels lazily, hoping to find something interesting. She continued to eat with the other hand, chewing slowly. She flipped past an infomercial showing off a fancy pocket watch, a sci-fi horror flick about invading aliens and a pretty bad teen romance involving a timber wolf and a vampire bat. The next channel was on commercial and she decided to wait and see what was running. As the spokesperson droned on about car insurance, Michelle let her mind wander. Eventually, it wandered back to Fang. It had been almost two weeks since the two had spoken at the park. She wondered for the hundredth time what had had him acting so strange when she had dropped him off at his house. That cat had bolted into the house as if possessed by the Devil. She shook her head slightly. I hope I didn't cause any flashbacks. She thought guiltily. I did dredge up some old wounds. She sighed.

"...brings us to our fifth place for this list." The male announcer's voice drew her attention back to the TV. A program was counting down the top ten most ruthless military generals since World War II. Their number five was a leopard named Abiodun Azikiwe. He had made the list for his order to rush down the enemy forces despite being hopelessly outnumbered. All but three of the soldiers were killed. Two of them were captured as POW's. The other still lived is a psych ward. When asked about his decision, the general had simply stated : "It is better to die with honor than to retreat." Michelle shook her head. The program went down through the list: Sarah Smith in fourth for mercilessly executing someone who disobeyed a direct order, Gary Wimbelton for ordering the destruction of a small village hiding war criminals, and Fereeah Marsh for ordering a suicide mission.

"We'll unveil our top pick in a moment, but first, some honorable mentions." The spokesman said in a grandiose voice. As the program went through a few more generals (One of which personally executed fourteen turncoats), Michelle let out a small sigh. She made to flip the channel again when the spokesperson began introducing the top pick. She hesitated for a moment, then set the remote down.

"And Number One on our list goes to Drake Dreson, better known as the Black Fang of Selena."

Fang… isn't that the name of the lynx from the other day? Michelle thought uncertainly. "Dreson found his infamy during the Reaper Crisis of '97. He was given command of several hundred soldiers at the young age of twenty, making him one of the youngest people to ever receive the title of Commander, albeit temporarily. During the Crisis, he sent his entire company into the enemy's base of operations knowing that it was a death trap. None of them survived. Their sacrifice bought him the time needed to infiltrate the base and destroy it from within while the majority of enemy forces were distracted.

And if that wasn't bad enough, Dreson killed a young Saudi Arabian boy himself. The boy, whose names has not been disclosed to the public, was only twelve years old. The reasoning behind the decision was explained by Dreson in a press conference later that week." An older recording began to play on the screen. A jet-black feline stood behind a wooden podium, his paws behind his back. She knew it was indeed the same person from the park, despite the lack of a facial scar. "Yes, I killed that young lad. I will freely admit that. He had a bomb vest strapped to him under that tunic. As you all are well aware, our bomb squad was wiped out several hours earlier by Muslim extremists. The lad was runnin' right toward us. I had to make a hard and terrible decision right then an' there. I coulda let him come to us and had someone try and defuse the vest. The most likely outcome was death for the lad and us. I could shoot 'im down before he got to us. The bomb would go off at a safe distance, resulting in only the lad's death. As far as I could tell, there wasn't a third option. So I shot 'im. It was either him or us. I chose us. I ain't proud of what I did. But I had to make a decision, and I did what I thought was right. I will not apologize fer that." The recording of Fang spoke with a heavy Irish accent. Even through the old video footage, Michelle could tell he was barely holding it together during that conference. He turned his back to the camera promptly and stepped down from the podium. The recording cut to black and was replaced with the announcer's face. Michelle leaned back in her chair and regarded her ceiling. Her mind buzzed with the information it had just received.

Jesus, she thought. Talk about a bad reputation. She shook her head lightly. I can understand the thing with the kid, but why would he send his entire company into a deathtrap? Surely all of them didn't have to die. She rubbed her temple with one hand and sighed quietly. I gave him my number, didn't I? I hope I don't end up regretting that. She sighed again switched off the TV. She rose from the chair, container of celery in hand and headed for the kitchen. Her phone began ringing as she placed the container in the fridge, the riffs and beats of AB/CD's Thunderstruck rang out through the apartment. An unfamiliar number was on the screen. She swiped to take the call and raised the device to her ear.

"Hello?" She said.

"Hello, is this Michelle from the park the other day?" A familiar, professional-sounding voice asked. Speak of the devil… she thought dryly.

"Yep. You're Fang, right?" She asked.

"Aye. You busy right now?" the lynx asked. Michelle could detect a trace of nervousness in his voice.

"Nope. I just got home a little while ago, so I'm free for the rest of the night." she said amicably. "How are you?" She asked before he could respond. There was a slight pause as Fang evidently thought.

"Eh. I've been alright, I suppose. Nothing particularly exciting has happened yet, just endless paperwork and business calls back to HQ. How about you?" he asked.

"Oh, I've been fine. Just finished up a photoshoot for Vanity Fur." She said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "You know, I'm surprised you called. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me." She said somewhat nervously. Fang chuckled.

"To be fair, I did forget. I found your number while I was cleaning up a bit and figured I might as well." He said. "Oh, right, before I forget…" He said quickly. Michelle heard shuffling papers in the background. "I was curious as to what it is you do." He said. More shuffling. "I mean, besides singing." He added. Michelle turned the question over in her head.

"Well like I mentioned before, I do some modeling work for various magazines, such as Vanity Fur and Vague, and usually wearing something from Preyda, who I'm sponsored by. I do as much for charity as I can, whether that be from concerts or fundraisers or the like. Of course, there's the whole social aspect. Attending parties, making public appearances, doing interviews on TV, that sort of thing." She listed off methodically. There was a short pause as Fang moved around some more papers.

"That must be exhausting as hell." He said, a hint of awe in his voice.

"A little bit," Michelle admitted. "But it doesn't really bother me. I love doing it." She said, moving back into the living room.

"I get that." Fang said with a sigh.

"What about you?" She asked. "What do usually do?" She asked, sitting in her chair again. There was a moment of silence between the two of them. Fang let out a long sigh.

"Here's what I can tell you. I'm currently a specialist for the Army. The higher-ups send me on missions for long distance combat and reconnaissance. Basically, I shoot people and provide the commander with enemy movements and tactics. I can't share any more of my current activities, although I can say that I still do operations similar to ones in the past." he said cautiously.

"What kind of operations were those?" Michelle asked curiously.

"Well, I'm glad you asked." He said, sounding somewhat relieved. "I used to be part of an organization called the Night Corps. We were a infiltration unit, trained to take out key targets in larger conflicts. At least, that's the way it was on paper. In reality, the only large conflict we had any impact on was the Reaper Crisis. After that, we mostly ended up looking into targets suspected of hostility towards the U.S. and took out the ones we could confirm, thus preventing open warfare. We went on like this for a little over a decade before we were disbanded. There were only three of us left at the time. The Night Corps. was technically declassified around that time, but very little information was made public. Nowadays, most people haven't heard of it." He said, regret clear in his voice.

"After that, I was offered a promotion to Commander." He paused, and Michelle heard a drawer opening and closing. "I declined. I'm not so fond of command." He said simply.

"All that responsibility and shit? No thank you." he murmured. "That pretty much sums up my work." He finished. Michelle nodded thoughtfully.

"Can you tell me more about the Night Corps.?" She asked cautiously. There was another pause between them.

"Maybe some other time. It's a lengthy subject, and I need to get back to work." he said tiredly. "But, ah, thanks fer talkin'. It was...nice." He muttered, seemingly embarrassed. Michelle smiled.

"You're welcome. Call again sometime. I enjoy talking with you." She said earnestly. She could have sworn she heard his breath hitch, but he spoke again before she could comment on it.

"Er, right then. Bye." He said quickly. He hung up without waiting for a response. Michelle blinked. What was that about? She thought, pocketing her phone. He seemed so...sure of himself at the park. He definitely didn't seem like the type of guy to get flustered easily. She shook her head. This lynx was proving to be a confusing acquaintance. She glanced at the clock on the stove. Almost eleven. She flicked off the kitchen lights and made her way to her bedroom.

A single twin bed was pushed up against one corner, lined with crimson sheets. A small oaken dresser stood against the opposite wall, with several picture of her with her friend Allie lined up on top. A small black nightstand stood at the foot of her bed. An alarm clock displayed the time in glowing red numbers, a picture of her father next to it. Zechariah Smith was an older man with graying hair. His piercing green eyes were shimmered with joy, a massive smile plastered across his face. He was holding an infant Michelle in his arms, his silver cross necklace dangling in front of him. Michelle smiled as she looked at it.

Her closet door was open, displaying an array of casual clothing one would never equate to a world-famous pop singer. She collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to change clothes. She pulled her comforter up to her chin and closed her eyes, quickly drifting off into the sea of unconsciousness.

(A/N) Ho-Lee Fuq, it's been waaay too long since I've updated this. Like, goddamn. Really sorry about the wait. I promise, I'll try my best to stop procrastinating. As always, please criticize my work. It doesn't have to be gentle. Peace, love, and hair grease,

-Sirix