Well, this is a Star Fox/Zootopia crossover, and I think it's high time they, you know crossed over.

So without any further adieu, here's chapter 7. Thank you very much for reading, review are appreciated.

Enjoy.


Stifling deserts.

Dense rainforests.

A raging typhoon.

Frigid salty sludge patrolled by iceberg navies.

Fox had seen all these and more during his voyages to Otierro. But he'd yet to actually see anyone.

Not that they weren't trying. Among his numerous other chores, Fox had been instructed to attempt to locate many of the brighter stars in the nighttime sky, and, as the visits piled on, the researchers began to suspect that the placement of the arrival point wasn't quite as arbitrary as they'd suspected.

This time, they had a model. This time, they put forth predictions. This time, they made adjustments. This time, with any luck, Fox would actually meet one of them.

"Put your best diplomatic face on, Fox, because this time we're aiming for the biggest city on their map."

Feldman hadn't felt this giddy in a long time, their expectations ripping the humdrum routine of launch and return to pieces and tossing it into the nearest Blendtec total blender, where upon a jolly man in safety specs would grind it to tiny bits and smile for the cameras.

"Routine smoke, don't breathe this!" he'd say, while the horns blared.

So too, with similar fanfare, did the launcher, well, launch, the linear induction motors propelling Fox McCloud into the void at 194.7 kilometers per hour! Never mind mere similarity, this was exactly like riding Flight of Fear.

But what lay in wait for him, nobody could truly say, and he could not see, for Fox's eyes were tightly shut against the blinding white of the void between worlds. As the falling sensation surrounded him, he suspected he'd opened his eyes too soon, only to realize that, for once, he'd arrived at high noon, or something close to it. Having done this several times by now, he felt little urgency to deploy the drogue chute, and took the requisite second or two to look around.

And there it was, in the plains below: Shimmering glass, twisting spires, metal monoliths and countless acres of concrete. It was a city, alright. A real city, sprawling like a bacterial infection from one point, spreading to all it could touch. Barges, trains, highways, and even an airport, it looked like a diorama out of Fox's history textbooks:

"Corneria City before the war, c. 1999" Indeed, it almost looked like this. But the buildings in those photos were all rectangles, boxes, standing straight in fear of The Bomb, and the unholy bioweapons that Andross would go on to unleash in their wake.

Many a day in class Fox had stared at the photographs of the old world, wanting to step though and see what it was really like, back when all the lights were on and there was no rubble in the streets. Now, maybe he'd get his chance, for this wasn't a photo at all!: It was still here, it was still real, still alive, and maybe it would be better this time around. Maybe. Fox's great grandfather, the man who had flown in the B-52s to hell and back, probably would have felt at home in the faraway city. It sat on the edge of a great subtropical sea, a 360 meter white speck cleaving the prussian blue depths in two as it sailed from port, while behind it sat a truly spectacular mountain range.

Mountains that Fox had appeared right on top of.

"Oh shit!" He said, deploying the chute. Having snapped out of it, he took a second to catch his breath, and announced to the black boxes what he had encountered. "Well Feldman, your team hasn't quite got the positioning right, but there it is! It's a real city!"

He leaned his head over the side, gazing down at the rocky crags below.

"And it's a good thing I spawned so high, because...gee those mountains are huge."

As per Fox's suggestion, a sort of cruise control feature had been added to the paramotor, if for no other reason than to facilitate aerial data-gathering, and he activated it now, setting his paramotor into a gentle descent as he continued to approach the city. Now that his hands were free, he proceeded to screwed a telephoto lens onto the Portable Data Recorder so quickly it was almost rushed, and propped it against the hull of the drop pod. Amazingly, it was just barely stable enough for a decent shot, and Fox took the liberty of snapping more than a few, cranking up the shutter speed to hopefully keep any oscillation induced motion blur to a minimum. Indeed, so concerned with photography was he that Fox opted to fly a whole lap around the city, rather than head straight for it. Even when he'd spawned, it hadn't been anywhere near the horizon's edge, and Fox had more than enough range to survey the alien metropolis.

What should've been a red flag occurred as Fox neared the city, a loud whoosh and a blur of transonic metal flying past his paraglider. Edgy lines, domed cockpit, recessed engines, afterburners, and a pair of conical protrusions (which were probably missiles) emerging from beneath the wing: by the look of things, it was a fighter aircraft of late 20th century design. Not that their tech necessarily progressed at a rate and in an order identical to the Cornerians, no, for a variety of reasons, this was astoundingly unlikely.

Nevertheless, it was some sort of fighter aircraft, simultaneously alien and futuristic compared to the paraglider, yet also utterly primitive in the eyes of the man who'd flown arwings through interplanetary space.

"Oh, probably intruding on their airspace." Fox said, gazing at the nearby airport as he steered away. "Whoopsie, where are my manners? Well folks, I think they know I'm here."


It was 3 in the afternoon, and Judy was finishing up a patrol, her car stopped at the corner of a rather large and oddly quiet park. Wild Times had been raided less than a week ago, and everyone had seen the pictures. Not of smiling children, of course, but of a "savage" fox: For over the last 6 days the propaganda reels had shown nothing but Nicholas Wilde and his affiliated terrorists, bloodied, black-eyed, or otherwise beaten to a pulp and ensnared in those nooses on poles. Widespread public hysteria and all, the park was empty to the point of being outright deserted.

"Officer Hopps, come in, over." Bogo's voice sighed over the CB radio.

"Is it about that UFO?"

"I told you, Officer, it's not a prank."

"Yeah yeah, I know."

"It still hasn't responded to our calls, and it looks to be landing in Central Park."

"Dammit. I've already got a visual."

The paraglider wing fluttered and spun in a figure-8 like a kite, almost hovering, in a way, dangerously still in the sky as it inexorably descended, drifting towards the center of the field.

Judy raised her glock, a gun big enough to double as a dildo for an animal twice her size, and trained the metal pod in her ironsights, 41 hollow-point cartridges lying within the specially modified, police issue, ultra high capacity magazine, itching at the chance to send some innocent predator straight to hell.

"Want me to shoot it down?" She asked, not quite in jest.

"No, just be sure to chew that bastard out real good when he lands."

"Copy that." she grumbled, putting the gun away.

Meanwhile, it swooped down suddenly, leveling out and gliding but a hair over the heads of the people below, or so it seemed. The craft, now gliding, pulled up slightly, before resuming its shallow decent.

"You're not getting away from ME!"

The wing tilted, the pod below turning in an instant, as if it were being guided by a highly skilled pilot who simply wasn't taking this all that seriously.

Said pilot, of course, was trying to slow the glider for the landing, and thus Judy soon found herself catching up to it.

The glider went up sharply, turning like a rollercoaster, barely on the rails at it came down, now literally flying right over her head and touched down behind her.

"HEY! GET BACK HERE!"

Officer Hopps took off after the UFO again, screeching to a halt beside the metal capsule and the now deflated wing, which was lying on the ground as if it were impotent. All the while, the crowd which had previously cleared way now approached the mysterious visitor, ooohing and aaahing as crowds tend to do.

"Alright mister, I don't know what you thought you were doing, but it ends now."

The thing in the cockpit stared in bewilderment, although in the reflective visor of Fox's mask the only thing the officer saw was fear. "You speak Cornerian?"

Judy refused to admit to herself that she felt more than a bit intimidated as the weirdo in the spacesuit started to climb out from his capsule. I say "started", of course, because it just didn't seem to stop, on and on and on, higher and higher he stood without end in sight. The whole thing, be it the creepy mask with the soulless tinted glass apertures, or the arms and legs that were a whole order of magnitude too long, all of it was just wrong, and it only got worse as she craned her head farther and farther back, the creature's head now blocking out the sun and casting her in its shadow. It was easily taller than 95% of Zootopians, and in stark contrast to the formerly quadrupedal creatures who'd magically started walking upright one day, this thing was a proper petting zoo person, with shoulders so broad they seemed more like a counter-top or a table than anything you'd expect to find on a living creature. Its forearms could give Bogo a run for his money at the precinct arm wrestling tournament, and dear god its legs: Judy had never seen anything like them. They were thick, towering over her like a pair of tree trunks, capped in steel boots that thudded about like they were heavy enough to be her partner on a see-saw. This thing, this creature, this, this invader may not have been an elephant, but one wrong step from either of those boots would leave her no less dead than if she had been personally sat on by Donald Trunk himself.

Whether or not she was terrified of this thing, she had a job to do.

"You're under arrest, asshole."

"Listen-" Fox said, reaching to take off his mask. This would prove to be a big mistake. "-I'm sorry about the airport, but I can explain-"

But Officer Hopps never heard the end of that sentence. Her brain froze upon seeing his face, as an icicle of dread crackled down her spine. These people weren't as paranoid as Corneria had been before the war. No, the city of Zootopia was even worse.

"This is Hopps, I've got a savage!" She was yelling into the mic so loud it was almost a scream, her voice audible to anyone and everyone within 30 meters. "Repeat, I've got a savage!" The crowd disbanded immediately, some of the younger ones screaming as they fled.

"A what? Officer, I can explain-" Fox took exactly one step towards this rabbit.

"STAY BACK!" Her glock was drawn in an instant, and Fox flinched, quite noticeably.

"STAY BACK!" Fox took a big step back, his sheer scale worrying Judy that much more.

"I SAID STAY BACK" Fox noticed that her hands quivered. Being held at gunpoint by someone scared halfway to death was hardly a good place to be, and Fox knew he had seconds (at most) to do something before that ditzy bunny pulled the trigger. So he bolted, only to be knocked to the ground by a sharp thwack in his side.

He'd been shot.

Remembering the plan B strapped to the chest of his suit, he pressed the button mounted to his glove just as something grazed his shoulder. A shimmering sphere appeared around him, and Fox McCloud vanished into the wormhole aperture moments later. Judy, meanwhile, let out a guttural yell like a soldier charging into battle and ran into the sphere, shooting at it the entire time. The launch chamber rang with the cries of ricocheting bullets, and it was amidst this ringing that Fox McCloud fell onto the concrete floor, collapsing right next to the launcher in a growing pool of some warm fluid and blacking out moments later.


Author's Note:

Spillover infection, also known as pathogen spillover and spillover event, occurs when a reservoir population with a high pathogen prevalence comes into contact with a novel host population. The infection is transmitted from the reservoir population and may or may not be transmitted within the host population.