"Here's your room, you filthy mutt." The wolf yelps as the prod sends a jolt of electricity into his back. He falls forward and the door slams shut behind him. Locks engage with an ominous clunk. Unmoving, he lies upon the soft floor as he recovers from the shock.

Through clenched jaws, he inhales slowly.

Exhales.

Then, raising his head, he takes in the room. A thick, cushiony substance surrounds him. It's as if somebody has taken pillows and stapled them to every wall, the ceiling, and the floor. There is nothing—no furniture or decoration—that breaks the white monotony, nothing except for a small, unmoving lump lying in the corner.

He gets to his feet, his shaking legs making it difficult, and locks his eyes upon the object.

'No, not an object.' He corrects. 'A mammal.'

They're curled up and face one of the walls.

'Shit, please don't be dead.'

Focusing his eyes, he notices a very small movement—the rise and fall of the torso that accompanies breathing.

'Okay, good.'

Not sure what to do, he clears his throat. The mammal doesn't stir.

"Hey." He states in a deep voice. "Are you okay?"

No response. No change in breathing nor a shift in the body. Cautiously, the wolf eases over to the form and, as he nears, he realizes it's a lion. A female lion. His shadow falls over her face. As it does, she turns her head slightly to look up at him. Grey eyes empty of life and filled with sorrow look him over before staring into the wall that lies inches from her face.

The wolf steps back, her answer plainly stated. He returns to the door and pushes against it a few times. There is no handle, window, or any other hold to gain a grip. As expected, it doesn't budge.

Giving up, he sits in a corner opposite her. Out of a nervous and scared boredom, he stares at the unmoving lion as thoughts of his potential fates flash in his mind. Would they simply kill him? Torture him? Keep him prisoner for ransom? He has no idea. What frightens him most is the professionalism of this place. The bits and pieces he was able to see of the facility made him think of a subterranean army bunker. The equipment within, however, reminds him of something else entirely. He had seen rooms filled with crates, rooms filled with test tubes, vials, and humming equipment that he didn't recognize.

'A place like this needs funding.' He notes. 'Where is it coming from?'

The wolf thinks on the subject for several minutes before his nervousness escalates to a point where he regresses back to thoughts on his predicament. 'Will I ever see the sun again?'

He lets loose a low whimper.

'What if my family and friends have seen me alive for the last time?' Shaking himself, he returns to the present, his focus returning to the lioness. 'I wonder how long she's been here.' He wipes a paw over his muzzle and sighs. 'And what the hell did they do to her?' The look she had given him was not that of a frightened and abandoned captive. It went deeper; it was a look filled with utter defeat. Guesses about what could have broken her, each one worse than the last, cross his mind. Shortly, curiosity and a need to distract himself force him to try another attempt at conversation.

"Hey." He says softly. She doesn't stir. He continues. "I know you don't seem to be in a talking mood but maybe it would help to, you know, get some stuff off your chest."

She shifts slightly then remains still.

"Alright, you don't. That's fine. Can I get a name, at least?"

Nothing happens for quite some time and he abandons any attempt at further communication.

But then, lethargically, she places a paw under her and, with what looks to be great effort, leverages herself up into a sitting position. The wolf sees a spot of blood upon her chest before she covers it with her knees she pulls against herself. She turns and meets the glare of the wolf, staring into his blue eyes with a seething hatred. Through a dry and broken voice, she croaks one word:

"Whisper."

It's an anger she's merely feeling in the moment, he realizes, and isn't directed at him. "That's your name?"

She goes back to blankly studying a distant wall and doesn't answer.

"It's a good name. It reminds me of the stealth that cats like yourself naturally possess."

Her breathing intensifies and becomes shaky. He watches as tears well up and fall down over her cheeks.

"Uh-." Though uncertain of what to say next, he proceeds anyway. "Um, okay. Obviously, I have no idea what happened to you. But it must have been awful."

She begins sobbing harder. She nestles herself into the corner using a decrepit shuffling movement and leans her head against one of the pads.

'Okay, you idiot. Why'd you say that? That only reminded her further.' A question bursts into his mind and fear bubbles within him. 'What if they do the same to me?'

A few uncontrollable fits seize the lioness before her whimpers begin to lessen. The wolf sits without making a sound as he waits patiently for her to work through it. When she eventually quiets, he has thought of a way to continue the conversation in a manner that will likely avoid her afflictions.

"Where are my manners?" He states. "I never told you my name."

Her shining grey eyes fall upon him. Delicately, she pushes herself from the wall, lays her chin upon her knees, and wraps her arms around her legs.

"Damon. Damon Maximus."

She doesn't respond.

"I wish we could have met in different circumstances." He sighs. "But this'll have to do, won't it?"

She nods slightly but says nothing.

"Well, let's see…" he almost talks about how he ended up here. Or, at least, what he remembers about coming here, but he decides it's probably best simply to avoid talk of this place. 'I could tell her about my life.' He considers the thought. 'Yeah… something happy. I may have something.' "…I can tell you a story, if you'd care to hear it."

Another slight nod.

"Alright," he says, gathering his thoughts together in his frightened mind. "Well, it takes place many years ago when I was just a pup." He smiles slightly. "See, when a wolf is young, they have the tendency to… enjoy the night quite a bit more than many other mammals—you know, remnants from our distant past when we were nocturnal." A chuckle escapes him as he recalls memories. "My parents had one hell of a time trying to adjust my sleep schedule."

The lioness focuses on him, focuses on his words. She is, he realizes, trying to distract her mind. Just like him.

"Anyways, during the nights, I would wait until everybody was asleep and then sneak out. I did this many times but I vividly remember one particular escapade." He pauses and intakes a breath. "I had ventured out further than I ever had and found myself deep in the evergreen forests typical of Tundratown, which is where my family lived at the time." Another chuckle escapes him. "Me being as small I was, I had to practically tunnel through the snow. I'd hop a little every now and then just to get a good look at where the hell I was at. If somebody else had been there, all they would have seen this trail of snow forming on its own and then, occasionally, a little pup head would poke out."

Damon thinks he can almost see the hint of a smile tug at Whisper's muzzle.

"Soon, I came to a pretty sizeable bluff. And, without a second thought—a habit common with the young—up I went… Up went this bundle of pure fuzz and energy, burrowing through the thick powder like a mole. I was in my element, I must say, both literally and mentally, being an artic wolf and all."

He grins at the lioness and she stares back with intensity.

"With quite a bit of difficulty and time, I make it to the top." He halts a moment to reminisce. "The view was absolutely astonishing. Imagine seeing, over an ocean of pines, the heart of Tundratown. Buildings tall and short, of brick and glass…" Damon tilts his head and casts a thought-filled stare into the cushioning. "Their warm light flowed into the chilled air of the night. It was like the stars of the sky had fallen and joined the citizens. Being in the city and the sky remaining blank at night, this really was how it seemed. Anyways, providing a backdrop for it all, the great skyscrapers that make up the core of Zootopia. It truly captured my young mind… Hell, what am I saying, it still captures it.

"Well, I had noticed something about the towers; a light glinted off their shining exteriors, a light that did not come from any mammal-made object. I looked skywards to find the moon glaring at me. It was fuller and larger than on any night I've experienced since. I stared at it for a second or two then shifted back to the city. An urge suddenly struck me. The beauty of the picturesque scene was simply too much for my little self to handle and I had to let it out."

He laughs.

"Not really knowing what the hell I was doing, I filled my lungs with as much air as I could, pointed my snout to the great eye in the sky, and let loose a long, high-pitched howl. It was the first one I'd ever done and, even as I was letting loose the noise, I was confused by it. I had heard about the antics of my species, of course, but I must admit, with neither of my parents being wolves, I was a bit late on the draw and wasn't entirely knowledgeable.

"But get this. As soon as I'd finished, an urge to let loose another overtook me and, as I was prepping myself, a response came, just as high-pitched and pathetic as mine."

Damon isn't mistaken this time. A hint of a smile does touch Whisper's muzzle.

"I was absolutely stunned. It had been the first time I'd communicated with one of my own in such a way. Excitement filled me and, with reckless abandon, I answered his call as he had mine. This time, right in the middle of my howl, the other joins and, together, we made a chorus; a chorus that nobody would want to listen to but a chorus nevertheless. For many minutes we go on like this and, let me tell you, I was actually able to roughly piece together his location. I'd heard howling was used to track pack members during the ancient times but, until then, I had never realized its true effectiveness. Anyways, to drive home the point about how annoying we were truly being, during one of our more voracious outcries, some guy slammed open either a window or door—all I know is that it made a loud bang—and asked us, not so kindly and in a booming voice, if we would kindly shut the hell up."

Damon lets loose a hard laugh and, for a brief period, Whisper's face shows a true grin before it collapses back into a studious glare.

"And, as another twist to this tale, I actually found the fellow who had howled back at me. He lived a few streets over and we've been friends ever since." A sharp pain strikes his chest. 'A friend I may never see again.' He quickly shakes the thought. 'Pointless to think like that.'

When Damon finishes his talk, a silence ensues them—a daunting, leaden silence.

For what feels to be an endless gap of time, Whisper looks upon Damon with a knowing glare. He meets it before glancing away, looking back, and glancing away again. An unsureness of what to do or say next causes him to begin tapping his paws together and looking around the room nervously. The silence breaks.

"Thank you."

Her words, being unexpected, surprise him. He beams at her and nods his head slightly in acknowledgement.

Like an elder sore from the many years of life, Whisper lowers herself into the curled position that he had found her in.

He sighs, leans his head back—his pointed ears brushing the cushioned wall—and studies the ceiling, the single light reflecting off his eyes of oceans. 'Surely they'd be rescued. Surely somebody knows he is missing by now,' he assures himself as tears begin to form.