Nick Wilde

"Once you take a right, continue down two blocks while hugging the wall," Sebastian continues to direct me. I'm familiar now with this awkward zig-zag dance through the monitored streets, sticking to all the CCTV blind spots. While there are fewer cameras to avoid as I go on, the neighborhoods I'm passing through are also getting rougher. Zootopia's pretty safe for the most part, but hereabouts is the kinda area where carrying a fox taser is obligatory, much as I hate to say it.

"Are you trying to get me shanked?" I whisper into the phone. Cripes, I know for a fact that just a block from here a ZPD officer had been killed in a drug bust gone wrong.

"That won't happen, Mr. Wilde. If anyone attempts to harm you we'll take care of him."

That doesn't calm me down a whisker. In fact, that makes it so much worse because now I also gotta worry about some homeless mammal getting plugged because he's trying to ask me for change or something.

Though I'm trying to remain inconspicuous (well, as inconspicuous as I can be while taking an unusual route circumventing the CCTV cameras), I can't help but let my eyes wander. It isn't just me trying to look out for punks hopped up on Blue. I'm still looking for whoever's tailing me. But there's no movement behind or above, no suspicious shadows or the sound of footsteps. Just me on the phone with Sebastian, and him stringing me along with the threat of a sniper rifle pointed at my head.

"I would suggest you focus on my directions rather than trying to locate the Praetors who are keeping an eye on you."

I shudder, and turn to face forward as I head down to a dark corner of the block.

"Where to now?" I whisper into the phone.

"You're here."

Blinking, I look around. The buildings here are no more than two stories tall, and the brick walls are beginning to crumble. Punk teens had covered the place with graffiti, and it smells like a dumpster. The stench of moldy Bug Burgas and sour milk sting my nose.

But then in an alley to my right, there's movement. I nearly jump out of my skin.

He could've stayed right where he was and I never would've noticed. The only reason I was able to see him was because he wanted to be seen. It wasn't just where he'd been standing, pressed flat against the wall and just beyond my sight. It was the dull brown suit he wore that blended into the brick when he stood in the shadows. And it was the fact that his scent was muted... somehow flat and inert like an old rug that'd been left out in the sun too long.

I don't recognize him at first, this red fox standing in front of me. He only looks like a vaguely familiar tod, one with a gaunt, narrow face and cold eyes. He looks nothing like the fox I remember. There's no resemblance to the image I'd

conjure up whenever I'd reminisce... the one with a round, gentle face and a mouth that so easily twitched into a smile. The father who'd let me rest my head in his lap when I was sad, with the soft weight of his paw resting on my scalp. He seems so short too, but then I remember that I'm the one who's grown taller.

Sure that suit is well-tailored, and he's nicely groomed... good first impressions are so important for a fox, he used to tell me. But the tod standing before me, with those hardened features and stiff posture... I don't think I can ever see him letting me rest my head on his lap if I needed to cry, or buying a young me a blueberry Freezee to cheer me up.

"Nick..." he says, spreading open his arms, like he's inviting me in for a hug. That voice... for weeks I'd cried, thinking I'd never hear him speak my name ever again. It's a bit coarser than I remember, and thick with emotion. But this feels like a trap, and in the back of my mind I'm screaming in terror, imagining a set of iron spikes closing in around me if I step closer.

The thin half-smile he's wearing fades when he sees the look on my face, recognizes that I'm frozen stiff where I'm standing.

He sighs then, and lets his arms fall to his sides. "It's all right. I know this is difficult to process. I've waited twenty years to see you again, and I've run this exact scenario through my head a thousand times. Regardless... it's good to see you again, my boy."

"Y-you're dead..." I whisper, and my vision's getting blurry. I'm trembling now, like a sapling shaken by a strong wind. The tears are trailing down my cheeks and the back of my throat. I can taste the saltiness at the back of my tongue. "M-mom... she... she said... there was a car accident..."

I don't recognize him. This isn't him.

"Don't hold it against her, Nick. She didn't know."

"So... so the security camera footage..."

"A lure," he says, "We knew you were one of the officers on the task force. Woodruff was simply ordered to guide you alone to the security footage when he saw you. Failing that, we had other clues sprinkled around the city for you."

"Wait, the beaver mechanic?"

"He's clean. The poor fellow had to be pressed into service," Dad sighs. "I'll make sure he's well compensated."

Just then there's a shadow slipping in from behind me, and I whip around in a panic. It's an arctic fox, his fur and suit both white as snow, his eyes a cheerful blue. His paws are folded behind his back, and his mouth's curved in an easy, warm smile. It's reassuring somehow... calming, like I can trust him.

"Lovely to finally meet you, Mr. Wilde," he says, and I recognize the voice immediately. He'd been directing me this whole time, with a sniper at my back. Any hope that his might be a friendly face dies the moment he speaks. "I do hope we can be the closest of friends. Your father and I are just about the same age, you know. At one point perhaps you would've called me 'uncle.' Though I still like to think that we have a chance of being as close."

"Can't you give us a moment alone, Sebastian?" Dad asks sharply.

"You know that isn't possible, Jacob."

"Jacob?" I ask, turning to face my father. "Who's Jacob? You're John! John Wilde!"

"I do apologize, Nick," Sebastian interrupts, "but these late summer evenings are ever so short, and every minute we lose more of the night."

He moves his paws and I flinch, thinking he might be holding a gun. Instead he has a black hood and a pair of earplugs in his paws, while behind him a limo pulls up quietly in the street.

I've met some pretty dangerous mammals in my time as a hustler, dealt with mobsters and crime bosses. I know when to obey... when it's best to not ask any more questions.

Even though my head's covered and I've got my ears plugged I desperately try to get my bearings. My mind's racing, trying to focus on the motion of the car. Hell, I even try to carve every little bump and stop and turn into my mind, so that maybe later I can work off of intuition. It isn't long though before I lose track though.

Psychological stamina is a resource like any other, and I'm running low on my reserves. After the emotional rollercoaster today I'm feeling particularly vulnerable right now, especially now that I can't see or hear anything. And y'know, thinking about it, that's probably what these guys are banking on, and probably why they've abducted me at this time of night, all while I was heading home from Judy's and on the phone with Mom. After talking to the two women who I'm closest to I'm more emotionally exposed. They're messing with my head: softening me up for what's to come.

I need to recenter myself. Try to find that quiet spot in my head and focus more on restoring my mental reserves. I'll need my wits about me for what's to come.

I must've let out a whimper, because I feel a warm paw closing in around mine. Even though he's practically a stranger now, I know it's the fox claiming to be my Dad. There's a little comfort in that, at least.

Now the car is dipping forward, and even the scant light of the streetlamps that filters between the black fibers of the hood is gone. There's a new chill in the air, and a stillness that leaves my fur prickling. We've gone underground.

I think back to the last time I explored the sewer system, so many weeks ago when me and Charlie were taking a stealthier route to Shepsfield's house. Back then I'd mulled over the hidden warrens that might've been lost in the centuries of construction, whole blocks of streets that might've been buried. Back then I thought it might've been a place for small gangs to congregate, maybe even the site of a Blue lab or a nip grow-op. I've even pored through old historical maps in City Hall, marked off some likely locations for the ZIA to check for our sheep of interest.

I never imagined that I'd ever see this.

Sebastian removes the hood and lets me pull the plugs out of my ears. I blink at the pale yellow lights lining the walls, low-wattage incandescent bulbs that look like they're twenty years old. For diurnal mammals the hall would be dimly lit, but it's a comfortable level of illumination for a fox's eyes.

"Welcome," Sebastian says with a grin, "to the Twilight Cathedral."

It takes me a moment to gather myself. I scoot to the edge of the limo seat, still snuffling and trying to calm down. I scrub my eyes... anyone seeing me now would know that I've been crying softly while wearing that hood.

"Come along now," Sebastian urges cheerfully, nodding towards a tall set of double doors, the gray brick walls like those of a medieval castle.

"Give him a moment, Sebastian. Can't you see he's overwhelmed?" Dad insists.

"I... I'm fine. Just gimme a minute..."

Closing my eyes I put myself through the paces. For so long I'd gotten by with it as a survival technique, but I'd tried to shed the habit ever since I began to connect with Judy. With her I need to feel. But right now, with the danger I know I'm about to face, I need to survive.

Never let things get to you, Nick, I tell myself. Nothing gets to you. Not the kids who muzzled you. Not the sheep who tried to kill you.

That's it. Nothing gets to you.

When I open my eyes again I've settled down significantly. Now I just feel kinda numb inside, though I still let out the occasional hiccup, and my paw shivers when Dad takes it and pulls me out of the limo. My legs are shaky, but I put one foot in front of the other, and I blink away the pain.

We enter the atrium beyond, and now that I'm a bit more in control of my feelings I gawk, realizing that it is a cathedral. Well... in décor at least, not function. Dusty old tapestries hang from the walls, the blood-red carpet is soft beneath my feet. A massive chandelier hangs overhead, and candelabras on stands shed spooky, flickering lights throughout the massive chamber.

A haunting melody comes from the room beyond... one played in pure, ringing tones. It's slow and mournful, and the sound of it is... I hate to use the cliché, but... ethereal. Dad and Sebastian lead me down to the next set of double-doors as I turn and look at all the old-world elements. Whoever set this place up either had really classical sensibilities, or they lived three hundred years ago.

The music is coming from the next room, and as we get closer the sound is driving an icy chill through me. I stand up straight like a cold metal spike is sliding down through my spine. The room here is an enormous lounge, with fox-sized leather chairs and tables, and classy bookshelves lining the walls. No Harold Porker novels here... the dusty old tomes look like they're almost as old as the Twilight Cathedral itself.

There's a crowd of foxes here: the tods are in fine suits and ties, the small scattering of vixens in gowns that accentuate their fine figures. It's no cocktail party. Everyone is standing stiff and at attention, almost like they're viewing a royal procession.

In the middle of it is an elderly fox. His fingers are dancing over the strange instrument, like a horizontal column of glass with copper rings at even intervals. A copper pipe is suspended above the thing, dripping water over the glass. Each time he caresses the surface with a feather-light touch a tone, so pure and sweet it almost seems to cut into my ears, sings out.

The tod's sleek, his brick-red fur generously salted with white hairs. He's gotta be seventy, maybe eighty years old: the fur on his muzzle and around his eyes is bone-white with age, and the pattern leaves him looking like he's wearing one of those plague doctors' masks from the Middle Ages. There's something stately about him, the way he stands straight in that dark violet paisley-patterned suit, playing the instrument with smooth expertise.

And then, in a slow, receding hum, he finishes. I hadn't recognized the tune, but there was something mournful and classical about it.

He looks up at me then, with those hard yellow eyes.

I put my paws together, feeling like there should be applause. But the moment I start to clap everyone looks at me and I suddenly feel extremely, extremely awkward.

Oh my god I'm going to die, aren't I?

The old fox stares at me, and I feel a nudge against my back. Hesitantly, I take a step forward. And then another, until I'm three feet away from the musician.

"Bearthovens third symphony, Sinfonica Eroica," he says in the hoary old voice of a history professor. "The second movement, Marcia Funebre: Adiago Assai, adapted for the glass armonica. I always favored this instrument. Such pure tones."

"It's... it was lovely. Really nice," I say, forcing a smile. I really wish I knew the protocol here. Am I supposed to kneel? Kiss his paw? Hell, kiss his feet? Honestly at this point I'm willing to do anything to get out of this unscathed. He seems even deadlier than Mr. Big.

"Bearthoven was going deaf as he was composing this piece," he continues, pressing a switch on the side of the instrument. The column of glass cups had been rotating this whole time, I realize, and now he's switched it off. "Little wonder then that he contemplated suicide. Yet even as the most precious of his musician's senses was in decline, his single greatest asset was intact. Do you know what that was, Nicholas?"

"His... his mind?" I gulp.

"Very astute," he nods. "Despite his condition the great composer pressed on, the brilliance for the art shining forth even as the silence continued to close in upon him. And in the span of years to follow he would give us his fourth symphony, his fifth, his sixth... and then, finally, he would give the world the greatest work known to mammalkind. His ninth symphony."

"Well, I know some of those, at least." I'm far from classically educated, but even I'm not a complete dullard when it comes to this stuff.

"That shall be you, my Nicholas. My grandson. My heir. I am Rufinius Varius Frisk, the Prince, and you shall be my Ode to Joy."

Again, it feels like there should be applause. Some expression of celebration from the crowd. But all they do is bow their heads to the deafening silence.

The old tod reaches out to me then, cupping my cheeks. I don't have much time to react when he pulls me in for a kiss on the mouth. I stand there stiff, wide-eyed, his muzzle pressed to mine. He smells like smoked tea and jasmine.

It hadn't taken much reasoning to figure out who he is. But ever since I was a kid the only grandparents I'd known were from my mother's side. Dad's family was just nonexistent. There'd been no aunts, no uncles... it never occurred to me that he ever had any living family members. I guess I always assumed Dad was an orphan or something.

Now that I'm muzzle-to-muzzle with my grandfather, literally, no less, the thought of Dad's side of the family seems so alien to me, so terrifying, that I feel like I'm standing in some sort of dream. The haunting echo of the instrument's surreal melody seems to still ring in my ears, and that doesn't help.

I gasp when he lets me pull away, and clutching a paw to my chest I look back at the fox who claimed to be my Dad, then at Sebastian, and then back to the old fox. There's nothing familiar about this. Nothing that I can really connect to. I'm Alice who's fallen through the rabbit hole, Gulliver abandoned on the shore. I'm just a stupid former con artist who's somehow slipped and fallen into this insane new world.

I must've watched one too many horror movies too, because it feels as if the foxes around me are gonna hold me down, drain my blood, and turn me into a vampire or something.

"W-well..." I swallow, mind racing to find a way out of this situation. "I'm flattered by the vote of confidence, but... I really don't see myself in any of this. I'm just a simple fox trying to make a living. I've got a nine-to-five job, a 401K, a dental plan... it's... I'm gonna have a hard time fitting anything else into my career. So while it's nice to meet you I'm sure you're all very busy and-"

"You will make room easily enough," says Rufinius. Even in my head thinking of him as just 'Gramps' is impossible.

"Look, I really don't know what you guys do here, and I don't want to know. I saw nothing here, I'll say nothing. I've gone clean now. Whatever you guys do I'm just not capable of this kind of life anymore, so-"

Before I can even blink he's cracked his paw across my face, hard enough to throw me to the ground. He may be old but the guy has a strong right paw. I look up at him in shock, rubbing my cheek, and all of a sudden I feel like a twelve-year-old kit again. The tears are welling up in my eyes once more.

"I know perfectly well what you're capable of. You were central in the Shepsfield affair, were you not?" he says coldly, flexing his fingers. The dampness of his palm from playing the glass armonica gave an extra sting to the blow. "Do not lie, Nicholas. Not to your enemies, not to your friends, and especially not to me. It is tawdry and it is cheap. A truly cunning fox is capable of deception without lying. Now come. Let us celebrate your arrival."

.

.

Isaac Mohegan Conall

"I'm afraid I don't have your talent when it comes to brewing a cup of tea, so I hope this will suffice."

Director Seraphine presents me with a mug of Darjeeling. I can tell from the aroma that the water had been a touch too hot, and as a result the astringency of the leaves had been enhanced. I add a splash of milk to round it out, and a small spoonful of cane sugar to sweeten it.

"Thank you for seeing me," I say as I breathe in the aromas of my mug. "I do apologize for the sudden drop-in."

Fortunate for me that snow leopards, like wolves, tend towards a nocturnal schedule. At this time of Night Seraphine is at her most active. Like me I'm sure she appreciates the silence. Easier to get work done.

"I'm always happy to make time for you, Isaac, though I suspect this isn't a social call."

It is a mere colloquialism on her part, a habit inculcated in her through years of boarding school. I'd known the moment I walked in the door that she was far from happy. I could smell the adrenaline and cortisol flowing through her veins, intermingled with an assortment of other stress hormones. It's trickled from her in her breath and sweat, lending a metallic bitterness and a sharp heat to her scent beneath the lavender perfume.

"I am concerned, Margot. This afternoon Bogo gave me a call. He wanted me to expand my schedule, accommodate more of his officers. I heard what happened on the news in that warehouse, and I can easily imagine what many in the ZPD are going through."

"Rival drug lords aren't known for being gentle," she says coolly as she sips her coffee.

Technically she is telling the truth, though beneath it there is a faintly sweet unctuousness that begins to bloom. It's very subtle, almost imperceptible, but I know she's hiding something.

"Margot..." I say gently. "We've worked long enough to earn each others' respect. I had hoped there wouldn't be any secrets between us."

"Pity then, that secrets are so central to our chosen careers."

"True enough," I nod, "But I know the Frisk family has returned."

One cannot be promoted to be the director of the ZIA if one loses their composure easily. The most I get from her is a level gaze over the rim of her mug.

"You are a dangerous wolf, Isaac. Did you figure it out just now?"

"I've known for a while. There is a palpable tension in the air when I see the ZIA agents. I've not seen such behavior in well over two decades."

I'd only just begun my practice back then in 1995. With the spate of kidnappings and the plague of murders and mutilations, the strain on the ZIA stretched many agents to their limits. Though I was young and the ink on my doctorate was still drying, my reputation had gotten me an office at their headquarters for a time.

"The ZIA is more prepared to deal with the matter now than we were twenty years ago," she says with firm conviction.

"With all due respect, back then the Frisks were forced to divide their resources in the Blood Wars. They had twelve other First Families to contend with," I take a moment to sip my tea. Beneath the milk the Darjeeling is arboreal and cooling, with a depth that's almost wine-like. "I am already working with the ZPD to help mitigate any damage. I am offering my services to you as well."

"I have ten psychologists in my employ already, and they work as a cohesive unit to keep my agents' mental health in check." Margot had attempted to recruit me for this unit of hers of course, but I'd been too busy at the time with my research.

Besides, I'm a lone wolf for the most part. I pursue my own agendas.

"None of whom have my talents," I counter. "And really, Margot... Gerard Lutrin? You might as well hire a marriage counselor for all the good he'll do."

"I would be lying if I said I wasn't concerned," she sighs as she glances out the window. The city is glowing against the night sky, a sight so lovely that it's difficult to imagine the ugliness that lay beneath. "Many agents have a personal stake in combating the Frisk threat. It gives them a hunger to see the Frisks defeated, but a certain instability as well."

She mulls it over for a moment, staring into the mug in her spotted white paws.

"What is it you need?"

"My original security clearance and access to my old notes should suffice for now," I say calmly.

"That may be doable," she nods.

"And if possible, I would like access to the psych profiles of any agents on the task force. It would be most useful."

Seraphine looks up from her tea suddenly, and her eyes narrow. "You're asking for me to order a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality? That is most uncharacteristic."

I give her a mild, almost placating smile with a precisely calculated level of warmth. "We both know that when it comes to the ZIA there is no such thing as confidentiality. Not for you at least, especially with the stakes involved in facing the Frisks again. What happens when an agent has a psychotic break in the middle of the mission? Or suffers from a persistent subclinical case of anxiety due to the stress? The Frisks aren't merely nip dealers and mammal traffickers, Margot. Nor do they rely on assassination as the sole means to their goals. They will do what they can to drive their enemies completely mad."

Her eyes narrow. "I will consider your offer."

"That is all I'm asking for," I say simply, setting my mug down. "In the meantime, I will sniff around the ZPD and keep your agents in check. With your permission of course."

"As if I could stop you."

"You could always have my tea poisoned."

"I like you far too much to do that. For now at least," Seraphine chuckles. "Tell me, Doctor... what does encroaching madness smell like?"

"Depends on the disorder," I say, standing up and straightening my coat. "Anything from a fevered sweetness, to the zest of a bitter orange."

Though for a condition like psychopathy, you would smell and suspect nothing at all.

.

.

ZIA FILE CIR-332.53

The following file is classified and restricted to operators possessing Security Clearance Level 3 and above. Those NOT possessing an SCL-3 or higher who continue to read this document face SEVERE DISCIPLINARY ACTION under Zootopia's State Security Code 114.23.

NAME: Sebastian Dusk (Codename: "The Smiler")

SPECIES: Fox (Arctic)

BIRTH DATE: Dec. 21, 1965 (age 51)

HEIGHT: 4'2"

WEIGHT: 77 lbs

NOTABLE FEATURES: Ever-present and persistent smile.

HISTORY: Of all the Praetors on file, Sebastian Dusk has the most extensive available personal history. Born to [REDACTED], Sebastian was known for his even temperament and sociable nature. No records from his elementary or high school years indicate any disciplinary problems. Dusk graduated from [REDACTED] and entered Zootopia University in 1983. There he earned a Bachelors degree in Mammalian Anatomy with a minor in Political Science, and in 1988 began applying to Zootopia Medical University.

His first two applications were rejected, but in 1991 Dusk was finally accepted into ZMU. Grades were middling, and though he was noted as possessing a high level of charisma, advisers noted that Dusk struggled with his academic work. In 1993, Dusk left ZMU without completing his second year. ZIA analysts suspect a psychological breakdown was the cause.

In 1994, Dusk was reported by [REDACTED] as having been recruited into the Vulpes Sanguinis. By 1996, Dusk began operating as Rufinius Frisk's chief negotiator and envoy.

In March of 2006, Dusk was reportedly involved in [REDACTED]. Search of the area found the bodies of two ZIA operatives [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]. Autopsies revealed subjects were alive for at least forty-eight hours, during which time [REDACTED] and severe [REDACTED]. It is unknown how much classified information was revealed as a result, but observations of Sanguinis activity in [REDACTED] indicate that the Sanguinis now possess at least Level-III classified information regarding [REDACTED]. This is the most severe security breach to a terrorist organization to date. (See Appendix 2201.4 for full intelligence report on this matter)

In August of 2017, Dusk was reported by [REDACTED] as having approached him accompanied by Mr. Smythe and Jacob Frisk in a hotel room. The encounter resulted in the murder of an arctic fox, [REDACTED] during [REDACTED]. Subject has been placed under ZIA protection.

TALENTS: Sebastian Dusk has not been directly observed in combat, but reports suggest that he possesses relatively little experience or skill for a Vulpes Sanguinis Praetor. Despite this, the deaths of at least 8 mammals can be attributed to him in combat situations.

Dusk possesses a strong working knowledge of mammalian anatomy, which he has repurposed for interrogation. Forensic experts who have analyzed his work describe his talents as being equivalent to a 5-10 year surgical veteran. Recovery at multiple incident sites suggest a confirmed body count of 22 from Dusk's interrogation techniques. The real number is likely much higher.

Dusk is known to have exceptional interpersonal talents, being able to slip in and out of any social situation presented to him with ease. He has been known to talk himself past guards and security forces, and in the case of [REDACTED] was able to convince a once-psychologically healthy subject to attempt suicide in the span of 2 hours.

Dusk is an expert at negotiation and manipulation. How much of this is due to his personal charisma and how much is due to the terror he is capable of inducing due to his reputation is unknown.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: With Dusk's charm and apparent lack of guilt, ZIA psychologists have ranked him as possibly scoring a 32-36 on the Hare Psychopathy Test. His penchant for torture also suggests that Dusk has some degree of Sadistic Personality Disorder. However, other signs and symptoms indicate that his anomalous mentality may instead be due to abnormalities along a wholly different psychological axis.

Subjects who have encountered Dusk describe him as possessing a perpetually cheerful attitude that immediately engenders trust. This attitude is indistinguishable from normal expressions of good humor. Indeed, initial encounters with Dusk portray him as friendly, warm, and rational.

Very few reports show Dusk as having exhibited any instances of emotion outside of joy. Whether this is due to immense self-control or a neurological inability to process or express other emotions is unknown. A rare mood disorder remains a distinct possibility.

While ZIA analysts believe he was born with this condition, the events of 1991-1993 may have catalyzed a severe shift in his psyche towards his unusual form of psychosis.