Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.
The Fire Triangle—A Zootopia Fanfiction
Part One:
Fuel
Chapter 10 –When A Fox Goes Rabbit
(Continued…Pt. 6)
"Aggggggh, grrrrrr…no, no, nooooo!"
Conor Lewis jumped up out of his chair and proceeded to perform an improvised, war-dance, stomping around the kitchen table while slashing with his claws at invisible enemies.
"Dang! Stupid! Aggggh! Grrrr!"
On the third circuit, he finally stopped, leaning with his paws against the tabletop and breathing hard, staring into his laptop's display screen. This was a mistake, right? He hadn't really seen that thing; he'd only imagined it. Or maybe someone was messing with him…yeah, that was it; he was being trolled, spoofed…
No, he wasn't; there it was, right in front of him, his police-file photographs and right underneath, a memo from Chief Bogo to all ZPD Precincts. Be on the lookout for Conor Severis Lewis, silver fox, age 14, just escaped from…
Aggggh, grrrr…they KNEW!
"Dangit, too soon!" Conor fox-screamed at the laptop, "How the HECK did you figure it out so fast? I should have had at least until tonight; TOO! SOON!"
Had he been in a rational state of mind, the agitated young silver fox might have stopped to consider that things could be worse, a lot worse. For instance, the ZPD hadn't discovered his release order was bogus until after he'd made those alterations to his police file. (The memo from Chief Bogo had listed his middle name under the new spelling, Severis rather than Severus.)
And the cops still seemed to have no idea that he'd made those changes—or even that he'd been poking around inside their database.
Conor Lewis was not in a lucid state of mind, however; if that had been case, he wouldn't be throwing a tantrum worthy of a fox-cub half his age.
But what the heck else was he supposed to do? The fact of where his life had gone was finally hitting him full force—down the drain, flushed away, sayonara, and goodbye to all that. No more Performing Arts Academy, no more hanging out with his buds, no more movies, no more jams in Lionheart Park, and no more Erin Hopps.
So the heck with being sensible, I'm gonna lose it over here.
It was inevitable that at some point, Conor would turn his wrath on himself…and that was what he did now, beating himself up from here to downtown Pawkeepsie.
"What the heck did I have to go and oversleep for? Why didn't I set my stupid alarm? Why didn't I at least check in online right after I got up? Dumb, Dumb, Dummity-Dumb!"
He had planned to sleep for no more than six hours, eight hours max. Instead he'd been out for the full count of ten….and three hours into that sleep, Claire Swinton had made a hasty call to Chief Bogo. Eight more hours…eight more precious hours had passed before the young fox learned that the cops were onto to his escape.
Yes, eight hours…not seven. That was the part that really made the furious young fox want to slap himself around the loft. Upon finally awakening, he had insisted upon taking a shower and grabbing something to eat before booting up his laptop. And then…what the HECK, they knew? How had they figured it out so fast—HOW?
He flopped back down on the chair again, his pique finally waning. No one had heard his rant just now; you could set off a bomb in here and no one on the street below would hear it. Letting his paws fall into his lap, Conor tried to get his breathing under control. Dangit, he needed to calm down and think. What the heck had happened while he'd been asleep?
"…and then afterwards, while you were showering and chowing down instead of—SHADDUP!"
There was only one place he could go for the answers, back into the belly of The Beast. He got up and began to follow the trail of clothes he'd left the night before, returning to the entrance of the Furrison Hotel.
Almost as soon as he logged back into the ZPD database, Conor saw something that made him feel better, a lot better…so much better that he even raised his paws and whooped.
ZPD Cybercrimes had been given the task of running him down—yes!
It wasn't that Tufts and his guys would be pushovers; Conor had already succumbed to the siren-song of overconfidence once this afternoon (afternoon!) He was not going to make that same mistake twice…and so he performed a quick mental recap, going over everything he knew about the ZPD Cybercrimes chief. First of all, this was a seriously resilient tree-rat. More than once, Lieutenant Tufts had lost a battle with a cybercrook, only to come back later and win the war. Furthermore, his standard response to any setback was to get his ruthless on; he was willing to play however down and dirty he needed, in order to bring in a perp.
Stroking at his muzzle for a moment, Conor came to a swift conclusion; like Zootopia Deputy Prosecutor Rudy Gamsbart, this squirrel was NOT someone you wanted to dismiss too easily.
Even so, better him than Nick Wilde and/or Judy Hopps. For all that had happened, Conor still both liked and respected his fellow fox and bunny-cop. He would have felt more the a little guilty at having to cross swords with them again. With Tuffguy Tufts and his merry band of cyberthugZ, he had no such qualms. Come and get me, coppers; it's on!
Even better, from the young fox's point of view, he had some leverage on Albert Tufts; an ace-of-spades to lay down on that bushytailed jerkwit if he started to get too close. Wham, Blackjack, chump!
Leaving the squirrel where he was for the moment, Conor moved on through the ZPD database, looking for more info. Ah-ha, so THAT was how they'd figured out his escape. Just his luck that Officer Swinton had been aware of the Neil Moose and Lekins-Pawlker prison breaks. For a moment, the young fox pondered whether Tufts might bring her on board with Cybercrimes for the duration. He hoped not; this sow was one of the sharper tools in the shed.
The next tidbit of information he came across was an order from the desk of Chief Bogo. Effective immediately, all detainees held in the city jail would not be permitted to make calls using their own phones. Conor smiled for a second. In strict, technical terms, this was known as closing the cage door after the bird has flown. Just as quickly, however, his smile faded; an order like that could mean only one thing; the ZPD also knew how he'd planted that malware in their The next tidbit of information he came across was an order from the desk of Chief Bogo. Effective immediately, all detainees held in the city jail would not be permitted to make calls using their own phones. Conor smiled for a second. In strict, technical terms, this was known as closing the cage door after the bird has flown. Just as quickly, however, his smile faded; an order like that could mean only one thing; the ZPD also knew how he'd planted that malware in their database.
"Do not underestimate these guys," the young fox reminded himself, before moving on again.
Scrolling through the stack of memos, Conor soon discovered another directive from the Chief, this one temporarily suspending all releases from the city youth jail. That was hardly a surprise, but the young fox still wasn't happy about it; he had never liked seeing anyone else pay the price for something HE had done. (He could only hope the order wouldn't stay in place for very much longer.)
The next thing he learned was…whoa, good thing he'd altered his police photos before turning in. Just as he'd predicted, the ZPD was running a search for him using their Impalta facial recognition software. And although Conor had made every effort to avoid being caught by a security camera on his way home the night before, he couldn't be certain he'd dodged them all. The city was getting more and more adept at concealing those little sneak-eyes.
That reminded him of something, and next up, he went to check the status of his DNA match. Yep, again as he'd expected, the ZPD had put it on the fast-track.
Or…wait a minute, not quite.
Hmmm, well now, wasn't this interesting? ZPD Cybercrimes had forwarded a request for emergency funding to City Hall by way of the Attorney General's office; apparently the ZHSU GenLab wanted their pawlms crossed with silver before they'd make the Conor Lewis DNA match a priority.
Conor had logged into the ZPD database with the idea of simply observing, rather than manipulating any data. This, however, was just too good an opportunity to pass up, (and definitely worth the risk.) He swiftly tracked the funding request to the Attorney General's, Office, discovering that as of yet, there had been no reply. And so off he went to the City Hall database. (With all three systems interconnected, it was piece of cake.) When he got there, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles; the request was still pending, pressing circumstances or not.
Three seconds later, with the stroke of a few computer keys, it had been changed from an emergency to a routine funding request. For several more seconds, the fugitive young silver fox toyed with the idea of adding an extra zero to the desired amount, gumming up the works even further. He quickly rejected that idea; while it would certainly add a further delay to the process, it might also motivate someone in City Hall to call the ZPD, asking for an explanation. In that case, it would take Tuffguy Tufts' crew all of half a minute to realize they had a fly in their ointment.
Leaving the funding request with only that single alteration, Conor backtracked to the AG's office and the ZPD, editing their copies as well. When he left the Furrison a few minutes later, he felt almost himself again…and even a little embarrassed at his earlier meltdown.
All right, no rest for the wicked; he had things to get done—and he could start by picking up those clothes he'd left on the floor. After that, he needed to get his bike put away and check his provisions and supplies. (Now that the ZPD was onto him, he was going to need to hole up here for as long as possible.)
After accomplishing the first two tasks, Conor started by checking his food supplies. At present, his larder was about ¾ of the way full; could be better, could be worse. He estimated that he had enough grub to last for maybe a week, longer if he could bring himself to include the military rations stashed in one of the storerooms. And speaking of the storerooms, there was his next stop.
Each one was fronted by a stout fire-door, a two-inch thick partition fitted with a counterweight, and moving on a sliding, diagonal track. All three were painted in obsidian black and equipped with face-hardened padlocks.
The first storeroom contained not only the emergency food rations but also several cabinets of medical supplies. Most of these would serve no purpose; Conor could handle wraps, ointments, and bandages, but other than that, forget it. He didn't have a clue as to how to give himself an injection, much less suture a wound—and what the heck was he supposed to do with a defibrillator? As for the meds, there was Zebuprofen and cough syrup and everything else was a mystery. Furrosemide, what was that for? The young fox didn't know and he didn't want to find out either.
Of much more interest were the two trunks containing a variety of fur-bleaches and dyes—and, most important, a large supply of fur-wash infused with biological deodorizer…enough to last for years, if need be. (This place, after all, had been set up as hideout for a sea-mink, one of the strongest smelling species out there.)
There was also a collection of scents for various other mammals, the majority of which were useless. Nearly all of them were geared towards various mustelid species, animals for which a fox could not possibly hope to pass. (Whoever heard of a weasel with pointed ears?) The only mustelid Conor might be able to get away with imitating was a pine-marten—and even then only if he tried to pose as a bigger-than-average adult.
It didn't matter; over the past three years, he'd managed to accumulate a small collection of scents of his own, all well suited for a fox attempting to disguise himself as some other animal.
Exiting the first storeroom, the young fox deliberately bypassed the second one; he couldn't have gotten inside it if he'd wanted to. And he DIDN'T want to, so much so that he'd made certain access was all but impossible. He'd begun by dipping the key to room number 2 in epoxy glue and breaking it off in the padlock. After that, he had epoxied the door-runners, and severed the counterweight cable with a pair of bolt-cutters.
The first, and only, time he'd been inside that storeroom, Conor had been shocked at what he'd seen—although in retrospect, he shouldn't have. This loft had originally been intended as a hideout for, James 'The Mister' McCrodon, the most notorious illegal arms merchant on the east coast. It stood to entirely reason that such a creature would want his hideaway fitted out with an armory…in this case, one containing enough ordnance to fight a small war.
Conor hated guns, he always had, and so he'd sealed up the number two storeroom as best he could; he wanted no part of what was behind that door.
It was a wholly inadequate solution, he thought, but the best he could manage under the circumstances—and what other options did he have? He couldn't sell those weapons and for sure he couldn't dump them. So instead, he'd done his best to put them out of reach.
That, however, only applied to the lethal weapons; the nonlethal ones—the traumatic weapons, as Danny Tipperin always called them—had been moved to storeroom number three. Something that wouldn't kill but only disable an opponent—that the young fox could handle no sweat.
When he entered the third storeroom, (the one reserved for miscellaneous items,) the first thing he did was pull up a small section of the floor, reveling a hidden safe. This was not where he kept the money from the Rafaj Brothers…for the simple reason that there wasn't enough room inside; this safe had already been full when he found it—a good six figures worth of cash X2…at least.
Conor had always believed that there had to be a money cache hidden in here somewhere. True, Kieran hadn't mentioned it in the instructions he'd left on the young fox's cell phone…but then he hadn't said anything about the arsenal next door either, (and he HAD dropped one or two hints.) As with the weapons depot, it was a simple matter of logic; no way would The Mister have set up a hidey-hole like this without making certain he had plenty of cash on hand. (Who knew? He might have to flee Zoo York with little more than the clothes on his back.)
Even so, he hadn't discovered the floor safe until nearly a year into his residency, almost literally tripping over it. Looking down at the circle of steel beneath his feet, he could feel his expression turning thoughtful. Unlike the money from the blood diamond sale, the funds inside this floor-safe were guaranteed clean and untraceable. How differently might everything have worked out, if he'd found it right after moving in here? He probably wouldn't be in his current predicament.
"And you'd also never have hooked up with Finnick," the young fox's inner voice reminded him archly, "and a lot of honest, hard-working animals would have had it stuck to them, just because of their species," It was cold comfort at best, but right now he'd take any succor he could get.
He reached down and opened the safe, more to make sure that he still remembered the combination than for any other reason—that, and to make certain that the power-assist was working. (The door was too heavy for him to open otherwise.)
'Power', that brought something else to soon as Conor was finished here, he should have Mother, (his name the loft's Operating System,) run a diagnostic on the generator one floor below. Maybe he should even have her start it up, just to make certain it was running.
He also decided that, like the Ranger Scouts and the scrawny lion said, it was always better to be prepared.
And so, instead of closing the safe up right away, the young fox reached inside and hauled up one of the two duffel-bags stored within its maw, (the one containing the smaller denominations.) He selected a stack of tens, and then zipped the bag back up again and dropped it back inside the safe.
Yes, he planned to remain cloistered inside the loft for at least the following week …longer, if need be. However, he was not so young and naïve as to be unaware that reality has a way of dashing expectations; (for example, the cops were already onto him.) There was always the chance he might have to leave the safety of his loft sooner than he expected—whether he wanted to or not.
With that in mind, Conor began to gather up some further supplies.
He started things off by retrieving two items from their wall pegs, a backpack and a messenger bag, both done up in urban camo. To each of these, he added a tactical pen, a pair of hi-def mini binoculars, a tactical flashlight, a can of pepper-mace, (disguised as air-fresher,) and a telescoping baton. Both of the latter were the old skool model, with spring-steel third stages and a lead-filled knob on the end.
That took care of the messenger bag, but for the backpack, a few more things were needed.
Conor started with a small, portable, fold-up, remote-control drone—one that he could run off his cell phone, no extra controls required. To this he added a weapon that looked like a paintball-gun, but was actually a pellet-dart gun, (of the kind once employed by the rogue sheep Doug.) It was a compromise model, a carbine; long enough to have some accuracy over distance, but short enough to allow for at least a modicum of concealment. It could fire either in single shot mode or in three-round bursts. Each of the clips held fifteen shots, and could accommodate either tranquilizer pellets, or…or…
He looked away, out the door…towards his writing desk, where the red and blue pellets Danny had given him remained safely locked way. Why he'd never simply flushed those things, the young fox had no idea, but even now, (especially now,) he couldn't bring himself to retrieve them. Conor had seen what those bad boys could do to someone—heck, he'd done a lot more than just see it—and he never wanted to have that experience again.
He put four extra trank-dart clips in the rucksack, along with two spare CO2 canisters. Then he walked over to a footlocker and flipped it open, pulling out a rectangular black box with Cyrillic lettering on the side.
Inside was a weapon almost comical in its appearance, something that looked like a quad barreled flare gun…or maybe a toy for shooting ping-pong balls. Once, some years ago, Conor had seen Danny Tipperin pull one on a Furrida Panther, an animal at least four times his size. The big cat had taken one look at the thing in the swift-fox's paw and nearly laughed his tail off, "Where's the rest of your gun shorty?"
The next thing he'd said was…nothing; he'd been out cold.
The four barreled oddity was an URSA, a Russian-made weapon that could fire a variety of gas-driven projectiles, lead-core rubber bullets, pepper gas, smoke-bombs, mini flash-bang grenades, and yes, flares. It could also fire a two special cartridges Danny had created himself. The first, a mixture of glue, ink, and etching fluid was for taking out automobile windshields. The second projectile contained a foul-smelling concoction called 'Who Me.'
This wasn't intended simply as a repellent, (although it did have that effect.) Get hit by Who Me while you're tracking another animal's scent and that's all she wrote, son. The stench will instantly mask any odor that your quarry might be giving off…and forget about trying to rinse the stuff out of your fur; it won't even wash out. (Conor made sure to include at least two Who Me cartridges in his backpack; the ZPD had tried to tail him by way of his scent at least one time before.)
The last item to go into the backpack was downright insignificant in its appearance, especially when compared with everything that had preceded it. It was a small piece of electronic hardware, no bigger than a cube of margarine; with a pixel display-screen and an attached USB cable.
Looks, however, could be deceiving; the little device was actually a gadget known as an Icarus Box…and it was one of the most powerful defensive tools the young fox possessed.
Conor shut the backpack and hefted it, feeling the weight. All right, that was enough for now; he would add more items later as he thought of them.
Leaving the messenger bag and knapsack next to the entrance gate, Conor next returned to his bicycle rack,
This time he left the Bolt where it was, opting instead for a different ride.
It was a simple affair, flat bars, flat pedals, a single, fixed gear, and brakes on the front wheel only—the set-up of choice for Zoo York City bicycle messengers.
Unlike everything else he'd requisitioned, Conor's messenger bike had not come with the loft. He'd acquired it on Zbay about a year ago and painted the frame himself.
He'd made a complete mess of it; the messenger bike's frame was a hideous mishmash of black and fluorescent orange, as crudely rendered as drive-by graffiti. The band of duct tape encircling the front of the saddle didn't add to the aesthetics either.
That, in fact, was the general idea; uglifying your ride (to discourage thieves) was another common practice of ZYC bicycle messengers. And the young fox's messenger bike would have been a very tempting target for a rip-off artist, had they known what lurked beneath that paint-job; a titanium frame and a slew of top end components.
Conor hadn't ridden this bike much, but you better believe he knew how to ride it; it was the big brother of the one he'd used to run errands back in the day when The Company all but owned his tail. He'd been an absolute terror on that bike; he'd had to be. Whenever The Mister had given him a message to run, he'd always wanted it delivered five minutes ago. Thus it was that the young silver fox had learned to ride fast and hard through the streets of Barklyn—and devil take the hindmost.
Looking thoughtfully at his messenger bike, Conor wondered for a moment how many of those 'mad riding skillz' he still possessed; he might very well need them shortly.
He left the bike propped against the wall beside the entrance-gate, with the messenger bag parked against its front wheel.
Okay, now for his heavy duty ride.
It stood waiting under a drop-cloth at the opposite end of the loft….which the young fox now pulled away to reveal a stripped down, slab-sided ,electric mini-moto bike. It was an aggressive looking little so-and-so; a Furzarelli NKD, special edition. Slightly mil-spec in appearance, it had flanks resembling solar-panels and a pair of LED headlights. It could go 60 Mph, top end, and travel 75 miles on a battery charge.
Conor was a lot less familiar with this machine than he'd have liked to be. He had never ridden it on the street—strictly illegal—only tooled it around the loft a few times. (Up until a year ago, he'd been too short to ride it at all.)
Even without his limited experience, taking the Furz outside would be a huge gamble for the young silver fox…an even bigger risk, now that he was a wanted mammal. Conor understood that all too well; it was why he intended to make use of this machine either only as last resort, or in case of a dire emergency. Other than that, it wasn't going anywhere.
He hadn't played with The Furz for some time now and so, just as he expected, the remaining battery-power was almost negligible. No problem; there was a charging station over by store-room 3. After plugging it in and parking the backpack beside it, Conor made a quick check of his watch; a little after 3:30.
He looked over towards the Furrison, and The Beast within. At precisely 9:37 P.M., Zootopia Time, Guildenkranz would be logging on to their secure chat-server. He would wait exactly five minutes for his partner to show, and then be gone until the same time tomorrow.
Having already messed things up once today, the young silver fox was determined not to do it again. He lifted his muzzle and spoke for the benefit of the loft's voice control system.
"Mother, record please, ten seconds." he said.
"Recording," she answered in her feminine robotic voice.
Conor waited for half a second and then spoke again—loudly. "Hey dumb fox, get your stupid tail online right NOW and go talk to Guild!"
He waited for the ping to tell him the recording had completed, and then spoke again, toning it down a little.
"Mother, play that back at full volume, 21:15 hours, this evening."
He waited for her to acknowledge the command and then let out a puffing breath. Chatting online with Guild so soon after his escape would be his riskiest move yet—but also entirely necessary; they needed to talk.
Not for a while though, not for another six hours—six long hours that were going to seem like years.
Well…there were a few more things he could get done in the meantime; hadn't he said something earlier about the generator?
And while Conor went about his various tasks, a number of other things were happening elsewhere.
Back at the Zootopia City Youth Jail, the hyena and coyote that had been closest to the fugitive silver fox were each rigorously questioned by ZPD Cybercrimes. Shem Bawula told them nothing and Craig Guilford told them everything—none of which was useful and at least some of which he made up.
That was the first time either one of them had heard of Conor's escape from custody, and as soon as they left the Lieutenant's office the word began to spread—like wildfire. Within the hour, every kid in the detention facility was privy to what had gone down—and they were absolutely loving it. Some of them even dared to make taunting remarks to the correctional officers. Among these animals was Brian Van Staag, the young deer-buck who'd led the applause when Conor had been taken from the courtroom. Scheduled for release himself that day, Brian had at first been miffed to learn that his rendezvous with the street was being postponed. When he'd found out why however, his attitude had done a quick 180. Way to go, fox-kid! Oooo, he couldn't wait to get out of here and tell the guys.
The young spike-buck needn't have been so anxious; within another half hour, the news of Conor's escape had breached the walls of Precinct-1. An hour after that the first mention of it was posted online; (on Dik-Dok, to be precise.)
And, like all good rumors, this one became juicier and more lurid with each and every retelling.
It was at about this time that Ian Shortal answered his doorbell and found Albert Tufts waiting on his front steps, along with a half-a-dozen officers of the ZPD.
"Sir," the Lieutenant informed the weasel brusquely, motioning to the officer on his right, (Francine Trunkaby) "We have a warrant to search your computer."
Ever the embodiment of grace under pressure, Mr. Shortal insisted upon reading the warrant before allowing the officers access to his home. (It was genuine of course, signed off by the Honorable Judge George L. Schatten.)
When he returned the document a moment later, Tufts had more news to impart. "We also need to ask you a few questions."
"Not without a solicitor present I think," the Scottish stoat responded, coolly, "I know ma rights, laddie."
Just then, a voice called down from upstairs.
"Uh, Lieutenant, I think you better come up here."
Tufts had officer Fangmeier carry him up to the second floor. Entering the bedroom he found one of his techs, a beaver named Del Beirch, huddled in front of the Shortal desktop with his face blocking the screen.
"Dangit Birch, will you move out of the way?" the Kaibab squirrel chittered irritably…and then he was chittering furiously, his tail snapping like a pennant in a stiff wind.
There, on the display screen, was a message.
Warning –Your Computer Has Been Encrypted With Ransomwear.
In order remove this encryption, you must pay$2000.00 by…
The 'pay by' date listed was the day before yesterday; it was now well past that deadline.
The ZPD wasn't getting anything out of THIS computer.
It was shortly after this that officers McHorn and Wolford came strolling up to a sidewalk café table in Sahara Square.
"Hello Finnick." The big rhino rumbled.
The little fennec fox took a sip of his drink before answering, peering over the rim of his sunglasses as he spoke.
"This about the Lewis kid?" he queried in an even deeper voice than McHorn's, "Nothing I can tell you, officers. I haven't heard a peep from him since he broke out the slam."
"Oh, so you KNOW about that?" Wolford asked him, in slightly accusatory tone.
Finnick took off his sunglasses and regarded the wolf with a raised eyebrow for a second; then he laughed and waved up the street.
"You just crawl outta your den five minutes ago, boy? The whole Square knows about it: I hear-tell the Palm Hotel Casino's laying odds on how long it'll take you boys to catch him."
Now it was McHorn who was raising an eyebrow.
"Seriously, Finnick?"
"Of course not." the desert fox answered peevishly, "But that's the rumor; that's how many animals know the kid went rabbit on you."
He fell back in his chair, looking from one officer to the other.
"Look, there's nothing I can tell you about him and The Phantom; I found out about that same time as you did, later even." He shook his head at the tabletop. "Conor never said a word to me about no loan-shark or anything like that. If he had, I would of tried to talk him out of it; dumb kid."
"Fine," McHorn snorted, putting his hooves on his hips. "You don't know anything." He nodded over his shoulder at the police cruiser parked across the street, "You can tell us the rest of what you don't know back at Precinct-1. Let's go."
Finnick picked up his napkin and slapped it down on the table-top.
"Why you pointy-faced….you been plannin' to haul me in all along. Dangit, I already told you, I got nothin' that can help you find the kid. We have a deal, him and me; when we're not working together he stays out my business, and I stay out of his."
The two ZPD officers remained unmoved.
"Yeah, yeah…save it for the Lieutenant," Wolford growled as he motioned for desert fox to get up from his chair.
Finnick folded his arms and regarded the wolf balefully. "And suppose I decide I don't want to be on your quiz show?"
It was McHorn who answered him, aiming a finger at the fennec's van, resting curbside, about 15 feet away.
"Got any outstanding traffic tickets, Finnick? And sayyy, that ride of yours doesn't look any too roadworthy, now I notice it. Maybe I aughta write you up an order to bring it down to the DMV for a safety inspection. And… oh yeah, that's right; the Lewis kid's been seen inside your van a few times hasn't he?"
"Yeah, maybe he stashed something in there while you weren't looking," Officer Wolford chimed in, picking up the thread, "Maybe we should get a search warrant…"
"All right, all riiiight!" Finnick snarled and heaved himself out of his chair, "But I'm telling you now, you're just wasting your time."
"We'll be the judge of that," McHorn snorted again.
"Yeah, whatever you say," the desert fox grumbled. He started to move in the direction of the police cruiser but found his way blocked by Officer Wolford "Haven't you got a bill to pay first, bub?" the timber-wolf asked, pointing over Finnick's head at the check, laying on the table behind him.
The fennec-fox growled and reached for his wallet.
"Blankety-blank little silver fox moron; I shoulda stuck to working solo when I had the chance."
It was while Finnick was getting in the police cruiser that Chief Bogo finally saw what he'd been waiting for, (if not looking forward to.)
It happened while he was watching ZNN News on his desktop monitor—something he normally did about as often as he went to the dentist.
As he'd hoped, the Conor Lewis jailbreak wasn't the lead story; it wasn't even the lead local item. That honor went to the arson fire in the Rainforest District, (a decision with which the big Cape buffalo wholeheartedly agreed.)
But when the newscast cut to a commercial break with still no mention of the young fox's escape, Bogo began to fret. Was the network even going to report on it at all?
It wasn't until the ads finally ended that his worries were finally allayed. There, on the backdrop screen behind Fabienne Growley was an overhead shot of Precinct-1. And superimposed over it were the front and side-view police photographs of Conor Lewis. The caption below read simply, 'Escaped'.
"And in more local news," Ms. Growley began, "an escape last night from the city youth jail has local authorities baffled."
Bogo winced and then snorted. That might have been true this morning but not anymore. "Blast it, didn't anyone give these magpies an update? Right now, we know exactly how the Lewis boy pulled off that jailbreak."
He could only hope that the story wouldn't go downhill from here.
"At approximately 11:00 PM Zootopia time," the snow leopardess was saying, "a young silver fox identified as Conor Severis Lewis was released from custody by order of the Zootopia Supreme Court." She allowed herself a short, dramatic pause, and then delivered the punch line. "The police later discovered that the order had been a forgery. Mr. Lewis is now officially listed as a fugitive, and the ZPD is asking that anyone with knowledge as to his whereabouts…"
Bogo smiled at this, but crookedly. Most of the calls The Department would get in response to that request would go something like this.
"ZPD, what is the nature of your call, please?"
"Hi, is there any kind of reward being offered for that fox kid who escaped from juvie?"
"Not at the present time, sir…"
*CLICK!*
On the other hoof, if the ZPD received even a single phone call with useful information, it would more than make up for all the cranks—and at least there wouldn't be as many as if there WAS a reward being offered. (Word that there wasn't would spread quickly after the first few inquiries.)
What Bogo heard next made his eyebrows fly upwards and caused him to blow a note of surprise through his nostrils.
On the screen in front of him, Fabienne Growly was telling her audience, "At the time of his escape, Conor Lewis was being held on a charge of assaulting a police officer and is listed as a violent offender. If you see this young fox, do not attempt to apprehend him yourself…"
"What the devil?" Chief Bogo demanded aloud, speaking to no one in particular. Whatever other problems he may have had with that fox kid—and they were many—one thing that Conor Lewis was not was a violent offender. The Chief had seen plenty of that kind in his day….and the Lewis boy absolutely did not fit the mold. In fact, Bogo had actually started to come around to the view that maybe the young fox hadn't bitten Nick Wilde on purpose. (It was hearing the kid had been put in V3 restraint that started it.)
"For all the good that will do him now," the Cape buffalo murmured to himself. He could guess whose bright idea it had been to tell the press that the Lewis kid was violent by nature; Lieutenant Albert Tufts, wasn't it obvious?
Well, he could have word with the squirrel about that later. For now, Ms. Growley had wrapped up her story and had passed the baton to her co-anchor, Peter Moosebridge, who was talking about the upcoming 125th anniversary of The Junior Ranger Scouts. Bogo reached over and switched off the monitor; he had seen enough.
All in all, he gave it 6 out of 10 stars. The network had been critical of the ZPD's performance, but at least they hadn't tried to sensationalize the story.
And yet, there was something about the way they'd handled it that the ZPD Police Chief didn't like…though for the life of him, he couldn't pin it down.
It was only after he got up from his desk that it hit him. The Phantom; ZNN hadn't said a word about the Lewis kid's silent partner, not even once. Anyone watching that newscast would have been tempted to assume that Conor Lewis, age 14, had hoodwinked the ZPD entirely on his own.
That was not good, not good at all; 6 out of 10 immediately became 4 out of 10.
It was right about then that Nick Wilde stepped off a bus in Haymarket.
That was the neighborhood's official name, but nobody who lived there ever called it that. With the flare for irony so typical of the downtrodden, they had unofficially rechristened it Happytown.
It was the closest thing Zootopia had to a ghetto, dilapidated buildings, boarded up storefronts and swatches of graffiti everywhere. The sidewalks were cracked and sprouting with weeds, and you couldn't go more than four blocks without coming across an abandoned vehicle in an alleyway—often with someone living inside. Only a single busline served Happytown, and the nearest Metro Station was Vole Garden, at least five city blocks away. Once upon a time the neighborhood had been serviced by an electric tram line, but that had long since ceased to run.
Many, if not most of the animals who still lived there were members the so-called maligned species; rats, hyenas, coyotes, jackals, Afurican wild dogs (aka, painted wolves,) nutria, skunks, various members of the weasel family—and yes, foxes. It was a place the 'better' animals of Zootopia liked to pretend did not exist.
It hadn't always been this way; in years past, when the area was still known as Haymarket, it had been a thriving, working-class community.
That had all changed with the construction of the Witty Alton Expressway, which ran directly over the neighborhood, (no exits.) Now, instead of having to pass through Haymarket on their way into or out of town, folks could bypass it entirely…which they did. The results had been catastrophic and nearly instantaneous; commerce had dried up, local businesses had gone under, and those who could afford it had begun a steady exodus from what soon became known as Happytown.
Nick Wilde was all too aware of this. He should have been; he'd grown up here. Looking up and down the street as the bus rumbled away, he would have been unsurprised to see platoon of zombies come lurching around the corner; glassy eyes and arms outstretched, "Braaaiiins…"
He turned and began to walk, not bothering to think about where he was going; his feet would know where to take him.
As he moved along the sidewalk, Nick drew stares from the occasional passersby. It wasn't that they were unused to seeing uniformed police officers, and /or foxes here in Happytown—far from it—but never both at once.
And furthermore, this particular cop looked as if he was getting ready to march in the annual Founder's Day parade. He was clad in a super-snappy dress-uniform; bright buttons, a stiff collar, and creases sharp enough to cut pizza. The only thing missing was a loop of gold cadet's braid; (Nick had come with a hair of including that as well.)
By rights, he should have found his ensemble about as comfy as a straight-jacket, especially in the heat of summer. At the moment, however, he was too nervous to be uncomfortable. And if he'd ever needed to look sharp, it was right here, right now.
As he continued on his way, Nick's route took him past several of his childhood landmarks. Some of them brought back happy memories, like the park where he'd often played as a boy…now overgrown with weeds, the swing-sets fallen into rusty ruin. Other locations conjured up far less pleasant recollections—such as the community center where he'd had his encounter with George Schatten and Company. Except for a different set of doors, it looked virtually unchanged from that time. That was all the red fox needed to see, and he moved on quickly…before the ghost of his younger self came running down the front steps with tears in his eyes and a muzzle on his face.
Nick did NOT need to revisit that memory, especially now.
Three blocks further on, he stopped and took a deep breath. Right around the corner was the most heart-wrenching memory of all—if it was still there.
He made the turn and there it was, a brownstone store-front, long since abandoned. All the windows were broken or at the very least cracked and there was enough graffiti on display to decorate a battleship.
And yet, for some reason, the name above the door had been left untouched—John Wilde, Nick's late father. And beneath that, just barely visible, were the words, 'Fine Bespoke Tailoring; All Species Welcome.'
Right up until the very end, the elder Wilde had never given up on that dream.
Nick had promised himself that he wouldn't say it—or even think it—but of course he did.
"Aw Dad, I wish you could be here to see me."
John Wilde had always wanted his son to grow up to be law-abiding fox…and now here his boy was, helping to enforce the law.
Nick felt his eyes beginning to mist up and hurriedly went on his way. If only one bank, if only any lender had been willing to approve his father's loan application…
"Then he would have gone bankrupt anyway, when the neighborhood went under," the red fox's inner voice reminded him.
"Maybe…but at least dad would have had a chance to try and make it work," he responded snappily, for once refusing to let 'the voice' have the last word.
He picked up the pace and hurried on.
A short while later, Nick found himself on one of the few streets in Happytown that had not yet gone to seed, small, neat houses with small, neat yards; one or two of them even having flower beds out front. There were no cracks in the sidewalk here, and the roadway had been paved fairly recently; even the streetlights were in decent working order.
It should have a cheering sight, but Nick knew that it couldn't last. Urban blight is not unlike a potato blight; creeping and relentless, it always wins out in the end.
The house he was looking for was about a third of the way up the street, a two-story, red-brick cottage with a sun-porch and a wrought iron weathervane on the roof.
Stepping up to the front door, Nick looked at his watch, then gazed in the ovular window in the center of the doorframe, checking his appearance as best he could.
He was stalling, and he knew he was stalling. After perhaps another half minute of this, he pressed the doorbell with a rigid finger, trying not to grind his teeth.
For a long moment, there was only silence and stillness; Nick saw nothing and heard nothing…and a false hope began to arise within him; maybe she had forgotten he was coming over.
No such luck, just then a shadow move in front of the window, and then the knob turned and the door swung open.
Ellen Wilde was tall for a vixen, almost as tall as Nick and with lighter fur than her son. She had put on some weigh since he'd last seen her, though you could still call her slender. Her slim figure made her look younger than she actually was, and the bottle-thick glasses with she peered up at her boy made her appear much older. She had added some gray to her muzzle and cheek-tufts since…how long ago had it been since his last visit?
She was dressed in well-worn jeans, a chambray shirt, and a nurserymammal's vest; her head was wrapped in speckled scarf and topped by a broad-brimmed hat. (She would have looked perfectly at home in Bunnyburrow. ) The specks of dirt on her knees attested to the fact that she'd been working in the backyard garden when Nick had arrived.
She blinked, and then spoke quickly, a slight rasp in her voice.
"My son isn't here, officer…and he hasn't done anything wrong!"
She hurried to shut the door, and Nick moved just as quickly to block it with his shoulder…all the while stifling a groan, this was not what you would call getting off on the right foot.
"No, Mom…it's me; it's Nicholas."
His mother narrowed her gaze and leaned in close, sniffing at him…as if she couldn't trust what her eyes were telling her.
And then they went wide behind her spectacles.
"N-Nicholas? What are you…? Don't just stand there, come on inside, son."
Nick felt his chest relaxing. Okay, this was more like it.
It didn't stay that way for very much longer. No sooner was he through the door than his mother slammed it and threw both deadbolts.
He felt his ears go up and point at each other.
"Mom, why did you lock the…? Hey, what the…what are you doing?"
She had turned and was frantically attempting to unbutton his uniform shirt.
"Nicholas, don't just stand there; help me get those things off before someone sees you!"
He just stared for a moment, uncomprehending.
"What, you mean my uniform?" he said, batting her paws away.
"YES, that's what I mean!" she said, her voice an exasperated growl. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you can get into for impersonating a police officer?"
She reached up again and Nick brushed her off again—all the while stifling a grimace. No, things had definitely NOT gotten off to a good start.
"Mom, stop it. I'm not impersonating anyone; this really IS my uniform."
She reeled back, wide eyed…and then leaned forward, eyes narrowed into doubtful slits behind her glasses
Nick forced a smile, reminding himself that given the way he'd lived his life, up until two years ago, his mother had every right to be suspicious. (Robyn McFerral hadn't been the only vixen he'd lied to about quitting the hustle game.)
"I know Mom, I know," He told her, looking down at himself self-consciously, "Sometimes I still can't believe it myself…me, of all animals, a police officer."
He took her paws in his own.
"But it's for real, mother, I swear I'm not pulling a hustle here, it's the truth. I really am a cop…and a darn good one. Just last week I stopped a …(No don't say terrorist attack, she REALLY won't believe you.) …I stopped someone from dumping load of defoliant on a whole bunch of mammals. My Chief says I'm a shoo-in for the detective squad if I keep this up." (Not exactly 100% true but close enough.)
His mother said nothing to this, only gazed at him wide-eyed…or maybe that was just the effect of her glasses. It didn't matter, because Nick could see that her lower-lip was trembling.
She believed him.
He turned and nodded over towards a picture on the wall, a stout red fox in a blue blazer and checked shirt; bushy eyebrows and a scholarly smile. More than ever Nick wished that his father was here to see him.
His voice softened and even cracked a little.
"I did it, Mom…I'm an honest fox now, just like Dad always wanted for me."
His mother blinked, and even though those bottle glass lenses, Nick could see that her eyes were getting wet. And then her paws were clasping his tightly.
"Oh Nicholas," she said, sniffling back a tear, "So NOW am I going to see some grandchildren?"
Nick yanked his paws away from her, as if she'd given him a static shock, groaning though locked jaws.
"Mommmmm…can't you ever give it a rest?"
He turned around, muttering under his breath.
"You're not getting any younger, Nicholas."
From behind, he heard, "You're not getting any younger, Nicholas."
He let out a breath and said. "Do you know how many times your father and I tried to have a cub before you were born…how hard we tried for another one?"
He heard his mother say, "Do you know how many times your father and tried to have a cub before you were born...how many years we tried for another one?"
"What was that?" he muttered.
"What was that?" his mother demanded… adding quickly, "Nothing mom."
Nick tried to stop himself, but…
"Nothing, mom—Agggggh, grrrr!" .
That was when she hit him with a curveball.
"And with a bunny, Nicholas? How am I supposed to see any grandchildren, if you take up with a rabbit?"
Now, it was Nick's turn to look stunned. He turned around, staring slack-jawed at his mother. What the…? How could she possibly know about Judy, if she hadn't been aware until just this second that he was a police…? Agggh, grrrrrr, of course; that surveillance camer video…again!
He raised his paws and made a stopping motion, as if ordering an approaching vehicle to slow down.
"Mom, just take it easy. That FuzzTube vid of Judy and me isn't what it looks like. We were on an undercover assignment, and…"
"Video, WHAT video?" his mother demanded, putting her paws on her hips. "I was talking about that picture in the paper… of the two of you at that costume party, the one where she pinned that party favor on your shirt."
Nick felt his teeth trying to clench again.
"Mommmm, that was my Police Academy graduation and that was my BADGE she was pinning…"
"WHAT video, Nicholas?" Ellen Wilde interrupted. Her tail was frizzing and her voice was starting to gekker.
Nick tried to put his paws on her shoulders; she batted them away.
"What video?"
He could have bitten his OWN face off.
"No video Mom, nothing at all, I-I was thinking of something else." Even as he said the words, he knew they wouldn't fly. She was already wagging a finger in his face.
"You might as well tell me Nicholas, I'll find out sooner or later." Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled upwards "I found out you were running that shell game, didn't I?"
Now HIS eyes went wide—and his mouth dropped open into a stammering cave.
"Wha…? H-How did you…? I-I mean…I don't know what you're talking about, mom. "
She just folded her arms and tapped her foot on the floor,
Nick threw up his paws at the ceiling. "For crying out loud mom, I was 13 years old!"
"12!" she snapped, "And what was that you said, Fuzztube? What's that, one of those…websides, or whatever they're called?" She turned and stalked into the living room, with her son pleading after her.
"Really, Mom…It's nothing, nothing at all. Listen, can you just sit down? I'll make you a nice cup of tea."
His mother glared at him over her shoulder. "You know I can't stand tea, Nicholas."
Nick grimaced and almost bit his tongue; what the foxtrot had he been thinking, it was true, she did.
He followed her across the living room and into the den, where an ancient, roll-top desk stood waiting. Giving her son another smoldering look, she unlocked it and slid back the cover.
Nick didn't know whether to feel relieved or completely bewildered. The computer nestled within wasn't just an antique; it was practically a fossil, an Ameerkat 65. The CRT monitor had a screen the size of an Etch-a-Sketch, (and looked like it had approximately the same resolution,) Half the keys on the keyboard were missing their characters, and there was no mouse visible that he could see. Everything was covered by a thin film of dust; this machine clearly hadn't been used for some time.
His mother turned and leveled a finger at him.
"All right, you; you just march yourself upstairs right now and wait in your room until I call for you."
Nick came that close to giving himself a face-pawlm.
"Mommmm, I don't live here anymore, remem…? Ohhh, what's the use?"
He slunk over to the stairs and hauled himself upwards, tail dragging limply behind him.
"Thank God Carrots isn't here," the exasperated red fox mumbled to himself, searching for a silver lining as he pulled open the door to his old room.
At once he experienced a rush of memories. Except for the items he'd taken with him when he left, everything was exactly the same as the day he'd moved out. Here was the same comforter on his bed. There, on his dresser, was his old RC car controller. (The car itself had died an untimely death when he'd accidently driven it down a storm drain.) Even his old Limp Fuzzkat poster was still here, tacked to the wall.
"Crike, did I actually LIKE those guys?" he wondered, looking at it with a tilted expression.
There was a beanbag chair parked over in the corner beside the poster, a little bit ragged, but any port in a storm. He went over and just sort of collapsed into it, offering himself a silent pep-talk as he sat there.
"Okay Nick, calm down…she'll never find that video. That computer looks like something left over from when floppy discs were the next big thing. Heck I wouldn't be surprised if it still uses dial-up to get online. And that's another thing; MY mother…trying to surf the web? Hah, that's a good one; she wouldn't know Zoogle from a doodlebug. No problemo, Nick; you've got nothing to worry abou…"
"NICHOLAS PIBERIUS WILDE! YOU GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"
This time there was no one to see him; Nick's pawlm had an immediate close-encounter with his face.
"I could have just LET Mr. Big ice me, but nooooooo…!"