FWOOSH!

"All my hard work, gone," he griped, throwing another pile of documents into the incinerator and blocking its surge with an arm.

FWOOSH!

"No one appreciates what I do for them," he continued, tossing in reels of tape and film, face pained not only with the last few hours of his current activity, or the pyre, but all the influence of his literally going up in smoke.

FWOOSH!

"These secrets are mine!" Foxy ranted as he set down another box of folders marked for disposal, "For my use!"

FWOOSH!

"Who went through the trouble of stealing artifacts?" he asked no one, throwing photographs into the fire, "Who knew how to forge them so that no one was the wiser?"

FWOOSH!

"Me, that's who!"

FWOOSH!

"Who killed without hesitation or regret to keep those secrets?"

FWOOSH!

"Me!"

FWOOSH!

"Who even knew where to look for secret history?"

FWOOSH!

"Gawrsh, maybe it was Professor William Kazar?" the fox mocked in his dopiest voice and threw the box in with the rest of the documents, just because, "No! It was me!"

FWOOSH!

"And screw you, you stuck-up cud-chewer!" he yelled and then kicked the incinerator, only to yowl in pain as he clutched his foot. He plopped down and looked at the empty boxes of all the blackmail material he'd accumulated over his lifetime, precious information that he could have sold for a fortune to the right buyers. He was doing just fine all those years ago, but then he needed a certain mammal "taken care of"… he needed somebunny like Magnus to do it for him because despite how much he hated "Honest John" Longfellow, he had to admit that the guy outfoxed him. He'd gotten too close to his prize…

So, when Magnus presented Foxy to Pleasure Island with all its riches and prestige, he accepted it immediately… but that evil bunny didn't say he was to be a hoofshiner. But what else could he do? Years passed and Foxy - known as "Mr. Never" - bided his time inside his vault of stolen treasure, getting comfortable in his niche. So, of course, he got the attention of Kazar, who upheld some ancient tradition of "purging the falsehoods of history".

"Stupid gnu…"

What Prof. William Kazar did to Ryan Wild, son of famed singer Sam Wild, was kept quiet to protect the young lion but when he did it again to Gazelle's tigers, he slipped into obscurity; a charity dance-teacher by day… and the Under-Mayor by night. Everything that went through Underland was first scrutinized by Kazar, to fit with his vision of how Zootopia should be, a vision shared by powerful mammals… mammals like Tycho King and Magnus Hopps… mammals also imprisoned. Which, as Mr. Never knew, was only a formality.

"Stupid everyone who isn't me," Foxy griped, flexed his toes to make sure they weren't broken before standing again. He was put "in charge" of Underland while Kazar was locked up in a protected cell but it was more trouble than it was worth, what with the three greatest minds of Pleasure Island - its very engine - under twenty-four-hour watch. Ergo, he had to handle everything. Including clean-up. All to ensure that the engine was kept warm for their return.

He still had Wapitius's bones to burn… along with all photographic evidence that he was mounted as the figurehead of the Blood Pearl. There was a long night ahead of him…

So, Foxy grabbed the next box and lugged it over to the incinerator. "Why did I say I'd do this myself?" he whined, knowing full well that he didn't want anyone else seeing his secrets (despite their final destination) and grumbled all the worse. He then whimpered at its contents: a case with two smaller boxes. The very same boxes he was going to show to the curious, keen-eyed Esther Grey to draw her away from the door and get Laverne's carcanet back, that fateful day of the TBR when everything went wrong…

First, it was the "Scarlet Hook", the "Executioner", the "Reaper's Crook", et cetera… a twisted length of iron tattooed from a bolt of lightning…

FWOOSH!

Second, the box he left unopened because Esther was already captivated, and need only show her the giant skeleton of King Wapitius… Perhaps it was better not to explain a noose stained with makeup, the very same rope that hanged Laverne Hopps…

FWOOSH!

And third… finally… he raised from its protective case a precious thing, indeed: "Tears for a Sunset". Foxy's ire ebbed to see its opals and gold, a carcanet for a rabbit perhaps no bigger than a bracelet to him, but worth more than any one (or even three!) of Zootopia's twelve ecosystems… Its intact, original gold filigree proved that history was a lie. That Laverne Hopps could have never been attacked by a savage fox… it would bring everything into question… That's why he had it stolen from Felix Oswald Lapis and replaced with a forgery in the months after the TBR. It needed to be destroyed.

But it was so valuable…

Foxy bit his knuckle as his paw trembled, presenting the jewelry to the fire so that harsh light glinted off its filigree and gems… and then he pulled it back. He whipped out a lens to wipe it on his shirt, wrench it into an eye, and inspect the carcanet…

The flames crackled patiently.

Foxy laughed. He laughed and guffawed and whooped before tossing the pretty piece into the incinerator without a second thought, slamming the grate closed to spin and spread his arms to the ceiling. "Lapis, you devious imp! You knew someone would come after it and switched the necklaces… But don't think for a second that I - Mr. Never - wouldn't recognize a fake!" the fox boasted, crazy eyes then studying the rest of his historical treasures… "My greatest secret is still hidden, isn't it?" he pondered and paced, finger waggling at the air, "All I need to do is wait for Judy and Nick to tear it all down around me and I'll be the last one standing…" He then steepled his claws and grinned, "And… I'll be ready when they come for me. Quote, 'Obstacles do not exist to be surrendered to, but only broken', end quote."


Rocky's Garage rang with metal and profanity, the raccoon waist-deep inside the engine of some "schlub's" van. "Jeez, would you look at this mess," he reviled, cursing here and there as his voice echoed to his assistant, Lory, "Rides the dumb thing into the dirt, oil caked over everything…" Rocky braced his feet against the engine block such that his swaying tail was the only visible part of him. "Hand me the 3/8s," he requested and thrust out a gruff mitt with an expectant gesture.

"5/16s, ain't it?" Lory suggested, reaching for both, just in case. Her light blue jumpsuit was, like Rocky's, half-open and tied around her waist, because running the AC for a garage was too much a pretty penny, and tank tops gave all the ventilation a mammal should need (not that she minded the heat, farm-girl that she was).

That ringed tail frizzed as his head poked out. "I'm pretty sure I said '3/8s'," he corrected, peering over the engine block's edge as coolly as he liked, and flexed his fingers to beckon the requested tool nearer; she rolled her eyes and handed it over. "'Ey! You keep your commentary to yerself," and then disappeared back into the engine, "I know what I'm doin'."

"I said nuthin'," Lory asserted under her breath, arms crossed as her own tail swept just behind. Telltale signs of further cursing, growling, and slipping metal sent the wrench flying over her head (which she caught) and that same paw thrust out once again.

"5/16s," the echoing voice grumbled, and when it was promptly provided, put to good use. After several more conversational swear words, Rocky withdrew himself and huffed, "That'll have to do for today," he determined, scratching low on his back as he tossed Lory a socket wrench.

The wolf was quick to gather the tools and shove them back inside their box. "Will it run?"

He grimaced and grunted, peeling the oil-marked muscle shirt from his matted fur to flap it before he stretched and wheeled his arms about. "It will tomorrow. Right now, I need a shower," Rocky said.

"Then it's home to the missus, I'll bet."

"Not yet, might be a late night, actually," he answered, "Tell ya' what, wash up and meet me at the elevator. We're headin' down."

Lory gasped. "The server farm?"

"Yeah."

"But you never let me down there…"

"C'mon, farm-girl," the raccoon teased, smirking all the way to the shower, shirt slung over a shoulder, "grow a set and dare a little."

She then ruffled and fumed. "I ain't a coward!"

"Good," Rocky determined, walking behind a simple tiled wall before the curtain and water sounded, "keep that gumption goin', Lor, because if I ever make another mistake - no matter how small or stupid - you best rub my nose in it, capisce?" All that remained of his coverings was a digital storage device tethered around his neck, a small thing that would only be plucked out of his cold, dead fingers. "Besides, all that Knottedwood fox data that Judy brought over will need combing and inputting, or as those of us in the biz call it, 'assistant-work'," he teased.

Lory discarded her own mechanic's attire, made filthy with the effort of the day, and joined in showering, afforded her privacy by a secondary tiled wall between the two showerheads (installed for her). "Y'know," she outwardly pondered, streaming the hot water once ready for it, "all I heard from everyone else on the block is that you're the prickliest li'l spitfire this side of the Lion's Tail." Rocky chuffed a boast. "But I wouldn't call you mean. You're actually kinda friendly when it comes down to it." He then scoffed a dismissal. "Or is that jus' me?"

"It's jus' you," Rocky assured and Lory furrowed her brow, "The fact that you're Mack's li'l sister is huge but I keep you on because you're a decent assistant. And the gumption. I wouldn't put up with you if you didn't have a spine. What got you into engines, anyway?" He applied a liberal dollop of fur-shampoo specific to the cleaning of motor oil.

She huffed and crossed her elbows on the tiled wall separating them. "It's because of Mack. He couldn't be around to protect me on the farm, so he said, 'Lory, you gotta know how to hide, know how to fight and the garage will do in a pinch. If someone chases you, you grab a wrench or a hammer and swing it, throw it, scream at 'em until they stop'. So, I spent a lot of time around the trucks and stuff, jus' learned about 'em from the older wolves." The showers ran while the raccoon grunted his understanding. "We'll free Mack, right?"

"Sure."

"I mean… even if we can't free all us Mallupes, we can get him out… right?"

"Look," Rocky sighed, turning off his shower and addressing her directly, "Mack's more-of-less safe, I'm sure Nick told you that already, yeah?"

"Yeah…"

"Me and him are always at each other's throats - which is a shame because I've had to kick him off my servers too many times to count," he said offhandedly, "but one thing I will say is that he knows how to keep his head above water. Whatever he's doin' that's got MacGrim off his back is only good so long as no one's the wiser." He then thrashed himself about to shake the water from his fur. "Mack opened the door for us, according to Finnick, and thanks to Nick, I have a peephole into what's happening with Pleasure Island. Now finish up, we ain't got all day, and I do plan to see Lylla sometime tonight."

The drying room was quick for them both (it was really more of a stand-alone, open-top cylinder that Rocky tuned up for his own convenience) and their brushing succinct before they were both clothed in jeans and t-shirts with faded off-brand logos (and he in his jacket). Every door and window in the garage was secured and lights set to after-hours before they were on their way down the freight elevator to the garage's lower level.

"How far down are we…?" Lory marveled as they passed the second basement.

"Nowhere that the zoning board knows of," Rocky casually answered as he perused nothing of consequence on his phone and then glanced up, "Just how much do you know of Zootopia's history? Like, the bad stuff."

She awkwardly cleared her throat.

He chuckled, pocketing his phone. "To be fair, I wouldn't expect you to learn this in public school-"

"I know Zootopia's been at war since forever," Lory muttered and scratched her arm, "'cept it don't show. Tha's how Pappy explains it, anyway."

Rocky grunted. "That's right. I s'pose one of the oldest families in the area wouldn't be in the dark about it." The freight elevator stopped so he reached into his shirt to pull out Grooper, the data key hanging around his neck, and waved it at a panel.

"I am Grooper," an overhead PA speaker answered in an oddly charismatic monotone.

"That was the first thing I ever programmed him to say and he never forgot it," Rocky tersely explained and so… the elevator dislodged from its tracks and slowly, gradually, shifted to another set; all determinable by the churning and sliding of gears, along with a few jostles. They pivoted, raised up another level, settled into place, and then, "A'ight, open up," Rocky instructed of his assistant, so she slid the freight door from their pathway to reveal a short hallway ending in a vault door. "If we got off sooner, it'd be onto a collapsed subway tunnel. There's an escape shaft that you could prob'ly get through but this door won't open from the outside without that elevator bein' where it is. Now c'mon, it's time for you to understand a few things…"

Dingy fluorescent auras bathed unfurnished concrete surfaces leading to the parting reinforced steel portal, a buzz and flicker to madden all strangers who approached; such was Lory, whose ears pinned back on a ducking head to scurry alongside Rocky's stride. The contrast of sleek metal and grungy construction furthered the perplexing aesthetic, especially when the vault doors welcomed the both of them in - quiet even to the keen ears of a wolf - as they paused in a gaping apex only long enough to permit safe clearance before sealing once more. How obvious it seemed once inside that the horrid crust was little more than a deterrent façade, for the modernity awaiting them loquaciously extrapolated the raccoon's technological prowess; beyond the antechamber and control room, at least. All that preceded would have convinced the uninformed that he was still an unkempt bachelor.

Lory assumed he understood what was in all of those scattered, unmarked boxes.

Rocky plopped his ring-tailed keister into a well-worn computer chair and rolled along the uncarpeted floor until his foot caught the approaching console. He then looked up at his assistant. "Oh, uhh… just empty out one of those crates and have a seat. No, not that one, the one next to it."

"This one?"

"Wait, lemme see what's in- yeah, throw that junk on the floor, I'll go through it later," he dismissed.

"What is it?"

"Maybe a bomb."

Lory tripped over her own feet to escape it.

"It's not even active or finished!" he chastised over his shoulder, "And I said 'maybe'; it's probably just a… a capacitor, or something. Point is, it won't explode. Wait…" Rocky spun about and leaned to get a better look, "No, yeah, won't explode. So calm yer tail and get over here."

To distinguish the server farm as anything so grandiose as "majestic" would earn the observer a riled scoff from its curator - who considered its efficiency of power usage and data retrieval utilitarian at best - but then the lights therein activated… Illuminated were rows and columns and aisles of servers, handled only by a network of automated arms traveling on nigh-frictionless rails with coiling power and control cables. The inky, glassy sheen was adorned with white, green, blue, and red LEDs or chrome frames, a world in of itself viewable by a series of monitors on the operator's peripheral; to the operator's forefront was a heads-up-display projected upon a luminescent pane, aligned with information for each and every server.

"Jumpin' Jehowlsaphat…" Lory marveled, scooting in with the upturned crate as her seat.

"What, this?" Rocky huffed with a lazy gesture of his paw, the other nimbly controlling something or other on a touch-screen panel, "Just the latest in a long chain of server farms; nearly two decades' worth, if you can believe it. Started off with a single cabinet and now we've got over thirty. Small potatoes to what Knotash has but not bad for a private operation."

"Does no one go inside?" she asked, inclining to search for any doors.

"Of course not," he said, "What you're looking at is vacuum-sealed; not a speck of dust, drop of sweat, or strand of fur in there. Plus, it's built into the framework keeping Zootopia from collapsing onto Underland, so the entire room scans as a giant, load-bearing boulder," he half-boasted, half-deprecated, "It'd be bigger without the need for all the protection and secrecy but since Nick got me onto the city's seismic monitors, I've had an ear to just about everything."

Lory mulled it over. "Ain't that spyin' on a whole buncha folk?"

"Nah," he shrugged, "it's seismic activity, Lory; construction, foot traffic, power usage, that sort of thing. Lets those of us in the Watch just know if things're shaking," he then smirked over his shoulder, "It's less intrusive than browsing a webpage. I took the liberty to compile all the data that the Watch gathered over the years," Rocky continued and pointed through the digitally-painted glass, "I may be a 'prickly spitfire' but I don't care about other mammals' problems if it don't involve me directly. That's prob'ly why Chess okayed my doing this," he mused and opened a particular folder, "So, Underland:

"Back in the day, Mayor Maximillion Waters built a backup city to withstand nuclear war because that was a big worry at the time," Rocky explained, scrolling through subterranean architecture schematics, "He didn't tell anyone about it, though, all hush-hush, even secluding Subterraria from the rest of the city to keep Underland a secret. Theory was, it allowed the elite of the elite to survive any nuke-happy despots the world over, but then the World Heraldry Society held a conference in Liondon with all the top brass to broker peace. From what I heard, it was 'big stick policy' mixed with 'mutually assured destruction' but beggars can't be choosers. Well, that left Mayor Waters with billions invested in a stupid pet project, so it was turned into slums as quietly as possible."

She continued to mull it over. "To just keep it quiet like that, though… unless it was to save face."

"It's 'cause he laundered taxes and campaign funds to do it," Rocky said, "plus, it weren't the best PR to build a shadow-city to keep all his friends safe while everyone else melted away topside. I'm sure there was a bunch of other stuff he planned to do, like populate it with slaves or something…"

"…Awful specific thing to say."

Rocky smirked once more. "Again, jus' a theory. Any info on it was wiped from existence, something of a theme when dealing with Pleasure Island. They cover their tracks real well… too well, if I'm being honest. Biggest challenge is finding out that anything actually happened. Luckily, everything on the Internet tends to stay there forever, if you know how to look, and not only do we have access to the city's seismographs but the mother of all jackpots," he chuckled and scanned his paw to the screen, "they're turning Underland into the biggest server farm in the world. And that ain't even half of its potential."

The significance had not yet hit her, it seemed, so she mulled a bit more.

He finally asked, "Sound familiar?"

"That's what Magnus did to Knotash for the TBR, wasn't it?" she pieced together.

"Except on a much wider scale; national or even global. Nick went on and on and on about how the Night Howler drug at Gid's pie-eating contest was a 'test'," Rocky said, bringing up the transcripts of their conversation, "He reckons that Magnus is at it again because even though he was stopped, he proved that it was possible; and that this whole fiasco with Reino del Sol is the second verse, same as the first, twice as big and a whole lot worse."

"So who all's doin' this, what with him, Tycho, and Kazar behind bars? I know they's still pullin' strings but retrofittin' a whole secret city can't be cheap or easy."

The raccoon shrugged. "Lackeys will handle it, big racket that this is supposed to be, until they get out of jail; 'assistant-work'," he dismissed and tapped a bit more on his keyboard, one conversation in particular…

"A hustle has three big 'guys': front, logistics, idea. Without them, there is no hustle and that could mean if they scatter, then there's nothing for the law to crack down on. This bugged me ever since they locked up Kazar - who's got to be the idea guy behind Pleasure Island - because it means there's a fourth guy, in other words, someone who isn't a hustler but keeps the engine going in case it all hits the fan. You see them all the time with long con-jobs, a reliable outsider protected by plausible deniability who comes in one of three exciting flavors: insider, enforcer, and supplier."

After a quick count on her fingers, Lory concluded that "Ferris MacGrim's gotta be the 'enforcer', he's been on the 'Secret Police' since forever, and if that Zevon fella has all the drugs then he's the 'supplier'. Which jus' leaves the 'insider'. What is an 'insider', anyway?"

Rocky snorted and swatted at the air. "Okay, cool yer jets, Lor, it's the 'fourth guy', not 'guys four through six'; there's not gonna be another trio of scumbags behind the first."

She huffed and then demanded, "Well… why not?" When an immediate answer came only as a quiet groan, Lory continued, "From all of Nick's scam-talk and what Judy found out about Forestdwell, it sounds like They've been at this for centuries, so why wouldn't there be a few 'guys' to make sure it stays together when it all 'hits the fan'?"

The chair gradually swiveled to present a grinning raccoon. "I'll enjoy seeing Nick's face when he hears this. You're definitely onto something, Lor," he said and lounged, paws folded behind his head, "The 'insider' is someone legit who helps their crew duck the law, usually a politician with pull or a judge lookin' the other way. Back in the day, Mayor Waters could've been the 'insider' and Chief Hemion the 'enforcer'; thanks to them, the Zootopian pet trade went unopposed for years. But today? I'm led to think that the new 'insider' might be Mr. Never."

"He don't seem so 'legit' to me," she argued.

"He ain't," he agreed, "I've been on his tail ever since Mack told me about what happened with Esther but he and his vault dropped off the face of the planet. Probably one of the few things that Nick and I synched on is that he and Magnus are in cahoots. But if he is the inside guy…" Rocky speculated and spun back around, nearly pouncing his console, "I only been lookin' in the shady parts of Underland (of which there's plenty to sift through). Didn't make sense to scan Subterraria with whatever limited resources I could cobble together… But if he's connected to the Under-Mayor's office in any way - like a contractor or tapped into the phone lines - I might be able to catch his scent again."

Lory watched him work and listened to this audible soliloquy but without anything to actually do, she let her own mind wander and then counted her fingers again. "Hey Rocky, who was the 'supplier'?"

"Zevon, like you already said-"

"No, I mean back then."

Rocky canted his head over a shoulder. "Oh… umm… that fat panda guy… Lucas? No… Louis, Louis 'Loose Change' Chang. I helped take that dirtbag down, as a tyke," he boasted, eyes never leaving the screen, "Why?"

Her tail wagged a bit as she recalled something. "I was on the edge of my seat for that whole part of the story but I remember Jackie sayin' she don't believe that Chang hung himself."

"Jackie was something of his nemesis, before she met John," Rocky concurred, "Said it 'wasn't in his character'."

Her arms then crossed in thought. "'Cept Nick says that Chang was 'too big an investment' to jus' kill off, despite him and his whole mafia family ghosting."

"Yeah, John said that, too," he placidly recalled, paused, perked his ears, and then hooked an elbow on the back of his chair to point both finger and gaze over a shoulder, "I knew it was a good idea to keep you around."

Lory's tail wagged a bit more. "What'd I figure out?"

"Dunno exactly, but me and Grooper have a long night ahead of us… I'll need to free up some processing space to run the algorithms," Rocky decided, an excited pitch rising in his voice, "If it's what I think it is, then Judy won't be the only one digging up shadows from the past." He snickered. "Nick's head'll explode after seeing this."


Officer Nick Wilde whistled a jolly tune as he hopped out of his "three-wheeled joke-mobile", straightened his "clown vest", and angled his meter maid cap to study a newly chimed "expired" tag. "Mmhmm," he decided and then checked something on his phone… After which, his ears and nose pointed down either stretch of the sidewalk outside a credit union and then proceeded to type out the necessary information to dispense a parking ticket.

"Wait!" someone called, a woodchuck audibly out of breath as he ran to where his car was parked and braced his knees for breath, "Hold on a sec… lemme put… another dollar in…"

"Why, if it isn't Charlie Woodstein!" Nick declared, laughing as he tilted his cap back from his bright green eyes and let his bushy red tail sway into view, "Gosh, it's been years. Is this your car?"

Mr. Woodstein rubbed beneath his thickly-framed glasses and failed to hide his utter disbelief, soon loosening a tie that must have been oddly tighter than when he affixed it earlier that morning (if its sudden adjustment was any indication). "Nick Wilde," he squeaked and then straightened his back to the best of his ability, "I'd heard you joined the force. Good… good for you. But as a meter maid, I see? Still, not a bad start."

"Actually, I'm an officer," Officer Wilde elucidated, tugging at the flap of his orange vest with a thumb to show off the shiny badge underneath, "I'm only picking up some extra hours on parking duty." And my partner is on some very important citybunny business right now, not that you need to know, Charlie. "So, let's get back to our respective day jobs and I'll finish writing you up for this parking violation." He grinned and tapped a button to elicit a beep.

The woodchuck stumbled over his words and put on his best airs by stamping his foot. "S-So, became a cop to get back at childhood bullies, have we? 'Zootopia's finest', I guess," he scoffed, eying the thumb poised to strike again.

Nick chuckled and never lost his grin. "Don't flatter yourself, Woodstein, if I wanted to get back at you I would have just written up this ticket and been on my merry way," he explained, watching his adversary flinch with the next button pressed. Beep.

"Then go ahead!" Charlie dared, "What's stopping you?"

"Absolutely nothing," Nick cooed, "but I'm not the one with twelve unpaid parking violations, am I?" Another beep, another flinch. "Lucky thirteen… Of course, ten-and-up is grounds to suspend your driver's license which means you'll need to head over to the DMV which means spending all day with someone else you used to bully. One of my best friends, in fact, Flash Slothmore. You remember Flash, don't you?"

Charlie blanched as his impending doom was marked by one more beep.

"Like, remember when you and your prey chums literally walked circles around him between every class period?" Beep. "Or that one time you dumped cold molasses on him, knowing he wasn't fast enough to escape?" Beep. "Or how you regularly mocked his speech?" Beep. "Or preempted his sentences, except with toilet humor?" Beep. "Or-"

"Okay!" the woodchuck said and flailed, "I was a jerk, we all were. I'm sorry. There, happy?"

Nick shrugged and groaned high. "Honestly, I should push these last two buttons just so Flash gets some satisfaction," he mused, "He's a great guy but can be so passively vindictive, knows exactly how long to sit on stuff so you'd be lucky to get your license back by the end of the year."

A lump caught in the woodchuck's throat. "Then what do you want?" he asked.

"I…" the fox considered and leaned in a bit closer, his grin ever smugger, "want to talk about the muzzle." The air thickened. "I want to know where you or your parents got such a thing."

Trembling eyes stared from behind the corrective lenses slipping down his snout, proving such feeble protection to those unnervingly green orbs. "It was just a gag prop, that's all."

Beep.

"I swear!"

Nick's lids hooded a bit more. "Of course you wouldn't know, would you… What you did that night wasn't just some cruel joke, Charlie, it was a crime. That was a real child's muzzle."

Desperate doubt and burgeoning guilt flickered across the rodent's face. "N-No, that's impossible, child muzzles have been illegal for half-a-century," Charlie rationalized, unable to tear his gaze away, "You should know the muzzle was fake, you took it with you that night! Why you never said anything is beyond me."

A gentle shaking of the head preceded his answer. "Actually, I threw it on the sidewalk and left for home as quickly as I could. But do you want to know who picked it up?" he whispered and leaned in a little closer, "It was a bunny. Sound familiar?" he continued and watched for that click behind those bespectacled eyes, "Perhaps a bunny came by one day, told Mom and Dad about something they wanted to have done; maybe it'd prove a boon to you or your troop?"

Charlie's lips pursed. "No… Mom and Dad didn't know… about the muzzle, at least. I'll be honest, Nick, no one wanted a fox to join," he quietly confessed, "but our parents said we had to let you in. We… we made a muzzle out of gauze bandages and pipe-cleaners, as part of your 'initiation'. That's when the bunny showed up, said they wanted to help and gave us a muzzle that only looked real, just to scare you off. It's true!" he then pleaded of the finger flexing over the last button.

Nick huffed, scanning the worried woodchuck. "You're not lying," he stated matter-of-factly, And I would know if you were, "Not completely, anyway, and that's worth something."

Sweat gathered at the woodchuck's stiff collar, he finally breathing when the crimson canine no longer loomed over him. "How did you know about that bunny?" he rasped, "We tried looking for him… or maybe, it was a 'her', we never did get a full name. We never told anyone about them. So, how did you know?"

"Or… how about I not tell you and you go about your day as if this," he offered and hit the cancel button, waving the device about to show the blank screen, "never happened."

Charlie Woodstein took a few deep breaths. "Just like that? I'm off the hook?"

Nick tsked, "I'm letting you off with a warning, provided you pay all of your existing parking tickets pretty darn soon. Remember, the DMV website is for your convenience but you should probably walk a check over there, just in case. Sound good? Sounds good to me. As you were, citizen," he stalwartly said and tapped a salute to the brim of his cap before scooting away.

It was only mid-morning and the taste of his cousin's donuts (a quick fan-favorite of Precinct 1) was fresh on his gums as he kept his ears open for any parking meters crying out for attention.

Ding. Ticket.

Traversing the backroads and main roads of Zootopia gave Nick plenty of time to reflect on his private investigations (while also doing his day job; win-win).

Ding. Ticket.

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie… he secretly admonished, I guess the first two members of your troop really didn't warn you about me. I knew they wouldn't but it's nice to be surprised, every once in a while. Nick idled at a red light, leaning on his steering wheel to further consider. And just like Travis Blackfoot, his family was visited by a rabbit bearing gifts for catching a fox. But why Gideon? Why me? Has this kind of trouble been going on for ages, unnoticed? Hard to believe, fox communities are rare but when they crop up, they're tight-knit. Maybe this only happens to isolated fox families… which makes some kind of sick sense, now that I think about it. Lovey wrote that They said 'foxes were hard to control', he then chuckled, Absolutely correct. Is this someone trying to control foxes? But why? Is it because foxes keep messing up this supposed world order? We're infuriating tricksters, no doubt about that, but this can't be about something so petty as an ages-old rivalry between rabbits and foxes… could it?

Ding. Ticket. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and then acceptance from the owner of the vehicle. The joys of a meter maid.

Nick's appointment with the World Heraldry Society branch office in City Hall was coming up… It took forever to squeeze into a (somehow) packed schedule and with the Mayor Pro-Temp honing in to trim some bureaucratic fat, it was too close for comfort. If only I had something solid to win him over with… Judy's Dad has siblings and cousins over in Liondon, possibly even in admin positions, so maybe that's something I can work with.

Ding. A low-income family van, easily a half-dozen kids (if not more), the keys dropped on the driver's seat and the doors were locked… one door wasn't locked, luckily enough. The driver was only a block away (with each kid in tow, seven, as it so happened) but had not yet noticed the meter maid… Nick slipped an extra quarter into the meter and snuck off.

A text message. From Rocky. This had better not be yet more complaining, Nick sighed and pulled over, deciding it to be as good a time as any to take his break and set his cap aside to put his feet up on the dashboard. Let's see… In his futile attempts to stifle his vocalizations and still hold onto his phone, while also attempting to plant the soles of his paws where they were propped up, Nick managed to tumble face-first onto the asphalt. Ow, my pride, he thought and scrambled to right himself, whisking about to see if anyone noticed or recorded that, Right then, I think it's time for lunch!

The fox donned his cap and revved his engine to partake in a nearby restaurant… a meager ten city blocks away in a quiet corner of the Rainforest District: Bambootown.


As it was with many backroads in Zootopia, those of Bambootown were narrow to wind through their respective habitats; only the residents truly knew how to navigate them and thanks to a more recent interpretation of the Mammal Inclusion Initiative, were charged with the responsibility of ensuring the safe travels of visitors therein. Signposts and GPS waypoints were budgeted for and installed in previous months around the more commercial areas along Bambootown's borders and it was such dim lights that Nick used to find his destination.

He parked not too far off, doffing his cap, orange vest, utility belt, and the top half of his uniform to shrug on a subdued floral shirt and checkered tie (kept stored in the under-seat compartment of the car, just in case). Finally, Nick moved some stuff around to further obscure his official vehicle and returned to the street in his plain-clothes (badge and stun-gun hidden in the waist of his pants), casually adjusting his tie.

Gentle mist lingered in the late morning roads to refract sunlight from above the green haze, bamboo leaves swaying with some high-up breeze to carry a lazy smell. Nick glanced at an overhead restaurant sign, the wooden slab a charming throwback to the main street of yore. The building itself was grouped with others, similar in their design of darker paneling around the two frontmost windows (thus, a panda); it was characteristic of many mammals to incorporate such identifiers but got awkward if ownership ever changed to someone outside the species.

Nick whistled as he peeked in. Bamboo comprised nearly all of the furniture, from the bolted-down tables to the moveable chairs, some booths, and an entire bar with stools; it looked weathered but well-kept in dark, neutral tones but lined in much fancier patterns to reflect the panda's culture. There were depictions of serpentine dragons coiled about orbs, fish splashing from a pond on the wallpaper… but it did not impose too greatly on the aesthetics, rather stayed on the border of the walls and ceilings with living, twisting bamboo plants, adorned with hanging gold-finished coins and red ribbons. It was fairly busy for the clean and dutiful chef behind the counter, hustling in tandem with clean and dutiful waiters at the tables. He then continued onto the next establishment, the one right around the corner, out of direct line-of-sight, and the address which Rocky sent him to.

It resembled a food cart affixed to a shed as a gentle waft of savory smoke trickled up from behind the curtains. Perhaps 'weathered' is too kind a word for this place, he pondered, not needing to push the eye-level dividers away from his face, being short enough to simply walk under them before plopping his bushy red tail onto a stool.

"Hey," the gruff, 'weathered' panda behind the counter said (also too kind a word, perhaps not taking to age too well), checking and spicing the meat barbecued under both their noses, "What'll be? I've got ostrich (fresh in today), some reef shark that's been pickled to perfect, or if you'd like something a bit homelier, Gila monster."

"I've never turned down pickled shark and I won't start today," Nick replied, leaning on an elbow and wagging a finger.

"Coming right up." The middle meat was picked up with tongs and turned over to a hotter set of coals, once more spiced and let to simmer, the chef pivoting for a plate onto which a dome of white rice was scooped, and then garnished with carrot sticks and baby spinach (good for the fur). A flash of tongs and then a flash of knives severed a corner from the cut of sea-monster to present it to the patient customer. "Enjoy your dinner," he endeared, spoken in a language whose usage was concentrated in the residents of Bambootown, though generally dispersed in neighboring areas of the city.

"Thanks," Nick responded, earning an amused grimace from the panda as he broke apart a pair of chopsticks to dig into his early lunch, "I have a knack for languages and picked up a few over the years." Like that time I unwillingly hid inside the crawlspace of a takin gang for five months; it was either learn the language to figure out their schedule or get turned into a very handsome handbag. Side note: this pickled shark is really good. Wonder if I could get the recipe to Gid, see what he could do with it…

He continued tending to the meat, the reef shark returned to its place. "Careful there, buddy, or you're gonna choke," the panda teased, "I haven't seen you around here. Are you just passing through?"

The fox shrugged, watching the panda all the while. "It's been a day of seeing old friends and I'm here visiting someone," Nick said, and then extended a paw over the counter, "Name's Nick, by the way, and this is some of the best pickled shark I've ever eaten. What's your secret, is it the spices? I'll bet it's the spices."

He laughed and shook the fox's paw after wiping it on his pants leg. "Call me 'Guo', and yes, it's all in the secret spices."

Well… he's not lying… Nick observed and finished up his meal, setting out a few bills for Guo to pick up and complete the purchase, I was hoping to remind him of someone from his past but his nerves are rock-solid.

"Farewell, Nick," he said in all due politeness, "Have a safe journey."

"May your times be uninteresting," Nick responded, cradling the fistful of loose change he was handed, Hmm… I wonder if you still hold to your namesake… and when Guo went about cleaning his knives, he stood up on his stool to blindly drop half the amount into an otherwise empty tip jar. Thought so, he concluded as the chef's ears sprung and his entire body tensed… before returning to his cleaning. "How much was it?" the fox then asked, pocketing the remaining coins.

A harsh glare peeked over a round shoulder. "I don't know," he responded.

And you're lying. Nick then put on his friendliest face and laughed. "I'm sorry, it's this game I play with a friend of mine, a total numbers whiz who can hear the value of coins as they fall," he said, bracing his elbow on the upper part of the counter to lean in, "His ears are huge and they get all twitchy when it happens, just like yours did, and that's how I know he's counting them."

Guo turned around fully and just… clenched his jaw, staring at his single customer with some mixture of incredulity and terror. He seemed to swallow it down. "Oh, a game, huh?" the panda said, putting his knives down, "If that's all it is, then…" he paused and straightened his back, one paw to the small of it with the other scratching his chin, "I think it'd have to be… sixteen cents, give or take?"

Still lying, "So close," Nick said, "but that was a pretty good guess." You've been at this for over three decades, of course, you wouldn't let it slip so easily… and I respect that, Louis, but we need your info, he thought, and rose up a bit more onto the counter to lean in, one foot still on the stool as his bright green eyes honed in on Guo's hardened gaze, "I bring it up only because there was someone my parents knew a long time ago who was famous for getting it exact. Or… infamous," Nick then hinted, "Coincidentally, he was also a panda."

"Guo" proved his skill with a knife, yet again, as a flash of its tempered steel arched through the air, pinning to the counter the length of tie which had found itself draped onto where Nick had leaned over.

Nick - a clever fox - had already prepared himself for something… like that, and tugged at the quick-escape knot to immediately spring away, causing the stool on which he once sat to teeter with him keeping balance (as best he could). This is killing my thighs… how does Dad make it look so easy? Nick wondered as he kept as calm and collected as possible, both paws held behind him and at the ready to draw his stun-gun and badge. "Mr. Chang."

The coals sizzled between them, knuckles flexing around the handles of their respective weapons… but there he was, Louis "Loose Change" Chang hidden behind age and cosmetic damage. A half-a-lifetime of crime never really goes away, though, as ferocity and cunning filled his eyes and curled his lips, the ursine fangs yellowed as harried breath slipped through them. Like before, ears thrashed at a new sound, the panda immediately digging his knife out of the counter and Nick sitting his stool back down with him atop it… and snagging his punctured tie.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone else here, Nick recalculated, keeping his profile below the rise of the serving area.

"Grandpa?" a young panda asked in that same language, poking their head in from behind the curtain leading to the storage area, "I heard a noise and then everything was quiet."

"I'm fine, Dumpling," he assured with a shaky smile, aided by the term of endearment, and set the knife down to pat his chest, "Just a tiny scare. Go back to your studies."

"Are you sure? I could call Daddy-"

"It's nothing to worry him about," Guo said and gestured a grandfatherly shooing with his paw, to which "Dumpling" nodded and departed.

"Cute cub," Nick then said after a long moment.

Guo heaved a bit. "She gets it from her mother, the most beautiful panda who ever lived… after her mother, of course."

"Of course."

He then pulled up another stool to sit, gazing only at the space just beyond his nose as he seemed to return to reality. "Louis Chang died, Nick, it was all over the news," he coughed.

"No, he didn't."

"He did," Guo implored, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, "he paid his debts and died. For their sake…" and nodded at the curtain where his cub had disappeared, "he died."

"No, he didn't," Nick quietly pressed, "He faked his death before ever going to trial. Thousands upon thousands of children were trafficked as pets because of you. No debt was paid."

The panda didn't respond, only twiddled his fingers. "I…" he continued, "I didn't know that it was children… not at first," Guo confessed, "I played the game, did what I was told, and then that night at Lionsgate changed everything. They needed a patsy, someone to take the fall; so, Louis Chang died… I didn't realize that it meant culling the rest of the Chang family but they said it needed to be done. 'Guo Tin' then popped up in a sleepy corner of Bambootown and I've worked this food cart ever since," he recounted, "You're so like him, Nick, that fox who ambushed us with his own group of masked thugs; spotted it as soon as you walked in. Ever since PredaTherp, I feared a reckoning… and then the Pred-Scare happened and I understood true dread for my family's safety…" he heaved, "We pandas are vegetarians, Nick, but were persecuted because we were bears. You've got to believe me, I'm a changed mammal!"

"Heart-wrenching," Nick sighed, "but thirty years too late, I'm afraid."

Guo sobbed as quietly as he could. "Nick, please," he pleaded, "if anyone found out, they'll come for my cubs and their cubs… I know what I did was bad… evil, but don't make them pay for my sins…"

Nick bit back a growl. "I can't just turn a blind eye, Louis."

He trembled all the fiercer. "But I've paid my debt!"

"Not to socie-" he began, and then asked, "Wait, when you say 'paid your debt' do you mean, paid your debt?" Guo considered it and then soberly nodded. Okay, that was lost in translation, I guess, Nick groaned and rubbed his eyes, "As in 'your debt was paid to The First Emperor' or whatever, jeez… What do you have, exactly?" he asked and then waved his paws, "Actually, never mind. How long do you have?"

The panda shrugged. "It's Stage 4, so we're just waiting, now," he lamented and rubbed his neck, "At my age, the treatment would be worse than the disease… but either is better than I deserve for what I did."

I guess I really can't throw stones here, not with what Honest John had me do… still, if I were King of the World, I'd probably just write this poor soul off as 'time served' and send him on up to a higher department. "You should be resting-"

"Listen," he cut in, "I'm the type of mammal who wouldn't miss work because of their own funeral. Just don't let… Them get my family."

Nick drummed his claws on the countertop. "So, I walk away as just another customer and your loved ones stay safe. Is that about right?"

"Yes."

"Tell you what… I'll let you off with a warning if I get some info out of you. Deal?" Nick offered, pulling out a notebook containing data that his Mom and Dad compiled on all the businesses involved with Pleasure Island back in the day, "Don't worry, I'm not asking a lot, only if you remember a few names and what happened to them over the years. And I'll take some of those meats for the road, they smell delicious."


"Sir."

He acknowledged her with a grunt, yellow eyes not raising from the sink as he continued washing blood from his paws, unflinching as he plucked an incisor from between his knuckles.

She absorbed the grisly scene. "I'll send for the surgeon."

"Do so," Ferris MacGrim said and then nodded at his previous matter of 'business', "If he can still talk, all the better." A bottle of hard spirits was grabbed from a nearby shelf, untopped, and poured over the minor puncture wound before swigged. "Go on," he then instructed when she finished a momentary call, binding his paw in the process.

"We spotted him skulking around Bambootown earlier," she said, showing a street view photograph, "but only by the merest chance."

MacGrim grunted. "Little Red…" he recognized, an overhead lamp illuminating the partially blurred image of Nick Wilde slipping around a corner, and then his eyes narrowed, "Where, exactly?"

She nodded her concurrence. "Near Louis Chang."

"Is that so…?"

"Sir?"

"There are no coincidences," he determined, "not with foxes."

She nodded again. "Shall I give the order?"

"…No, let it play out, could prove useful. Little Red is on the trail but doesn't know he was spotted, or else this would have been a better shot of him," MacGrim determined as he removed the blood-stained undershirt to put on a jacket, "King and Kazar built it all up but their carcasses will be picked clean on the ruins of their thrones." He then growled and grinned. "But with the Sparrow and the Queen at our side, we will feast on the scavengers and grow stronger… We've waited long enough."


Author's Notes:

Refer to Loyal, chapter 9, for the interaction between Esther and Mr. Never, including but not limited to the two boxes he pulled out and the giant skeleton of the stag hanging overhead and Mack's timely intervention.

Rocky Cooper made his debut in Loyal, chapter 14, as the Zootopian version of Rocket Raccoon (from "The Guardians of the Galaxy"); likewise, "Grooper" is based on Groot, and "I am Grooper" references how his vocabulistics is limited to "I" and "am" and "Groot." Exclusively in that order. Additionally, Rocket explained how he made a bomb and was "going to put it in a box", which is used here.

Jackie's intervention of Louis Change's criminal activities is alluded to during the Lions Gate Sting (Loyal, chapter 17) when Louis assumes that Bogo, et al, are associated with a mysterious vixen who'd been a thorn in his side).

"Charlie Woodstein" is a pun on "woodchuck" and the surname of his voice actor, Jackson Stein.

Travis Blackfoot detailed how his family was visited by a family for the express purpose to keep Gideon bullying; Brave, chapter 21.

The takin is a species of very large, very territorial ungulates related to the goat but about the size of a muskox, native to South China.

"May your times be uninteresting" is a play on an old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times", i.e., wishing their days are filled with complications rather than smooth sailing.

Nick's friend is Finnick, of course, and his propensity for coinage is referenced in Brave, chapter 11.

The "quick-escape knot" was introduced in Brave, chapter 12 with Grav's call scene, and brought back in Nick's confrontation with Doug in Brave, chapter 20.

When Nick reflected that he "couldn't throw stones", he was referring to what he told Judy back in Loyal, chapter 7, and how Honest John obscured the true results of hustling for him in the past. It's not the same as what Loose Change did, of course, but they share a similar regret for what they did.

"Little Red" is a nickname used by both Captain Alphonse Kela and Mack Mallupe.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!