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 13 –Facts are Stubborn Things
(Continued…Part 6)

"Whoo-hoo, stand back losers, coz we…are…HERE!"

A chorus of squeaks, whistles, and chitters greeted the Maschay brothers as they pulled their vehicle around the corner and into the clearing, the two of them throwing triumphant fists in the air. None of the responses were derisive; the gerbils' declaration had been playfully meant and everyone had taken it as such. They were, in fact, two of the more popular members of Team Dragon Wasp.

Team…

There were many things the ZPD still didn't know about Zootopia's outlaw-drone crowd —and they wouldn't have liked it if they did. A year ago the 'drodents,' a term first coined by Chief Bogo, had started to form actual clubs. More recently, the practice had given way to another one, illegal drone racing. That was why the Maschay brothers were here tonight, along with what looked like half the youth population of Little Rodentia. The flag was about to drop on the biggest competition of the summer so far…the Ficus Gap Midnight Run.

The meeting place for the contest was 'Trollbooth' Park, the unofficial name for a place that had no official name. Not much to look at, it was little more than a flat expanse of broken pavement on the Savanna Central side of the Serpentine, the nearly vertical line of hills separating it from the Rainforest District. To the west, a towering, V-shaped canyon, with deep-gray walls stretched away into the darkness. This was the Ficus Gap Gorge, the divide that separated Serpentine North from Serpentine South…and also the course for tonight's race. Strewn out along the floor of the canyon were remnants of the old Ficus Grove Toll road.

In times long past, if you had wanted to travel quickly between Savanna Central and The Rainforest District, the tollway had been your only option. Eventually, with the construction of the Mongoose River tunnel, the thoroughfare had fallen into disuse and disrepair. By the time the ZTA light-rail system had come online, it was little more than a distant, weed-choked memory. The one time the city had considered refurbishing it, the plan had quickly been discarded. In the words of one surveyor, the Ficus Gorge cliff-sides were, 'a rockslide, waiting to happen.' And so, instead of repaving the tollway, the city had closed the canyon to all access, erecting high fences, topped with razor-ribbon, at either end. And just to make certain the purpose of these barriers was well understood, they were plastered with warning signs in four different languages—complete with graphics.

That was fine for keeping cars and pedestrians out; access from the air was another matter.

By rights, that should have presented another problem for the drodents, at least if they want to run this race at night; the possibility of an encounter with a bat in the middle of a race. Not necessarily; the Ficus Gap Gorge was a winding, meandering canyon. Why fly through The Serpentine, when you could hop straight over it in less than half the time? Those hills might be steep but they were far from insurmountable.

And even without that little factoid, bats, like all residents of Zootopia, preferred to use the ZTA for longer journeys. The likelihood of meeting a flying mammal in the Ficus Gap Gorge tonight was remote in the extreme.

The race's actual starting point was a rough patch of concrete approximately the size of a volleyball court—or a soccer-field if you happened to be a member of a rodent species. Parked around the edge and facing outward like the spokes of a wheel were vehicles of differing shapes and configurations. All of them were roughly the same size, however; not every rodent species is small enough to fit inside a drone. The largest animals here tonight were chipmunks; after that, sorry bub, you're over the limit.

The park was about 2/3 of the way full when the Maschay Brothers arrived. At once they were greeted by a chorus of honking—actually peeping—car-horns, and the flash of strobing headlights.

To be sure, the acclamation was anything but universal. Not everyone here tonight was down with the Dragon Wasps—or the Maschays. The Tigerhawks, a drone club out of The Palm District, considered them a pack of dilettantes. "If those rich-boy jerks had to fly the same machines as us, we'd kick their tails every time."

The Wasps, of course, wrote this off as simple jealousy. In any case, there was no love lost between the two race-clubs.

"Hey, check it out." Darius observed craning his neck out of the passenger window, "Good crowd tonight, bro'."

And well there should have been. It was an almost perfect night for a drone-race; clear skies, a gleaming, three-quarter moon, and only the barest hint of a breeze. All around the park perimeter work-lights glowed as various racers attended to their machines, accompanied by the thump—actually the chirp—of rodent-sized boom boxes. The air was warm and washcloth damp; no surprise this close to the Rainforest District, and a faint, smoky aroma hung in the air.

"There's our guys." Darien swung his arm like a compass needle and his brother dutifully turned the car in that direction. At once they saw the grinning figure of Ricky Plainview, a sagebrush vole, who stood waving enthusiastically while Marla Hazeltine, a dormouse, swung a flashlight (actually a penlight) in a rolling motion towards an empty space at the edge of the tree-line.

Exiting their vehicle, the two gerbils were greeted by a flurry of high-fives and fist-bumps.

"Yo, Dart, Dare, you're here," Ricky beamed, referring to his teammates by their race-names.

Just then, another voice joined the conversation.

"What the heck kept you, dudes? I was starting to worry." It was Terry Springer, a kangaroo rat.

"Sorry, we had business to attend to," Darius answered indifferently, reaching to grab a duffel-bag from the car.

That 'business' had been tuning in to watch Rock Hardesty's cable program…and DANG, they didn't remember the video they'd sent him looking that good.

"He must have had his tech-guys clean it up or something," Darien had observed, reaching for another pawful of grass seeds.

The brothers' encounter with Officers Wilde and Hopps the other night had not been planned; they'd been out, testing some mods they'd made to their drone, when they'd come across a skytram car with a fox and bunny inside—and also in each other's arms. A bit closer and they'd recognized the pair. After that, it had been, 'smile for the camera, suckers!'

Neither one of the gerbils had especially been put off by the sight of a fox and a bunny getting snuggly. Truth be told, they couldn't have cared less. But these particular animals were also COPS and a chance to stick it to The Mammal was not to be missed by a member of the drodent clique; 'I Fought The Law and I Won!'

It would have interested the Maschay Brothers—or more likely distressed them—to know that, at that moment, they were being scrutinized by the very fox who had given new life to that song.

The setup hadn't been an easy one; of necessity, the racers were maintaining a tight ring of security this evening. There were gophers keeping vigil on the entrance road, squirrels surveying the landscape from the treetops, and not one but several rodents with their ears glued to police-band receivers. (Conor had brought along a scanner of his own—and also his laptop.)

The extra caution stemmed from the one glaring disadvantage of running a drone-race out of Trollbooth Park; there was only a single access road leading into this place, one way in and one way out. What that meant was, if the ZPD should decide to come calling, there'd be no such thing as making it past them—not without getting caught.

But then, would sneaking past them even be a necessity? Not if the racers had ample warning; there wasn't a drone here tonight that couldn't be 'legalized' in less than a minute. And, once the seats and control panels had been removed…Hey, there's nothing on the books that says you can't fly a remote-controlled aircraft through Ficus Gap Gorge. Eat it, ZPD!

The plan was almost letter perfect…but only almost. All of the racers' scouts and sentries were on the lookout for John Law…and so all of their eyes were turned eastward, towards the entrance-road and the highway beyond. No one was looking in the opposite direction—or paying even the slightest attention to that overgrown, cubist-looking hill, approximately two clicks to the south-southwest.

Even in daylight, Conor's hiding-place would have been hard to spot. At night, it was practically invisible, a niche between two boulders with the canopy of a waterberry tree spreading over the top. Cut a cord of bamboo staves, stake them in front of the entrance in a haphazard pattern, and voila, you've got yourself one fine, old hidey-hole there.

And the fugitive young silver fox hadn't stopped there with his camouflage; he had also donned a leafy-green Ghillie-suit and—in a fine twist of irony—blackened his face and paws. (Only a few weeks ago, that would have been unnecessary.)

Oh, and he had also made certain to position himself downwind of his quarry.

Now he peered at the scene below through a pair of high-def mini-binoculars, zeroing in on the Maschay brothers. For a species without night-vision, the lighting would have been insufficient; for a fox, it was no problem. He could see everything as clearly as if he were only a few yards away.

He could also hear what was going on down there; unbeknownst to the gerbils and their crew, Darien's bluefang mike was fully active and picking up every word that he and the others said.

Conor's amber eyes narrowed as he glanced over at his laptop, sitting parked on a nearby rock. For the moment, only the desktop was showing, but all that would change when the Maschays got their machine deployed and activated the webcam.

He reached for his sports bottle, taking a short pull of lemonade. Given his druthers, he'd have preferred a soda-pop but didn't dare lest a careless belch give away his position.

Lieutenant Tufts had been right about one thing; the speech pattern of the ZPU-hack tipster was indeed a close match for that of the fugitive young silver fox—but that was as right as the Kaibab squirrel had gotten it. Conor Lewis was not, in fact, the animal who'd blown the whistle on the Zootopia Police Union cyberattack. He wasn't even aware that it had happened—although if he had been, he could have given the ZPD at least a rough idea as to the perp's identity.

Three nights previously, he'd been hiding in lurk on a Dischord chat while the Maschay brothers had regaled their online buds with a blow by blow account of their encounter with 'that shifty-tail fox and cutie-pie bunny-cop'…together with a description of the events that followed. ("That cheetah-babe was like soooo clueless!")

Included in their circle of chat-companions had been three young mammals Conor knew by reputation, if not to speak to them. Every single one of them had possessed more than enough computer skills to penetrate the Zootopia Police Union database—which admittedly wasn't setting the bar at maximum height; that particular computer was about as secure as a cardboard safe. The trio had also been nihilistic by nature...meaning no further motive had been required for them to act. 'Cops? Lemme at 'em!'

The most interesting part of that conversation had been an incredibly careless admission on the part of the Maschay brothers. Yep…they'd been the ones who'd called in that fake 'armed-fox-with-a-hostage' report to the cops; heck, they'd even bragged about it.

Conor could have alerted the ZPD right then and there. Perhaps he should have, and maybe he would have—except for three things.

First of all, how was he supposed to get the cops to take him seriously without revealing his identity? Second, with the kind of legal resources the Maschay family probably had at their disposal...worst case scenario, those punks would get off with a rap on the knuckles.

And, last but not least, it ran strictly against the young fox's grain to turn snitch—even on these guys. Nooo, he would settle the issue himself and on his own terms. That decision had jelled when the chat topic had turned to a drone race scheduled for three days from now. Intrigued, Conor had paid a short visit to Trollbooth Park the following morning—a risky gamble, but he'd very much liked what he'd found. Danny Tipperin would have called this place an almost perfect spot for an ambush.

Now the young fox smiled as he watched gerbils coax their drone off its trailer and deploy the propeller booms. Reaching to his left, he scooped up a gadget attached to his laptop and a smart-phone by a pair of ZSP cords, a device resembling a miniature Boarg-Cube. His smile crinkled as he flicked it on, entranced by the scrolling LED-lights.

Thirty feet below him, and a number of yards away, Darius and Darien were studying the competitor's board with folded arms and frowning faces. They were scheduled to race in the fourth slot, competing against the Tranhs, a pair of long-tailed, climbing mice from the Canal District. Supposedly their opponents were cousins—and they were definitely members of a brand-new racing club with the improbable name of The Flying Lotus Clan. Tonight would be their very first competition.

In a way, that was good news for the Maschay brothers. As newbies in the game, the Tranhs would be unschooled in the finer points of drone-racing.

Or…would they? That was the bad news. Because their opponents were a pair of unknowns, Dare and Dart would have no way of knowing exactly what they were up against until the flag dropped. 'Better the devil you know' and all that. They did have one clue but it wasn't encouraging. The drone the climbing mice had brought with them tonight was one serious looking machine, a carbon-fiber body and propellers like paring knives—and if tonight was going to be the aircraft's first race, it would clearly not be its first flight, not with all THOSE modifications. This drone had seen some action along the way.

"Good thing we installed those triples," Darius observed under his breath, referring to the three-bladed props now gracing the booms of their drone.

With nothing better to do, the two gerbils returned to their vehicle to await their turn. Settling into a pair of camp-chairs, they watched as the first two machines were trundled out to their starting positions.

A more contrasting pair of drones could hardly have been imagined. The first one, belonging to Team Skyreaper, was painted in magma-orange and decorated with bat-winged rodent skulls, and an evil, shark-toothed grin. The second one, by contrast, was in a plain, black wrapper, with no adornments whatsoever.

Had the Maschay brothers been betting rodents this was the machine they'd have wagered on. It belonged to none other than the Nighthowlers, a club based in the Canyonlands District made up entirely of grasshopper mice—and also the winningest drone-race team in all of Zootopia.

From somewhere in the treetops, spotlight shone downward, illuminating a ground-squirrel-girl in its pale-blue beam.

"Race teams….clear the pad; teams, clear the pad." She spoke into a headset as the supporting rodents fanned away from the pair of drones. Giving it a few extra seconds to make sure the pad was clear, she tapped the end of her microphone and spoke the magic words. "Racers…START…YOUR …ENGINNNNNNES!"

What happened next was so anticlimactic, it was downright funny. The two drones' propellers whirled into life with practically no noise at all. To hear them, you would never have imagined they were attached to a pair of racing machines.

And that was just how the drone clubs wanted it. Earlier that year, a pair of Siberian hamsters named Yuri Tsorgin and Yakov Stepnekov had made (unwanted) names for themselves by becoming the first—and only—rodents to compete in a drone race using a gas-powered aircraft. "Built it ourselves," they'd proudly informed everyone who had stopped by to look. But when race time had come, the hamsters' brilliant idea had quickly come to grief. Their drone had been faster by far than any of its competitors—and also much noisier; so noisy, in fact, that it had instantly attracted the attention of the ZPD. As a result, the Siberian hamsters had garnered the further distinction of being the first animals in Zootopia to be convicted of illegally piloting a drone aircraft. And from that day forward, it had been all-electrics, all the time, for every other pilot of an outlaw drone.

Reaching downwards and behind herself, the ground-squirrel, whose name was Sadie Dugdale, produced a green flag, holding it aloft for all to see. She was answered at once by another chorus of chirps, whistles, chitters and squeaks…as much for Sadie herself as for the race that was about to start. (She was more than a little easy on the eyes.) Now she raised the flag even higher, holding it like a Liberty Torch, and looking from one drone to the other and back again.

A quick, tight nod and then she swiped down the flag like a cleaver. At once the two drones leaped up into the air and went streaking for the canyon entrance. Behind them another high-pitched cheer rose up as the crowd dispersed to cluster around a gaggle of display screens (pawlm tops and mini-tablets) to watch the contest on Go-Pher-Pro Cam. The action was quirky and choppy, like one of those 'gnu-wave' arthouse movies. One second the view would be smooth as gossamer, and in the next instant, it would stutter, glitch, and even wink out as the signal was lost in the kinks and turns of the Ficus Gap Gorge.

Nonetheless, with not one but two drone-cams at work, the race was easy to follow. And within the first half-minute, one thing became abundantly clearing. Barring a major mechanical, the Nighthowlers had it owned; their machine was already 15 feet ahead of the Skyreaper drone, and the gap was slowly widening. By the time they reached the turnaround point, the contest had become so uneven that some of the spectators were drifting away from the display screens. When, a short time later, the Nighthowlers' drone shot buzzing out of the canyon and across the finish line they were nearly two minutes ahead of their opponents. At once the team-members lifted their noses skyward and let loose long, piercing whistles—the howl of the grasshopper mouse, from which their club had taken its name.

The next race was much more interesting, a neck-and-neck duel between the Savanna Central Killer Bees and their hated, up-country rivals, the Meadowlands Murder Hornets. Nobody wanted to miss that one; a contest between these two clubs was like an airborne Mad Yax movie come to life. (The competition ended in a draw; the Bees won the race, the Hornets won the brawl that followed.)

The next race went in exactly the opposite direction. Midway through the canyon the Demon-Star drone suffered a short in its motor and was forced to drop out, abandoning the field to the Tigerhawks.

And then of course, everyone had to wait while the Stars got their machine working again. Finally, a good half hour after the race should have concluded, the crippled drone came limping back to the starting line, barely making it over the barrier fence before it gave out again

But now at last it was the Maschay brothers' turn. Impatient to get going, they and their team hauled their drone out onto the starting pad at an almost breakneck speed—as if the set up was part of the competition.

One thing you had to give Team Dragon Wasp, they knew how to run a tight ship. While Darien checked their night-vision goggles and battery power—100% and good to go—his brother and two of their other teammates got the seats installed and the smartphone that served as the control-panel snapped into place. (This was always the final step before a competition—in case The Mammal decided to put in an appearance.)

While all of this was happening, the lights on Dariens' headset flashed briefly and then went out. No one noticed…or had any idea that the tiny, built in, web-cam had also gone active. The young gerbil was in the midst of making a final check with the sentries, making certain the ZPD wasn't around, when he heard something behind him.

Actually it was two things; the first was a familiar buzz and whirr. The second was an indignant squeak from the direction of the Flying Lotus drone. "Hey you, you no cheat; you wait for starter!"

Wha…what the…?"

Darien turned around—and felt his jaw drop halfway to the earth. The Dragon Wasp drone was up and running; the wash from the rotors blowing his facial fur into a blunt, smoothed-out cone.

"Darius, what the heck?" he demanded, turning a furious expression on his younger brother.

"I didn't do it!" the other gerbil insisted, spreading his paws and angrily snapping his incisors, "It just started up on its…Ohhhh, SQUEAK!"

Their drone had just lifted off the ground and was hovering about a foot above the earth. As the two brothers watched, it commenced to perform a little dance; pitching and rolling from side to side as if mocking them.

That, in fact, was exactly what it was doing. Or, to put it a little more aptly, that was what the animal controlling it was doing. Sitting tailor-fashion before his laptop screen, face hidden behind a VR mask, Conor waggled his control-gloved fingers, giving the captive drone a minor seizure. He smiled wickedly, showing a fang. Even through all the sea-sickening motion, the view from the drone's Go-Pher-Pro cam was unmistakable…and what it showed was a pair of young gerbils, looking like extras in a b-grade horror-film when the monster makes its appearance.

"Not so full of yourselves NOW, are ya, punks?" the young fox snarled in silent delight.

Just then, Darius launched himself at the drone, his face briefly filling the camera aperture.

A good effort, but Conor was quicker, thrusting his index fingers upward, like sports-fan declaring, 'We're number ONE!'

At once the drone shot upwards in a fast, vertical climb, the ground shrinking dizzily away beneath it as it zoomed up into the nighttime sky. Conor saw his view through the drone-cam darken as the aircraft moved out of range of the lights below. No problem; he paused for a second and spoke two words, "Night vision." At once, the world shifted from a deep black to a smoky black, fringed in fuzzy, green moss. There was nothing to see up here, and that was just fine with the young silver fox; no possibility of a collision with another drone.

Conor's original plan had been to make the Maschay brothers drone perform a kamikaze dive into their car. It was an idea he had rejected almost at once; too much possibility of collateral damage. What if someone was standing near it when the drone hit? Flying glass, flying propeller fragments, maybe even an explosion—a lot of these rodent cars ran on propane. Nope, thanks but no thanks. That same possibility of flying debris had also led him to reject the idea of cratering the gerbils' drone, right in front of them. In the end, he had opted for something far less dramatic; simply fly the aircraft up to its maximum ceiling…and then kill the rotors and let it fall out of the sky. That would be a lot less spectacular than a full-on crash, but it would give everyone at ground-level plenty of time to get out of the way. And at the end of the day the result would still be the same. Grab your pens, guys—coz this machine's a write-off.

Now he spoke again, "Split screen," and his VR field divided in two, the right side showing the view from the drone's Go-Pher cam, and the left side the view from Darien's headset. Below these, he could see a virtual dashboard with several digital readouts, including the drone's altitude, battery power, speed etc. None of these were necessary; Conor's intention was to cut the motor as soon as the tiny aircraft started to become unstable…and you didn't need gauges for that. He wondered if after the shut-down the Go-Pher cam would keep running; that'd be fun to see. But if not, well-l-l no big deal; there'd be no such thing as saving that particular video anyway.

Down in the park below, several rodents were aiming spots and penlights into the night sky, attempting to catch a glimpse of the runaway drone. The sight of it triggered a sore temptation in the young fox. Wouldn't it be just sick to play the sound of an air-raid siren in Darien's headset right now?

Ahhh, but that idea was another non-starter; then that gerbil-punk would know that his drone had been jacked…and we can't have that now, can we? Ideally, the Maschay brothers would always suspect—but could never be certain—that an unseen paw had guided their machine to its doom.

Conor smirked again; the reaction from the crowd so far was everything he could have hoped for. Whoa, it was like rodent bedlam down there; screeches, chirrs, and whistles of dismay; tails shivering, arms thrown up in a frenzy, and beady eyes twice their normal size. Even the guys from team Tigerhawk looked petrified, although the young fox was certain they were faking it. Later, when no one else was around, they'd have themselves a good laugh over this.

Now the right side of his vision field began to perform a waggle dance. With nothing in front of the Go-Pher-Pro camera it was discernible only in the rolling motion of two faint pinpricks of starlight. Oh-kayyy then, this is as high as we go. The time had come to drop the hammer—literally.

Reaching out with his right paw, the young fox flicked at a switch that only he could see. At once, the image on the screen began to yaw, and then to pitch and roll as the drone fell from the sky, tumbling like a rodent exercise wheel.

Down below on the launch pad a symphony of dismay erupted, more like a cacophony actually; sweet music to a young silver fox's ears.

And yet…

Was it Conor's imagination or did some of that noise sound not quite right; less like cries of alarm, and more like…what?

And what the heck was going on with everyone; why were they running around with their arms in the air? "Is that what a scurry looks like?" he wondered to himself.

Something cold and unpleasant began to unfurl in his belly; a single voice had become clear over the din. Who was that, Darien? Conor reached out with his index finger, swiped at a red-glowing virtual slider. At once the gerbil's voice became a scream in his ears.

"Darius! Darrrrrius!"

Grimacing, the young fox hurriedly dialed back the volume.

"Darius? Why the heck is he yelling that for? And where IS Darius anyway? I don't see him…any…where…down…oh, no!"

The uncoiling in Conor's stomach tightened suddenly into a glacial knot, an icy anaconda constricting his guts. Oh, no!

"Drone cam, full screen!" he cried, in a voice the rodents would have overheard, had it not been for the noise that they were making. At once, the image expanded, filling every centimeter of his field of vision.

But…what the heck had he done that for? There was absolutely nothing to see on the Go-Pher…

Something swooped in front of the lens, there and gone in an eyeblink, and then it swished past again, moving just as quickly as before.

"Back up five seconds, and freeze," Conor's voice was like sandpaper on bricks. The image stopped, scrolled back, and he spoke again. "Play one-third speed."

Nothing happened. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Play…one-third speed." "Come onnnnn!"

The video rolled forward like a tired sloth. It only took half a second, before…"Stop!"

Conor stared into the void of the VR goggles; all the moisture had been sucked from his mouth and throat as if by a giant wet-vac. There, hovering in front of him was a face. It was mushy and grainy and visible only in profile, but unmistakably the face of a gerbil—Darius Maschay.

Equally unmistakable was the terror in his eye.

"Oh, NO!"

Conor hadn't been as quick as he'd thought; the young rodent had somehow managed to jump on board the drone before it lifted off.

"OH, NO!"

And now he was….

"OH, NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOOOO…snap out of it boyo, and DO somethin'!"

The second voice was not his; whose was it? Never mind; was it already too late? No he could still see the POV from the drone-cam, but how high was it? How much time did he…?

"Shaddup an' MOVE!" the voice in his head barked, and this time, Conor recognized it as Kieran McCrodon. He had to start the rotors again and stop the fall. But…the drone was pitching end over end as it plummeted earthward. If he engaged the props while it was upside-down, he'd only accelerate the crash…and with no landmarks visible through the Go-Pher cam; there was no way to distinguish down from up!

What to do, what to DO? Only one thing; he'd have to wait until the drone became visible and try to restart it at the exact instant when it was turned right-side up. Only...how was he supposed to find something that small in such a wide expanse of sky—and at night? Needle in a haysta…Wait, hold it; those pen-lights aiming upwards, they'd show him where to look. He'd have to time it just right, and he'd only get one chance, but it could work, it HAD to!

"If Darius is still on board that thing and hasn't already fallen…SHUT UP!"

He pulled off his VR headset, switching over to the laptop screen, and with the same motion grabbing his high-rez mini binoculars. Doing it this way would severely limit his peripheral field—and now he couldn't use his gloves to control the drone—but this was the only way he'd spot it in time. Pressing the binoculars to his face, he focused on the scene below, glancing back and forth from there to his laptop screen. He could hear the cries from the park getting louder; Darien's voice no longer needed amplification for the young fox to hear him.

"DARIUS! DARIUS! OH GOD, PLEEEEEEEASE!"

Conor shut him out as best he could and tried to concentrate, reaching for the smartphone that was now the runaway drone's master controller. He dialed down the power to one-third and prepared to hit the start button. Was that the right setting? He didn't know; he didn't even know what would happen if he used too much power…or too little. The drone might lose its props, or blow its motor, or…don't think about that, FOCUS! Get back on those binoculars...and watch those lights!

The young fox did and saw them come together in a teepee of light-beams. They'd spotted the drone…but where was it? He couldn't see anything…no, wait. There it was, a tiny, whirling…blur? Dangit, roll the focus knob; nooo, dumb fox, the OTHER way.

Okay, there it was. But now, almost as if in a fit of perverse glee, the drone flipped upside down again—and stayed that way. Agggghhhh, grrrr…NO! Could he start one rotor and…? Yes…maybe…he didn't know HOW. Aggggh, grrrr, what the…? The drone was gone, where WAS it? Wait, there it was. But oh God, less than a hundred feet before it hit, 90 feet, 85 feet he'd never… Wait, one side was tilting upwards again. C'monnnn, do that some more. 75 feet; drone almost vertical now…but only almost, come ON! 60 Feet, 55 feet, 50…45…screams getting louder; Conor thought he could hear Darius now…and the drone was tipping back into an upside-down position, only 30 feet before…

A puff of breeze caught the tiny aircraft, flipping it right-side up again. Conor stabbed a finger into the control phone. The rotors started, but the drone was still falling….20 feet…17…15…power UP, dangit! Conor swiped a finger across the phone…nothing happened; he'd aimed too high. 10 feet from impact…5 feet; he swiped again, desperately...

…And the drone slowed to a wobbly hover, coming to a halt less than a foot above the earth.

With a quivering finger, the fugitive young silver fox powered down the rotors, bringing in the drone to an almost delicate landing. And then, almost without thinking, he turned off the smartphone, and disconnected the Pigarus Box, releasing the aircraft from his control. When he raised the binoculars to his eyes again, his paw was shaking so badly that he was obliged to steady it with his other one.

What he saw was Darius collapsing into the arms of his older brother, the two of them crying almost hysterically. They seemed to be holding onto one another for dear life, (and maybe they were.) All around them, other rodents were reaching in to offer a supporting paw or a pat on the shoulder; even the members of Team Tigerhawk were pitching in. Every third or fourth face was streaked with tears.

Conor felt like crying too, although he knew he wouldn't. Somewhere along the line, he had lost that part of himself; possibly at Granite Point, he didn't know exactly where. What he did know was what he wasn't seeing right now; these weren't the snarky gerbil jerks who had callously outed Nick and Judy to Rock Hardesty. They were only a pair of very scared young rodents, one of whom had nearly lost his life just now.

"One of whom YOUSE nearly got killed, more like!" The accusing voice of Kieran came back in his head with a vengeance. "An' fer what, boyo…fer what?"

"Please, I didn't mean…" the young fox whispered in a dry breath, clasping his arms around his head, in what he knew would be a futile attempt to silence the absent sea-mink.

Actually, it worked…but then HIS inner voice took over.

"Congratulations, punk….you finally did something to deserve getting your tail locked up. Are you proud of yourself, huh? All those promises you made to yourself when you first came to Zootopia…where are they now, huh? HUH!"

"Shut up…" Conor folded into a fetal position, his voice a tiny squeak, so high-pitched even HIS ears couldn't pick it up.

His inner voice didn't shut up; instead, it doubled down.

"You almost became a murderer just now—a MURDERER! Now quit your whimpering and get to work. Or…do you want those rodent-guys to figure out you jacked their drone?"

Conor straightened up and reached for his VR goggles. His movements were mechanical, almost robotic. Nonetheless, he managed to retain his center. In mere moments all evidence that the Maschay brothers' drone had been subjected to an outside influence was gone, like chaff in a windstorm.

But even then, the punishing voice refused to let up on him.

"Why'd you even do this, kid….for Nick and Judy, right? Who the heck appointed YOU as their avenger? Stupid, little jerk; you think they'd be happy if they could see your little mess-up right now…you think they'd thank you for it?"

The young fox answered by clasping his paws around his head again. The voice refused to cut him any slack.

"And what would ERIN say?"

"Go away…"

And the voice stopped—but the realization that had come with it remained.

Conor was regressing; he was becoming the fox he'd been right before it all went south with the Company, the one who'd come that close to EMBRACING a life outside the law.

He was treading down a pathway he had sworn on his mother's memory never to take again—and the worst part was, before tonight, he hadn't had a clue that he was headed in that direction.

"Oh Mom, I'm so sorry."

It was pitifully inadequate, but what else could he say? What was he supposed to do, raise his paw and promise 'Never again?'

"Sorry boyo, ye've sworn that oath once already 'aven't yer? An' how'd THAT work out for y', then?" It was Kieran's voice, returning for a second helping.

Conor pulled himself into an even more compact ball of fur, trying to wish the world away. Oh God, he wanted to get out of this place, but not until the drone-racers were gone. That probably wouldn't take too long, not after what had just happened…

"Y'mean, after what YOU just did!"

…but until then there was nothing for the fugitive young silver fox to do but hunker down and hope that his hiding place wouldn't be discovered.

He almost certainly would remain undetected…but right now, as far as Conor Lewis was concerned, if he did get caught, well, then that was what was going to happen.