"Um," Nala was almost just as caught off guard as Simba was. "It's-it's a long-"

"Askari knows who I am," Simba's confidence made a recovery as he advanced towards his uncle's desk.

"I've never seen this dirty vagrant in my life," Askari held his nose high.

"Let me jog your memory," Simba slammed his paws down on the desk. "Last I saw you, you said you were going fishing. You said you were going to take the boat."

"This is ridiculous, I don't have to entertain-"

"I saw the boat when I ran into the woods," Simba's voice rose. "You never went fishing!"

Askari's expression flickered as a shred of recognition dawned on him.

"Who are you?" He asked quietly.

"I'm the guy who's going to find out what really happened to my dad," Simba growled.

"Impossible," Askari's voice faltered. "Are you saying you would have everyone in this room believe you are the dead heir to this company?" He scoffed as he looked Simba over, but he was visibly shaken. "That's ridiculous."

"I don't care about the company," Simba took a step back, "I'm just here for answers."

"You can ask the police yourself when I have you arrested for trespassing," Askari shot back. "And Nala if you don't leave this second, you'll be joining him. I do not tolerate such acts of-"

"Askari," Sarabi stood from her chair. "I'll escort both of them out of your mane. There's no need to involve the police just yet. I'll take care of this."

"Fine," Askari sat aggressively, waving at the door, where two hyenas were waiting. "Let them pass, Shenzi. But the youths are not welcome to return."

"You got it, boss," Shenzi rose her eyebrows at the three lions as they walked out of Askari's office. "I'll remember his ugly mug."

"Likewise," Simba glared.

Nala and Simba followed Sarabi, who strode with an air of unquestionable authority, out of the office and into the elevator. The walk was frigid and silent, neither young lion daring to look to the side and communicate with the other. Sarabi didn't speak, so they didn't either.

The ride to the ground floor was equally silent and chilly. Both Simba and Nala were unsure what was about to happen, but both were nervous. Nala was afraid that Sarabi would be angry with her that she had handled the situation so poorly. Simba was afraid that she would reject him. He took a deep breath, bracing for the fallout, steeling his emotions. Preparing to be told that he was homeless and unloved. Reminding himself that he could make it anywhere, that he didn't need anyone. Trying to smother the little cub inside of him who desperately wanted his mother to love him.

The lobby of the skyscraper was empty, which was unusual for that time of day. Sarabi glanced at Simba with an expression of mixed grief and stern suspicion.

"Give us some privacy."

"Yes ma'am," Simba murmured, retreating to the sitting area in the center of the rows of elevator doors. Though surrounded by chairs, he didn't sit. Satisfied that he was out of earshot, Sarabi looked sharply at Nala.

"Please explain what is going on, young lady. Now."

"He's telling the truth, ma'am," Nala's voice was quiet.

"Who exactly is he claiming to be?" Sarabi crossed her arms. "My son? What does he think he's going to gain from this stunt?"

"Mrs. wa Mwamba-Kiburi," Nala glanced at Simba, who stood stiff as a board a few yards away, "I would never lie to you. Especially not about this."

"I'm not accusing you of lying, dear," Sarabi's voice softened slightly, "I'm saying you've been deceived and that you've acted rashly."

"No," Nala shook her head. "He proved to me who he is. I'm not wrong about this, I know I'm not. That's him."

"Nala, how could that be him? Think about it."

"I have. For days. There's nobody else it could be. He told me things, things only he could know."

"Nala..." Sarabi sighed, but she glanced back in Simba's direction. Sarabi was a confident lioness, usually very sure of herself. But at that moment, Nala saw the doubt. Simba looked familiar, Sarabi could see it, too. "It's just not possible. Whoever he is," she looked back at Nala, "he has to leave."

"Ask him," Nala pointed at him. "Ask him anything, anything at all. He'll know the answer. Ask him something only he would know, he'll prove it."

"I won't do that," Sarabi shook her head. "I don't want to go through that, and I'm hurt that you'd ask me to. I've grieved enough."

"Sarabi," Nala surprised both of them by taking the older lioness' paws in her own. "I am so, so sorry I kept this from you for days. I'm sorry for everything. But you have to believe me, that is your son. He wanted to prove his identity first, it wasn't supposed to happen this way. I'm sorry. But you have to talk to him."

"I don't want to lose my son all over again," Sarabi's voice quivered. "It's too painful. My son is gone," she gently took her paws back, "and I know you must want him back almost as much as I do, but this isn't going to bring him back."

"Then we'll do a DNA analysis. I'll pay for it, if I have your permission to ask the police to compare it to the DNA they have of him on file at the station."

"You won't give this up, will you? So be it, I'll save us all some time," Sarabi waved the suggestion off with a disappointed look. "You're still such a stubborn young lady. Usually, I like that about you." She gestured for Simba to approach without looking at him. Simba did as he was asked. For the first time, Simba looked scared. "Young man," she scrutinized him, "I'm going to ask you some questions, and if you can't answer them, I want you to leave and not return. Does that sound fair?"

"Yes." Simba's voice was quiet.

"Nala, give us a few moments. This won't take long."

"Yes ma'am." Nala retreated to the sitting area where Simba had stood, but she sat down, watching the interaction from the corner of her eye. Before her sat a plastic potted plant, cheerfully reaching toward the high ceiling. Two rhinos in business suits exited an elevator, too absorbed in their conversation to take notice of the lions. Nala waited nervously, wondering what questions Sarabi was asking. Wondering how Simba felt about facing his own mother and being told that she thought he was a stranger trying to trick her. It had to hurt, even if her reaction was understandable.

One minute passed. Then two, then three. Nala tapped her heel on the tile nervously, wringing her paws. Even though she knew she was right, she still felt badly about how the afternoon had gone. The mother deserved to re-meet her son somewhere private, somewhere they could talk openly. Not between her son's shouts in front of Askari and Zira. It wasn't fair to her. She knew it wasn't what Simba had wanted, either.

It would be months before Nala ever found out what Simba had said that caused Sarabi to realize he was, in fact, her son. She knew it wasn't her business to ask something so personal, and she knew that it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that he was home, where he belonged. Turning her head at the distant sound of muffled sobs, she smiled sadly as Sarabi buried her face in Simba's mane, crying as they held each other for the first time in many years.

"I just..." Sarafina blinked in shock, still processing what Nala had told her. "...I mean, how did you find him? Was that really why you went?"

"No," Nala folded her legs, staring at her mug of tea as she sat next to her mother in her mother's apartment. "I did go with Nigel because we wanted to investigate the port, and we were right that companies like Rivermouth are using the port to circumvent tariffs and other fees. When we got there, we noticed that the animals of this little village just upstream of the port were using industrial water filtration systems, the kind that water bottling companies use, that had been modified for residential use. They were obviously stolen, and we thought that if we tracked down whoever was lifting the filters from the port, they might be our best inside intel. So we started asking around, and the name 'Red' came up. So, we tracked him down, and...it was Simba."

"That's incredible. You know the odds of something like that happening are one in millions, don't you?"

"I don't know if that's true," Nala brushed one of her claws up and down the ceramic mug's side, feeling the tiny ridges where the print began and ended. It said 'Savannah Square Dentistry' in blue letters. "Simba says that he was a stowaway on a cargo ship bringing products to and from his father's company, and that ship went straight to the port. Simba got off, and wandered around until he meet Timon and Pumbaa, a meerkat and a warthog. Apparently they took him in, and he never left. When he got older, he started helping animals steal water filters from the Rivermouth containers when the ships docked at the port and distributing them to the surrounding communities. He never really said why he did it."

"Sounds like sort of a Robin Hood situation."

"I think so."

"And you were interested in this story in the first place because you've always suspected that Rivermouth has been doing shady things to increase their profits?"

"I've always thought Simba's uncle was shady," Nala furrowed her brow. "Seems like I was right. Simba's story doesn't match what Askari told the police at all."

"Poor Sarabi," Sarafina set her mug on the coffee table and shook her head. "You said she didn't believe you at first?"

"In her defense, who would? Unless you sit down and talk with Simba and you know what he's been through, none of it makes any sense."

"It makes sense to me," Sarafina stared into the distance. "Losing his father like that, thinking it was his fault...I think anyone would have panicked. Do you think he had some sort of mental breakdown?"

"As a child? I don't know, I suppose it's possible, but at his age, running away was probably all he could think to do. He was traumatized, he was there when his father died, I don't know how much he saw, but that would mess anyone up."

"I mean more..." Sarafina tread carefully with her next question, "Well, as an adult, how's he doing, you think?"

"He seems pretty stable, actually. I mean, I think living there has made him a little rough around the edges, but I don't think there's anything wrong with him, at least not in a way that would impede his judgement. He's a little on edge, but he's not postal. He's just, you know, adjusting."

"So he's...okay?"

"He seemed okay, as much as anyone would be in his shoes. I mean he's changed, but," Nala smiled slightly, "he's still funny and sweet, like he was as a kid."

"Is he cute?"

"Mom," Nala rolled her eyes. "Come on."

"Can't a mother ask her daughter a simple question?"

"I was too busy trying to do my job to notice, and quite frankly he didn't make it easy," she stood and walked around the couch to the tiny kitchen. "His lawyers are going to have an interesting time representing him, he doesn't legally exist and he has no proof his uncle lied, it's his word against his uncle's. The case is going to be a nightmare."

"It sounds to me like Simba's story corroborates more closely with what the investigation showed."

"It does," Nala admitted.

"So," Sarafina twisted her torso, resting her elbow on the back of the couch. "Are we thinking his uncle killed his Mufasa?"

"I just don't see how Simba's story adds up any other way," Nala set her mug on the counter. "I think he did."

"What does Simba think?"

"He thinks so, too."

"Poor Sarabi. How was she doing, when you left?"

"I think it's going to take a few days for everything to sink in," Nala admitted. "We dropped a lot on her."

"You certainly did. I still can't believe you kept all of this a secret for as long as you did."

"I only did it because Simba specifically asked me to," Nala pointed out defensively. "This is his life, not mine, I wanted to respect that. Ethically, I think it was the right thing to do."

"Nobody's arguing that, I think you did the right thing, I just, well, I personally wouldn't have been able to do it, I would have told somebody. I asked Kula what was going on with you and she said that she didn't know but figured something had happened while you were away."

"Well in a way, she was right."

"And you said you weren't going to bring home a man," her mother smiled coyly.

"Ha ha, very funny."

"Dad?" He coughed as the smoke wrapped around his tiny body, burning his nostrils and throat and eyes as the cabin crackled and groaned around him. The floor under his paws and knees was hot, and the air was hotter. It was both dark and blindingly bright. He didn't know why he had been on the floor, or what had happened, but he remembered a deafening explosion, it had hurt his face and head and ears and then there was blackness. His head throbbed. Now he was awake and there was fire everywhere and he didn't know what to do. "Dad!" He couldn't breathe, his eyes burned, he was in horrible pain, strange pain that he'd never felt before, his body and mind were overwhelmed with the heat and burning and throbbing and he was terrified. He didn't know why, but he sensed the presence of death. He couldn't breathe. "DAD!"

Simba ripped the thick comforter off of his face and jerked upright, panting heavily.

Daylight filtered through the curtains, falling in skinny columns across the scrolled purple area rug. The sounds of the city could be heard in the distance hundreds of feet below, echoing between the canyons of skyscrapers for miles in every direction. The room around him was a wash of formal purples and golds, the furniture finished with filigrees and tassels. A few small still life paintings of fruit in dark rooms broke up the striped wallpaper. Through the aroma of the berry scented candle that had never been lit, he could smell the unmistakable scent of his childhood home, the penthouse. He rubbed his face groggily as the previous evening came back to him.

Convincing his mother it was him was hard. Hearing her ask why he had never come home and not having an answer for her was harder. He knew why he'd left and why he hadn't returned until Nala had hunted him down, or at least he'd stopped asking himself why, but he didn't know how to express this. He had managed to fumble out something about how he had thought it was his fault, but it had upset her so much he quickly tried to drag the topic in another direction, any direction. Besides, it didn't matter. What was done was done.

When she had collected herself and wiped her tears, his mother had beckoned Nala over and hugged her, apologizing profusely for not believing her. Nala had been gracious and apologetic, and pushed the mother and son to take some time to themselves. At some point it had been agreed that the only thing to do was for Sarabi to take Simba home and deal with "everything else" in the morning. Simba didn't know what "everything else" was going to look like, and he was afraid to ask. They had walked Nala to her car, Simba had grabbed his things, they had hugged and he had promised to meet with her and her boss at the Tribune the next day, they had settled on two o'clock. Then, his mother had taken him home.

Walking into his childhood home for the first time since his father had died had been...strange. Some things were the same, some were different. It smelled wrong and familiar, his mother used a different perfume now, and it didn't smell like their family, it only smelled like her. He liked her scent, but now he couldn't remember what his father used to smell like. That was gone forever. The room that had once been his bedroom was now an office, his mother had told him. He hadn't seen it yet. The guest room looked about the same, he'd never been allowed in it as a child, because his parents had been correctly concerned that he would get pen on the rug or crumbs on the bedding. Now, he felt the comforter between his paw pads absentmindedly. He could hear his mother moving in the kitchen, he didn't want to leave the guest room until he was fully calm. He hadn't had that nightmare in years.

He'd expected his mother to call his aunts, or anyone, but she hadn't. Instead, they had sat in the living room and talked until dark. Just the two of them. They had caught up on each other's lives as much as anyone in their situation could be expected to in just a few hours. What else could they do? There was no protocol for how to act when a child returns from the dead as an adult. If there was, his mother would know it and execute it flawlessly, but she was just as frazzled and disjointed as Simba had felt. She had laughed, then started crying again, then dried her tears and smiled more. There was no right way to reconnect, and it wasn't linear. At some point they had ordered noodles to be delivered, and at some point after that they had agreed it was time for bed. She had made sure he knew where everything was in the guest bathroom, given him a long tight hug, and retreated to her own bedroom.

His first shower back in Zootopia had been heaven, he couldn't deny he'd missed hot pressurized water on demand, and the guest towels were like clouds. His mother even had spare toothbrushes and toothpaste, it felt so good to be scrubbed clean. The second his head hit the pillow, he'd been out.

He stepped out of bed, wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt he'd bought years ago, some soccer team, he'd never gotten around to calling it football like they did there. He'd learned French and the metric system, but it had always been soccer to him. It was a boring sport to watch, but he'd liked how any group of locals were united by it, and how easy it was to play anywhere, all you needed was a ball, and someone always had one nearby.

He wandered into the kitchen, where his mother greeted him with a warm smile.

"Good morning."

"Morning," he sat at the breakfast nook, slumping over the counter as he rubbed his eyes, trying to orient himself.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Good," he lied. "Shower helped."

"You do look a little better," she admitted. "Would you like coffee?"

"That be great, actually," he perked up. "I can make it if you show me where the stuff is."

"No, you're still waking up, and besides," she took a container of coffee from the cabinet where he could have sworn they used to keep canned goods, "I've moved everything around a few times over the years, I know where everything is." He nodded as he watched her, trying to take note of where things were now. "So," she continued with a note of hesitation. "I made some calls this morning."

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm. I called your aunts, naturally. They'll be here for dinner. Your Auntie Naanda insisted on cooking, I don't know what she's making, she was in pieces by the time we were done talking."

"How'd they take it?" He cringed.

"Well," she sighed, "they were a little hesitant to believe it, but they trust that I can tell fact from fiction. To say that they're all very eager to see you would be quite an understatement."

"It'll be nice to see them," he allowed. He didn't know how that interaction would go, but he knew he had to start re-entry at some point. He wondered if he would feel guilty about re-meeting everyone he'd known, or just his family.

"I also called my lawyer," she turned back to face him as the coffee maker started sputtering and brewing, leaning on the counter.

"Your lawyer?"

"I wanted to know what the next few weeks might look like if you, well, stay."

"If you want me to stay," he answered carefully, "I want to stay."

"Oh son," she rushed over and enveloped him in a warm hug, "I've missed you more than you can ever know, of course I want you to stay. But," she continued to hold him, "I respect that you're a grown lion and you might not want to, or you might not be ready to."

"I want to," he patted her arm, leaning against her shoulder. "I don't think I'll ever be 'ready' to deal with all of this, all of the legal stuff, I mean. But I want to stay."

"I'd like that," she kissed the top of his head before finally pulling herself back, looking him over with misty eyes. "And you know that this is your home too, right?"

"I'm glad," he managed a wry smile, "because I'm broke and I don't have anywhere else to crash."

"You are not 'crashing' and you are certainly not broke. And I wouldn't say you'd have nowhere to stay, I'm sure Nala would have put you up in a heartbeat. It seems like you two really reconnected while she was over there."

"I guess," he rubbed the back of his neck. "She's a good friend."

"She certainly is," his mother eyed him as she pulled out two coffee mugs. "Well, you should know that a lot is going to be asked of you in the next few weeks. You'll need to meet with lawyers and the police, and they'll need some of your mane for DNA analysis, especially if you don't have proper identification from your previous residence."

"I don't think I've had proper identification since I was a cub," he sighed. "What's this whole process going to look like?"

"There will be three separate processes," Sarabi poured the coffee. "They will all likely start at the same time and happen concurrently. The first will be re-opening the investigation of your father's passing. The police will want to question you extensively. We haven't discussed it in detail, and I don't think either of us want to dwell on that right now, but I'm under the impression that your recollection calls your uncle's innocence into question. I assume it will go to trial, and if it does, that trial will likely be highly publicized. You'll have to be prepared for that."

"Okay." His stomach turned at the realization that he truly did not know what he was doing or what was going to happen. His mother could explain it all she wanted, but he wasn't capable of fully comprehending it. He felt stunted, like a child who didn't know how the world worked. He knew a lot of things, like what angle to cut into a tree to help control where it fell so no one was crushed, how to build a small shelter that would stand up to monsoon rains, how to cook over a fire without burning the bottom of the pot, how to tell the difference between the flu and tuberculosis, how and when to bribe local police, he spoke a second language fluently, but he didn't know how trials worked, or how banking worked, he'd been keeping his money in a small lock box hidden under a tile in his home for years, he'd never driven a car. None of the skills he'd relied on in République de Phacochère would help him in Zootopia. He truly was starting over.

"The second process will be getting your citizenship re-established," his mother continued, unaware that his head was already spinning. "It might be as simple as a DNA sample and written statement, it might be more complicated. The third will be sorting your financial affairs."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you take sugar? I also have oat milk and almond milk."

"Just sugar, please."

"Well," she continued as she stirred sugar in his coffee and handed it to him, "When you were presumed deceased, your inheritance was redistributed and now all of that has to be redrawn and pulled from various accounts. It won't be close to what it would have been had you not been declared deceased, but it'll be enough."

"You know I don't care about the money, right? That's not why I came back."

"I know it's not," she took a sip of her own coffee. "But you deserve to be given what's yours, what's left of it. I want you to have it, and your father would, too."

"Well, thanks," he drank some coffee. It was more astringent than the coffee he was used to drinking in République de Phacochère, but he needed the caffeine. He glanced at the clock and realized that it was nearly noon. "Did I seriously sleep for ten hours?"

"You seriously did, but I think you needed the rest. I've arranged for us to meet with our lawyer today at four, unless you already have plans."

"Oh," he blinked. "I told Nala that I'd meet with her and her boss at two, actually."

"I was joking," she rose an eyebrow at him. "May I ask why you're meeting with Nala's boss?"

"Well," he finished his coffee and wiped his mouth, "they sort of ditched their article to help me, I guess they need to write about something, since they flew across the ocean and everything."

"I mean this respectfully," Sarabi spoke slowly, "but I think that would be a poor decision right now. I think you should reschedule."

"Why?"

"Well," she took his empty mug and rinsed it for him, opening the dishwasher and setting the mug inside, "legally, this situation is very tricky. I'm not a lawyer, but I do know that the first rule of handling any legal situation quietly is to not speak to the media unless your lawyer instructs you to do so. Speaking to the media and revealing something you may not realize is significant can give away your entire hand during litigation. It also creates unwanted attention and public interest. Opinions and biases form. I don't think you should do an interview until you've spoken with our lawyer."

"You think they would write something bad?"

"No, not at all," she closed the dishwasher, "I just know that your uncle likely already is in contact with his own legal team and I wouldn't be surprised if they've already begun to build a case against you. I'm not accusing anyone of fighting dirty, but I know they won't hold back with what's a stake for him. Even innocent information could be warped and used against you before a jury. I'm not saying you shouldn't do an interview, just that a lawyer who would be able to anticipate potential cross-examination questions in court could advise you what would be harmless to share and what you should avoid revealing so as not to make the court case nastier than it already has to be."

"...Oh."

"Trust me, the Tribune is used to hearing this sort of thing, I can call their office and reschedule for you, if you'd like."

"No, I should do it myself," he glanced at the land line next to him.

"Here," she reached into a drawer and pulled out the phone book.

"Thanks," he took it, flipping it open to the extensive 'Z' section. "Why are phone book pages yellow, anyway?"

"I don't actually know, we'll have to look it up, there's a computer in the lobby."

"You guys have the internet?" He rose an eyebrow as he flipped. "Fancy."

"The lobby does, I've never needed it myself."

"How the times are changing," he muttered as the line rang.

Sarabi watched her son as he talked. "Hi, yes, Ms. Barb, was it? Hi Ms. Barb, I'm one of Nala's, what do you call them, yes, one of her sources. Could you let her know that I can't make it in today? She can reach me at my mother's number if she needs to. Yeah, she'll know who I am. Thanks. You too." He hung up and handed her the phone book.

"So," Sarabi put the phone book away, gazing at him with a soft fondness. "We have a few hours before we have to meet with the lawyer. If this were a normal day for you, what would you be doing right now?"

"Working," he stretched. "I'd already be out sawing trees down or helping move branches, maybe riding to a new location in the back of a truck. Depends on the day. Covered in mud and dust, probably."

"Did you like what you did?"

"It put food on the table," he shrugged. "Kept me out of trouble. Some of the guys were alright. Funny."

"Is that kind of manual labor something you think you'll miss? You know," she took a deep breath, "I don't want to put too much on you, I just...I want you to know that you have options. You'll always have options. More than you realize, I think."

"Yeah," he stared at the tiles on the counter. "That...almost makes it harder, though, doesn't it?"

"You have all the time in the world to decide," she reached out and squeezed his paw. "How about we take it one day at a time?"

"I think that's about all I can process," he cracked a wry smile. "What do you want to do?"

"Simba I'm retired, I do whatever I want each day. What I want is to do what you want, even if that's leaving you alone."

"No, no," he scrambled for an answer, realizing suddenly that he didn't want to be left alone with his thoughts. "Um, it's been a while since I've seen a movie, can we rent something?"

"I'd like that. What sorts of movies are you into now?"

"Old French art films and military propaganda were about all they had around where I was," he shrugged. "I could have traveled further and seen something, the country has movie theaters, just...the trip never felt worth it. Would have taken a few days, I didn't want to see an action flick that badly, you know?"

"You've been through a lot," she looked sad.

"Nah, not me," he deflected with a fake smile. "Just animals around me that I didn't know, Pumbaa Timon and I got along just fine, my life was fine. What do you like to watch?"

"I don't watch much television."

"Well," he sat back. "I guess that makes two of us."

Sarabi wanted to offer a suggestion, but every title she ran through was something that was for children. She didn't know what he would like. In turn, Simba was at a loss for what to suggest, as he himself hardly knew what he liked. The realization that they no longer knew each other once again settled between them. They sat with it a moment before Sarabi recalled a regretful evening when Askari had been left in charge of her son and the two had rented the latest violent action film, Terminator. She remembered being so distraught that her young son had been exposed to such violence, but Simba had loved it, and had spent weeks running around the penthouse imitating the Germanic accent of the main character while pretending to shoot imaginary enemies. She recalled that a second installment had been released in the early 90's. She remembered because when she'd seen the poster downtown in front of the movie theater, and for a split second, she'd forgotten that she'd lost her son, and thought to herself for just a moment that perhaps she would take him to see it if he was good. For a split second in downtown Savannah Square in front of that movie poster, her life was normal. Then the reality of her situation had caught up to her, and she'd walked to her next destination with misty eyes and a lump in her throat. That had been years ago.

"They made a second Terminator film," she offered. His face lit up.

"No way, they did?"

"Yes," she chuckled softly. "They did."

"I'm not gonna make you sit through that."

"Son as long as we're spending time together, I'll enjoy whatever is on screen. We'll make popcorn, and, you know, have a few hours of normalcy."

"Normalcy," he nodded, considering her offer. She could tell he wanted to see it. "Do you know if it's good?"

"Let's find out," she patted his paw. "Get your shoes on, I'll get my purse. Speaking of shoes, you need new...well, everything."

"If you say so. Is the rental place on 32nd still in business?" He asked as he pulled on his sandals.

"It is," she shouldered her purse, "but I prefer the new one on 16th, it's a brief drive but they have a bigger selection."

He followed her out of the penthouse and into the elevator, standing beside her and looking around at the paneling. It had been redone since he was small. She glanced down, and noticed that he was tapping his claw against the inside of his paw pad. He had a lot of nervous tics that she didn't remember him having as a cub. Tapping and scratching, always moving something, ears always fixated on every sound. She didn't know if this was typical for him, or if he was uncomfortable. She chose not to call attention to it and they rode down to the garage level in calm silence.

When the doors opened, he followed her to her vehicle.

"I'll drive," he state casually.

"Alright," she handed him her keys, as she had with Sarafina, her sisters, and even Nala many times. She never did like driving, and was happy to let someone else do it. Instead of unlocking the car and getting in, he burst out laughing. A realization dawned on her as she remembered a very key fact about her son. "You don't have a license," she rose her eyebrow, "do you?"

"No, I've never driven a car in my life," he snorted, handing the keys back to her and walking to the passenger side.

"You," she swatted his shoulder playfully as she climbed into the driver's seat. "I can't believe I fell for that."

"I can't either," he chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. "Sorry, I had to try."

"As long as you weren't going to actually drive," she shook her head, adjusting the mirror.

"God no, I'd probably never make it out of the parking garage."

"Driving isn't that hard," she assured him. He didn't respond, the smile fading from his face as it set in that driving was a skill he would likely have to learn. One more thing that everyone around him could do that he could not. Another basic skill he was lacking. "I'll teach you. Trust me," she put the car in gear. "You'll have your license before Christmas, and then we'll get you a car, whatever you want. It won't be so bad."

"Do I need a car?" He asked quietly.

"I think it would be best," she admitted. "I think relying on public transportation would handicap you. Especially if, you know," she sighed. "This whole fiasco becomes public. I think the privacy will be better for you."

Simba nodded silently.

Author's Note,

In 1985, when this story first started, there were 2,000 global internet hosts and the potential of the then-brand new internet were only just starting to be grasped by the public. Where the story is now in 1998, only about 40% of adults in the United States had regular access to the internet or otherwise considered themselves "online" and 35% of public schools in the States had connection to the internet. I believe the household I grew up in got internet in 1999, I remember the dial-up sounds vividly. I didn't use the internet until 2002 (for me, the family computer was for PC ROM games), and I didn't start going online regularly until 2006 or so, usually in computer lab at school where we were taught how to search for information online. Learning how to use the internet was a regular part of my coursework for years because most of us had only had internet for a few years and lots of our parents really didn't know or care to know how to use search engines yet. I started regularly reading fanfiction in about 2007, but it was usually on personal blogs people hosted themselves. I just Googled "_ fan fiction stories" and sifted through the results. Good times.

wolfx1120 [AO3]: I'm so glad, thanks for reading!

SnowyMarble [FFN]: Thank you so much! He absolutely dives into every situation guns blazing, since up to this point in his life that method has served him just fine, so he sees no reason to change...yet.

Cheers!

- Dieren