Chapter Seventy
The Turning Tide
Time slowed for the coyote as the oil lantern was thrown across at him. He had never liked the overzealous, self-important mutt from the moment he had met him, and had grown to fear and despise him and everything he stood for. George had learned — at the loss of the favor of his master, the thousands of zeli worth of time and at the loss of his own right paw — to always follow every move the hound made, every word he said.
However, for all his care, at the presence of the armed polar bear at the window and the two guards by his side, he had dropped his concentration for a moment too long, and knew that — in that moment when time stood still, when his heart, lungs and mind flashed with hot panic — he had made a grave mistake.
Time sped up again, and then everything seemed to happen at once. The glass of the lantern smashed against his face, the oil spilled and he and the memmle beside him burst into flame. George's world turned to searing, white pain. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He barged towards the door, his instincts taking over, pulling aside the flaming body of what was once a cougar and throwing it to the ground. He didn't stop. He charged on, his mind blitzed by pain, but being driven on by the instinct to survive towards the edge of the harbor.
There was gunfire from behind him, though as the last of his fur was burnt away and as his flesh became the object of the flame's hatred, George was in no position to notice it. All he knew was the burning torment of the fire and the need to reach the edge of the harbor. He flung himself into the water, his body falling and collapsing into the coldness.
He passed from consciousness, lying face-up in the water — his breaths short, his mind absent from his body. Time passed. After what felt like hours, his mind was stirred by a sensation of movement. His mute and light world shifting and moving before him, the sensation of the restful silence was replaced by a world of noise and suffering; of memmle shouting to him in their native tongue.
"Sir! Sir!Wake up! Can you hear me?"
"Is he alive? Is he breathing?"
"Where'd the dog go, did anyone get him?" His mind being dragged back to his body — a tarnished and blackened mess of furless flesh, which could easily have been mistaken for a corpse — George opened his mouth to speak, but a thin wail of cries was only what crept out.
"A doctor. Does anyone know the number of the emergency hospital in this country?"
"Are you crazy? We have no passport, no legal reason for visiting and how do we explain what happened?" George's mutterings of misery growing in volume, his smoldered paws started griping through the air, as though reaching out for the paw of Death; hoping He would take hold and free him from the wretchedness of this world.
"He's alive?"
"Stand him upright!"
"The dog got away. What do we do, boss?"
"G-get the fuck away from me—" George spat, his voice gruff and weak as he tried to push himself off from the several memmle helping him to stand, but finding his body too weak to move, every inch of his flesh still stinging as though the fire was still upon him.
"We're compromised, the crew isn't ready, the dog got away and the—" There was the sound of corrugated metal collapsing, and the assembled memmle turned with a start towards what remained of Shuck Black's hut as it fell inwards on itself. A muffled cry emerged from within, a sheet of corrugated metal lifting itself up off the ground, revealing an elderly billy goat beneath, who was struggling to free himself from the metal he was trapped beneath. The coyote raised a shaking, blackened finger towards the goat. "G-get that p-piece of shit over here," he growled, his weary body fueled by venom.
Victor Nyilas finally managed to pull himself from the wreckage of the harbormaster's shack, and then he was set up by four memmle. There was less than a fight, and the elderly goat was taken by both arms and dragged back to what remained of the figure of George. Nyilas was thrown down onto his knees, a gun pointing at his head. He stared up, his expression fearful but resolute, into the coyote's hideously burnt and scarred face. George then reached out a paw with a raspy order, "Phone."
He typed a number into the device and the phone started to ring. "I'm sure y-you know what's going to happen to you," he growled down at the professor. "But I want to l-let you see it happen to your family first."
Victor's resolute expression broke. "No!" he cried, "They've done nothing in this— I have done nothing. It is not my fault what happened— it was promised that after—"
"Our master brought you in to oversee our ship-to-Hive operations. This happened under your watch. This is your fault. I will not be blamed for failure a second time."
The billy goat's expression became like ice, and all emotion and hope faded from his voice. "I am a scapegoat, aren't I? I have been from the start…" Still suffering terrible pain, still struggling to breathe and to think... George grinned down at the goat — the sight of his head hanging low to the ground in defeat enough to restore some of the coyote's former pride. In his paw, the phone was answered.
"Appleby here," it said. "My master is unfortunately predisposed at the..." The badger stared at the coyote through the video message. "What in hell's name happened to you?"
"Sir, it's Shuck, that festering dog. He killed three of my troops, did this to me and escaped! What do we do?"
Sir Appleby considered this statement carefully for a moment — never one for allowing emotion to rule his head — and then placed the laptop, through which he was speaking, down on a tabletop, turning swiftly to a large, black door. "I will see if the Master is yet roused."
...
In a tall, wide bedroom, miles above the squalor of the city of Zistopia, a black-furred panther eased in the white sheets of his soft, wide bed. Like all the rooms in that black spire, the walls and floors were made from jet black stone, with the various furnishings calved ornately and expertly into the almost impenetrable rock. However, for all the blackness within the room, the warm sun shone in from outside with reflections to the polished surfaces, giving the whole room a light, airy feel as the Lord of the tower stretched out easily in his bed, his black fur shimmering in the daylight.
The door opened slowly, his ever-infallible secretary, valet and butler gliding noiselessly into the room. He paused smartly in the doorway and addressed his master in his refined and perfectly formal tones, "My Lord, a message for you. It is Mister, hmm..." raising a paw, the badger flicked a speck of dust away from his otherwise spotless tailcoat... "It's that 'George' fellow, Sir."
Raising a brow, the Lord's intelligent gaze regarded the badger for a long moment. Sighing, he pulled himself up a little higher and moved the sheets away. "Oh, Appleby," he said, stretching, "bring me my clothes. I will speak with George later."
"I do believe, Sir," Appleby persisted, passing his master's gray nightgown towards him, "that you would much rather speak to him now."
The Lord covered his sleek, black-furred body, glancing to the badger concernedly. "What's happened?"
"Mister Black has escaped, Sir. Leaving the 'George' fellow in a most unsightly state."
Showing only mild signs of frustration outwardly, the Lord raised his paw and delicately rubbed his claws against his closed eyes. "My mind still resigns partly in the realm of slumber. Tell me swiftly, Appleby, what this means."
"If my knowledge of the matter is to be trusted—" The Lord chuckled. Appleby's capacity for knowledge was always to be trusted. "— upon receiving a call from Mister Black, the ZPD will scramble back into their raid armor. If my judgment is right, if we have our associates at the Zootopia port make to leave now, they will not have time to leave the border before the police arrive.
"I believe, Sir, that… just as we sacrificed one of our Hives to distract the local authority before… it would be wise, now, to sacrifice two or three pawns, by sending them to the ZPD headquarters and have them engage in a brief firefight with the officers. That gives our ship the required time to clear the area; before, the police have the chance to reach them."
His face clearing off the deep thoughtfulness of before, the Lord of Zistopia smiled and turned up towards his valet. "Appleby, what would I do without you?"
Appleby smiled. "You are too kind, Sir."
"Bring George in here. I'll get things sorted out."
"Yes, Sir. Though, I must warn you," Appleby added, pacing to the door, "his physical condition is not what it... once was." Appleby returned from just outside, with a laptop in paw, and paced back towards his master, as He settled himself back upon his bed. The badger waited until his master was settled. The Lord nodded towards him to give the signal, and Appleby raised the lid of the laptop, holding it perfectly still — without even having the thought of complaining — as the discussion between his master and George commenced.
"So, George, I hear— oh my God!" the Lord shouted, recoiling from the sight. "Remove your face from my sight before I have it cut off!"
"I-I'm s-sorry, Sir…" the coyote stuttered, hurrying to move himself out of shot from his phone's camera. A shudder ran through the panther's body. Sir Appleby understood this and made off — instantly and without orders — to prepare his master a strong drink.
"In all of God's names," the Lord muttered, grabbing the proffered drink and taking a long sip, "what happened to your face? It... it's just not there!"
"It was that festering mutt," George shot, in anger and hatred of the pain he was now constantly suffering, and at the state his body was now in. "He threw—"
"I do not want to know," the Lord cut in. "What matters is that dog escaped and you are the one responsible."
"I—"
"What else has happened, is anyone dead?"
"Three memmle, Sir— the polar bear included. The mutt tried to free Victor Nyilas before he fled, but we still have him here."
An idea sparking to his mind, the panther raised his face from digging into his own paw. He turned back towards the laptop Appleby was holding and said, "I tire of talking to you, George. Paw me over to Nyilas." There was a moment of hot tension, and then the coyote relented and shoved the phone into the startled hooves of the elderly goat. The Lord turned his gaze up towards his butler as the phone was pawed over, his voice dropping softer as he asked, "Remind me, does the local authority know what Nyilas looks like?"
"The chief of police at least did, Sir. Though I cannot account for the strength of his memory. The respectable Miss Hopps and the infamous Mister Wilde; however, are certainly aware of his physical characteristics." The Lord nodded, turning back down to the screen of the laptop where the pathetic image of Nyilas existed.
"My Lord!" Nyilas started, timidly, "Please forgive my—"
"Quite the mess you've made for yourself, isn't it, Nyilas?" Chewing on his lip, the goat sought for what to say next, Shuck's escape still hot in his mind; the things he had told him burning to the front of his mouth. "I hope you realize what a great deal of inconvenience you've cau—"
"No, Sir, I have done nothing except allow myself to be abused by yourself and your associates. You brought me here only so you could put your blame upon me. And I say... enough." The black panther was actually caught with interest at this outburst. "I will not be a scapegoat for you anymore. I have done all that you have asked of me. I found locations for your filthy 'Hives'. I informed you when the docks were clear for you entry. I managed your gangs of criminal scum. You promised me safe passage home tonight, Lordship, and that I would be reunited with my family safely."
A pained tear coming to his eye, the goat's voice dropped weaker and thinner, his throat becoming dry as he forced himself to finish, "And I will not let you use this Shuck's 'escape', of which I had nothing to do with. This is an excuse to keep me here, bound up in this filthy circle of crimes and drugs and death."
The Lord of Zistopia considered quietly for a long moment. His eyes, which had closed in careful thought, drifted open again and met the frightened, tired ones of the goat. "Appleby..." his gaze raising to the badger holding the device... "take this computer down to the basement. Tell the torchbearer he can begin his work on whoever of Nyilas' children are the youngest—"
"Arh, Sir—"
"Set the laptop up somewhere with a good view. Make sure our professor here is forced to watch." The badger nodded his head and started to turn from the room, the sound of Nyilas' voice practically screaming for him to stop and go back. Appleby knew his master's intention, naturally, and paused in his exit, with the turning of the laptop back around.
"I-I will do whatever you ask, my Lord, ple— just please don't hurt my family…"
The Lord's lip tightened. "This is the last thing you can do for me, Nyilas. Then, I'll have you reunited with your family. Have one of my associates drive you to the Zootopia Police Department's headquarters. Await my instructions there." Victor started to make a reply, but the Lord signaled to Appleby, who flipped the laptop lid shut, cutting off whatever the goat was about to say. The panther observed the badger's ponderous expression for a moment. "Yes, Appleby?"
"May I ask 'why', Sir?"
"Simple. They've lost three crewmemmle already. They can't afford to lose four more. The ship would never make it with a crew that small. But Nyilas, while still expendable, is more than just a pawn. When he arrives at the ZPD alone, either Wilde or Hopps will recognize him. Their chief will doubtlessly want him alive for his information, and will attempt to arrest him; thus, taking as much time as killing three average 'thugs' with lethal force. Besides, if we throw a shooting gang at them, they'll know something is seriously wrong."
Appleby nodded, thoughtfully. "I fear what may happen once the officers take Mister Nyilas captive— but I'm sure you know what you're doing. Will that be all, Sir?"
"That will be all, Appleby. You can fetch my breakfast now."
"Thank you, Sir," Appleby said, turning and drifting away out of the room.
"Appleby."
The badger paused in the doorway. "Sir?"
"Where exactly is Miss Hopps at the moment?"
"I must apologize most sincerely, Sir, but, sadly, I am not privy to that knowledge as of this moment. She is not at the PD. Our closed-circuit television coverage in that area witnessed her departure from there a while ago."
"And all the other officers are currently inside celebrating their success?"
"I believe so, Sir."
The Lord of Zistopia nodded his head, thoughtfully. "So, the officers of Precinct One are held up in a firefight against someone too valuable to kill... and the only officer available to answer Black's call for help..." His golden eyes sparkling, a wicked grin slowly split across the panther's muzzle, his perfect, pearly white teeth glittering brightly in the smile of the sun.
Sir Appleby nodded, slowly. "Shall I make the necessary call and put Operation Mincemeat into action?"
"Oh no, Appleby. I will make that call... Myself."
The badger smiled. "Very good, Sir. I estimate the probability of success to be in the high nineties of the percent."
Author's notes:
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