I do not own Zootopia, that belongs to Disney. This a fan work made solely for the sake of amusement.
"Let It Go, It's Happytown"
Chapter Fifteen: Omnipresent
By: Gabriel LaVedier
"My businesses are at a standstill, and in a mess. But a deal is a deal," Fleabite said, sighing lightly. The coyote was, as ever, lightly scratching his forearms as he stood in Sherlock's office. He appeared as ever, in a blue-checked flannel work shirt and white undershirt, with a pair of belted baggy blue jeans. He laid down an envelope on Sherlock's desk and slowly pushed it forward. "As agreed, plus the expenses your assistant indicated."
Sherlock looked down at the envelope and slowly pushed it back in Fleabite's direction. "Every natural inclination would have me take this. But while I found the direct cause, the one who killed and desecrated your innocent employees, I did not find the polluted specter that looms over this bloody plot. Another will come on his orders, and hurt more innocents. Your innocents."
Fleabite chuckled deeply, pushing the envelope forward again. "A deal, between gentlemammals. I wanted the killer. All my employees are as much Happytown natives as you. They know the peril of simply living, and try to work toward some kind of existence. You, too, need money to work. Walking in elevated heights will come to an end, but you will always have this as your home, and must make a way in it."
It took Sherlock a moment but he finally took the envelope and slipped it into a drawer in his desk. "But I will still seek the one who wishes us harm."
"And I hope you find him. You nave have the ability to pay for food and rent to help you," Fleabite said with a laugh, turning to walk out of the office. "I hope you find him. And once more, I don't care if he ends up in a District prison or under a District. But a little public safety service will be greatly appreciated, Mr. Gyag."
"One question... you had only tastes of substances so the one I found could not hurt you. Do you have an inkling of where one can find your competition, that wanted to edge you out?" Sherlock asked.
Fleabite paused and thought for a moment. "I cannot confirm anything. But I know that there are protected gambling dens, they float around. They seem to be near the edge of this place, where the larger city encroaches on our lives, where they have finally grown comfortable enough to bleed through. I don't know where they could be hiding themselves, they're so near the places actual Zootopians can be and yet... but that's all I know. I wish you luck. I promise... whatever you think of my business, at the very least, I am for Happytown first."
Sherlock was locked into a contemplative moment, looking into nothing. He had a quest, but such an ethereal one. Something ephemeral. A murder, could be understood. Several could be understood. But the one pulling the strings, that was too general. It was like trying to fight the wind. It might as well have been a ghost for all the physicality it had. It manifested power and control over many minions for questionable reasons, but remained so far in the shadows that even someone close to them taking orders could not reveal anything.
The only thing Sherlock could grab onto were the businesses that still remained. Drugs were paused for the time being. Gambling was still one of the many pies the mystery figure had a digit in. There was only one clue, that the places where it seemed to be happening was near the perimeter, a strange thing. That was dangerous. Police actually could pick up on things. Bold of a new player, trying so hard to protect themselves, to be that audacious when the abundance of caution suggested someone loath to take on trouble.
Being a proper detective, Sherlock had a problem with inconsistencies that severe. There was something to it. It meant something significant. It also represented the only concrete thing he could grab onto, to possibly move forward one more step toward the phantom monster.
"Mlle. LaBelle, this is not over," Sherlock declared, stepping boldly from his office. "But it has... reached a point of termination where the clues become as ghosts. I must walk, and think, and consider what I have seen and heard from the one mammal that has insight."
"Oui, monsieur. Exercise body and powers," Hermione said, slowly scraping at her claws with an emery board. "The one who ordered me hurt must be punished. I know you can find him."
"Save knowing for when there is reason, even as far as thinking of any feature. We have only a shadow. I hope the candle of my mind can cast a light upon him," Sherlock said as he left the building.
He was meditating in a new fashion, good for body and mind. There was a certain flexibility and skill to sitting in lotus position, letting the mind soar far. Great things, great insights, came of it, and keeping the body from cramping, or withering or falling away as he had heard in stories attached to Daruma dolls during his time in Tanukitown, was a great feat. But walking and contemplating had certain advantages with the tradeoffs. He could not shut out the illusion of the world, take up space in his own head. He had to mind pedestrians and watch for signals. But his blood pumped, his body grew more hale and powerful. The visions on his walks could form strange connections, create webs of meaning. Random images, glimpsed briefly could remind him of this thing or that thing. Those things reminded him of even more, until the external stimulus had created a chain that led to a flash of understanding. As well, there was a practical element.
He had a place to be.
His walk was not so instructive, not when he was preparing his mind to consider a single thing. There at the fringes, some agent of the larger threat had established safe places to engage in gambling, off the backs of Fleabite's dead workers. They must have cared little for the scorched path they walked, as many mammals could be made to. Bucks in hand always showed through green as grass, even if they were dripping with innocent blood. It was the way of things, for the destitute and the rich. The rich almost seemed worse. As though money was a void, and those who had much seemed emptier and emptier. But that was not always the case. Cecil Seedsworth had something to earn for, his family, the city. He had purpose, goals for money that would not be pushed aside. Perhaps that was the secret. The struggling always had a goal that would seldom make them covet and gorge so gluttonously.
The borderland. Unspoken lines on the map that marked the difference between propriety and the slum. Crossing the street was, to some snobbier Zootopians, inviting death and robbery. That borderland was where the card club had been located, the legal gaming at which fake gangsters had attempted a very real assault. Fleabite was right. There was very slight bleed-through, but it was truly happening.
Not only was the card club still there, but to offer legitimized competition to the locked-down liquor stores with their tired buildings and metal-braced windows, brighter, more modern-looking glass-walled convenience stores had popped up. They all looked suitably Zootopian, with clean lines, lighter exteriors and less armor-equivalent exteriors. The glass was likely still shatter-resistant resin. Even needlessly audacious optimists aren't stupid.
There were a few of them, spread out on the border, all of them looking relatively different. Different names, different products by and large, even down to slightly different layouts. A long walk was a good way to see them. It was also a good excuse to try them out. It was a long trek, and getting food and drink would be useful. He did not quite need the sustenance but as with Boo it was a good way to look around and ask simple questions of those inside and behind the counter.
"Welcome to Cheetah-Mart, speedy convenience and reasonable prices! If you need anything from the locked cases just let me know!" The one behind the counter was a fairly young-looking kudu in a uniform that was largely yellow with accents of blue and dark brown spots scattered around it.
The indicated locked cases were the things that most mammals in the area would need, or strongly want. Booze, even beer. Cigarettes, regular and clove. But most baffling, baby formula and jarred food. Other things were just out on shelves. It was truly a miniature market. Bagged snack foods of all kids, coolers of ice cream, soda and bottled water, candy, even some boxes of cereal and a small selection of canned goods.
"My needs are few, and simple," Sherlock said, taking out a bottle of water and a small packet of pressed grass chips. He took them up to the counter and dug into his pocket for his wallet. "It is always a surprise to see new things. This place is very new indeed."
The kudu judged him just shy of openly, her gaze tracing over his worn coat and boat-shaped hat, the smile twitching slightly but not actually falling. "Not so new, we're going on six months now. A real success story."
"In this place, yes, a success," Sherlock said, handing along a few small bills and taking his change from the cow. "You should feel proud to maintain this place in Happytown."
"Well, it's just a place. It's just Zootopia," the cow said with her plastic smile and words like a robot, recorded and regurgitated with practiced ease. There was a way about her that gave off the impression that their business was entirely concluded. It was almost as though she had the intention to press a button and... at best, police would be summoned to protect the icon of propriety. If there was anything untoward there was no telling what unknown figures could do.
Sherlock casually raised his bottle of water to the cow and casually turned away. In passing he noted a small, obscured piece of paper partially hidden by counter items that seemed to be a legal notice, ubiquitous in proper shops, indicating something but unable to be fully seen. "I shall endeavor to be back another time. Have a good day." He was far more practiced in casual social deception than her. They had drilled and prepared her well, but she had come to it late. He had been doing it for long stretches of his life.
The greasy, middle-quality fried grass was filling to some degree but hardly conducive to a reasonably healthful life. The water was good and cold, but of course nothing compared to the snowmelt reservoir at the lamasery. The packaging made all sorts of claims to being mountain spring water with minerals and such toss as was usually claimed, but he had existed on such mountain water for years, and it was hardly comparable.
He had finished the impromptu meal by the next stop. Another market of clean lines. It had a slightly different shape, a different layout. Behind the counter, a bull bongo with a uniform of shades of blue, navy and sky, with the upper shoulder section of the shirt being a brown layer. "We're always open at Leopard-Kwik! Please let me know if I can assist you with any items."
Booze, smokes, baby food. All of them were behind lock and key again. Surely just a new, modern business practice, meaning nothing. Surely. But it was still unsettling. Those who wanted vices or to feel their children needed to beg the Zotopian prey cashier. Plead to them. Like prostrating before an idol in their shame. Forcing the weak and vulnerable to their knees as they stand with the keys, giving them what they want like doling out miracles. Perhaps it was only a coincidence. They couldn't all be horned and hoofed college-age blandly inoffensive Zootopians. Surely.
Again he picked out cheap things. Water was surprisingly pricey, so he got a comparably sized and priced bottle of what claimed to be tea, along with a bag of something alleging to be made out of corn with a peppered flavor. At the counter he again looked at the legal notices about possible carcinogens and health inspections. There was another legal notice, more visible but still slightly obscured by a box of processed and dried fish sausage sticks. It looked to be a notice of company ownership. He had to turn away before his gaze was noticed. "I never knew it was possible to find this without going to Zootopia proper."
"It's just a place. It's just Zootopia," the bongo said with an eerie kind of deja vu hitting Sherlock.
"Indeed it is. Nice to hear you say that," Sherlock said, paying quickly and looking around casually. "It really is an impressive thing to find in Happytown."
"I guess it is," the countermammal said, slightly shifting the counter items, not as able to hide his nervousness as the last one. He wasn't as experienced with the possibility of going off-script or dealing with someone very unfamiliar. He might well have been just a college mammal doing it for the money without being deeply invested in taking on the task of slowly invading Happytown.
"Keep up the good work," Sherlock said, taking his cue and leaving the market.
It was the same for the other places that he visited. Each one was trying to make itself seem different. Different looks, different colors, sometimes different sizes. Named for swift predators, as though trying to assure the population of Happytown they were friendly to their ends and were in support of them. One had hot food available behind the counter. But a disturbing sameness became apparent. Always horned and hoofed college-age mammals behind the counter. Drink, cigs, baby formula and food behind lock and key. Always saying Happytown is Zootopia. But not always perfectly accidentally hiding the same legal notice. A subsidiary notice. All of them said the same. A subsidiary of CloverCorp.
At the last one he made a move, with all the skill he could muster. "Hermione has really deserves some treat. I cannot just treat her like another monk. She enjoys these sorts of things," Sherlock said, taking a fish sausage stick and somewhat inadvertently knocking it to the side. "Oh! My apologies!"
"Accidents happen, sir," the counter-kudu said with a slight dip in tone. Another one with insufficiently manipulative training, quickly righting the box.
The moment of movement was all Sherlock needed. One image cemented the full suite of connections, gave him a view of the hard trail to the peak. One thing that made them all the same thing. For all they desperately tried to hide, tried to be different things, there it was. The logo of CloverCorp was what had been continually hidden by divers means. But he had seen it before.
A three-leaf clover with elaborate swirls inside the leaves. The same as the necklace worn by Mr. Limo. The cleaner and opener of ways to the true horror that stood, unseen but always felt, over an empire of lies. It was an exact copy. It was his.