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 Twenty: Legacy

By: Gabriel LaVedier

"You have done exceptionally well, Mr. Gyag, better than anyone could have I think," Councilor Cecil Seedsworth said. He had once more invited Sherlock over to his spacious Macrocosm-area apartment, the opulent surroundings filled with runners, tubes, ladders, and panels of buttons along with small antique furniture pieces mingling with more modest wolf-size subdued modern pieces and IBEXA first-home pieces. "You exposed something big, and more importantly, made it impossible to ignore. I hear you had a very nice visit to the city archives. Was anything... revelatory?"

"Such information is... closely-held," Sherlock said, diplomatically. "I was entrusted with great respect and told to be discreet and lawful. I would never betray confidence."

Cecil smiled and raised a small teacup to Sherlock. "Speak freely, my friend. This monster, Gnuston created a conspiracy. It may be a bit gauche to use his moral rot against him. But we have formed one. Myself, Officers Wilde-Hopps, Commissioner Oliphant by implication, Chief Bogo by very, very eager assent, the officer who liaises with you, even that guard at the archives. And more. This is a matter of great import, to a great many mammals."

"Mmm... the morality... is circuitous. But this is good for my home, I know it because I have seen the good things such as the removal of the drug pipe and the cleaner," Sherlock mused.

"And more..." Cecil repeated, pressing a button on the table on which he stood. "Mrs. Gaius?"

"Sir?" Crackled a voice on the other end of the intercom.

"Please escort in our other guest if he has arrived," Cecil said.

"A short time ago. We'll be right in."

"Another guest?" Sherlock asked.

"Conspiracy of all levels. At the ground... and the heights," Cecil said cryptically.

Into the main room stepped two mammals. Firstly, a lean, but short, lioness with the dark toned fur associated with Happytown lions. She was dressed in a very conservative black and white maid outfit, with a floor-length hem, minimal frills, but puffed antique sleeves and even a small lace bonnet. Behind her came Ian Garanuug, sans his lab coat and ID badge, the gerenuk in clothes that were hardly overly casual, silken black slacks and a button-up shirt with gold cufflinks and a black silk vest, with a dark silk tie at the base of his enormously long neck. In one hand he carried a dark lizard leather attache case.

The lioness bowed her head a bit and motioned to Ian. "Dr. Garanuug. Will there be anything else, sir?"

Cecil shook his head and gave a small motion with his hand. "Thank you, no, Mrs. Gaius. You may feel free to leave early. I'm sure the General will be very happy to have extra time with you."

"But sir, the children..." Mrs. Gaius began.

"The agency knows my budget and that I pay extra for sudden schedule changes. I think it's more important that you enjoy your time with that husband of yours, Hippolyta," Cecil said with a wide smile.

Hippolyta gave a breathy laugh and nodded some. "Marius will be glad to see me. There's an event with other local meerkats tonight, a memorial for the peacekeeping force in the Rift Valley campaign. I'll have time to get ready."

"Just see that the girls are sleeping comfortably before you go, and I'll have another nanny here before my guests leave," Cecil said.

"Of course, sir, and thank you," Hippolyta said with a nod, walking off down the way she had come.

"Little enough that one mammal can do to help out his own," Cecil said with a shake of his head. "The agency knows what kind of worker I would prefer to employ and they are very good about it. Hippolyta is quite dedicated. General Gaius has his retirement fund but, she started as a caretaker and remains one. I understand she still pays some symbolic rent to Zira Kaamu, to fund one of the decent things in Happytown."

"Termite Terrace. A model and example, but sadly a rarity," Sherlock said with a shake of his head.

"But I digress," Cecil suddenly said, clearing his throat and turning to Ian. "Your presence here means you had success, yes?"

"For so many reasons, I'm distressed by that success, but yes, I had it," Ian said, laying out his case and opening up to reveal papers and photographs. "I had the time to run off copies, despite the... impropriety of that, and took photos of what I couldn't get to the copier."

Sherlock pulled his magnifying glass from inside his coat and looked over one of the photographs, seeming to depict an old, faded bottle of some kind. "Strange... I recognize the letters, mostly, but cannot be sure I understand the meaning."

"Old font, bizarre words, I just barely managed to figure it out thanks to other elements," Ian said. "It's a very old patent medicine bottle. Panacaeum Miraculum. A miraculous cure-all. A scam, of course. Hokum sold as hope by the old Quacksalvers and Mountebanks, from all over. Not just in various Old Countries but also in and around the city-state. Your maid mentioned the Rift Valley campaign, that's always been a hot spot, and not for any good reasons..." He sifted through the papers until he found a photograph of a yellowed newspaper. "Uprising Crushed. Local agitation group of uncivilized chompers put down in the Rift Valley department. Expedition leader 'Desolation' Gnugrange had largely finished executing a mighty horde with his own hand before the arrival of assistance finished the job with minimal errors and overzealous activity." "There's a lot of words doing a lot of heavy lifting in there. Minimal errors and overzealous activity. It was a massacre of five entire predator villages in the Rift Valley. Males, females, and children, some of them tortured to death, burned alive, or hunted down so they could see their families killed before pieces of them were taken as trophies. Thank all plenty and goodness our history department has predator archivists and science doesn't flinch when looking at the ugly past."

"Disgusting but unsurprising. There's blood money watering the base of far too many family trees," Cecil said. "I can't believe this was just... there. Hiding in plain sight."

"The Rift Valley massacres were only recently forensically studied after the battles your maid will memorialize. The research is so preliminary that technically none of this is true. It's gone unpublished because a good deal of money wants it all to be a very unfortunate accident with no details making the story complicated," Ian huffed. "But with that corollary, all the pieces slotted neatly together."

"Desolation Gnugrange? What a strange name. A strange name, and one that seems familiar," Sherlock said.

"A cheap medicine-show huckster with a provocative soubriquet. William Gnugrange. There are reports of reports that his patent medicines were more than just garbage. Allegedly, in reports now destroyed, mammals died from taking his pills and potions," Ian explained. "But more terrible were how he made them. The usual trash, plus toxic materials. But for his most expensive creations... there were badly damaged and faded notes about recipes, and I may be filling in the missing pieces wrong. But it fits. See here, where I wrote in red over the gaps and fades? Panthera leo oculi. Panthera pardus linguae. Crocuta crocuta ossium. Notice these similar shapes in the extant letters to prove that words are the same, with the gaps filled in by overlap to be Panthera. Same here, with Crocuta. Lion eyes. Leopard tongues. Hyena bones. The patent medicine scoundrel didn't stop at belladonna juice and ground galena, rhododendron honey or oleander petals for his patent medicine. His customers didn't die, necessarily, but someone had to die for his, as their kind call it, good stuff."

"I have ceased being surprised by the depravity of mammals," Cecil said with a shake of his head. "Gnugrange. I'd imagine that name vanished from the history books when a very rich and very abusively secretive Gnuston family arrived in the city-state from parts unknown to bully and bluff their way into proper society."

"Desolation Gnugrange is nothing more than a folktale to a certain set, though fading or mutating as such figures do. When a campaign makes his memory go away, he gets lost in the cultural shuffle," Ian said.

"How?" Sherlock asked, as he looked through the newspapers casually mentioning slurs and predator deaths, or the reports on patent medicine, some with Desolation across them, or the name Gnugrange. "How can this exist and be hidden at one and the same time? And how could anyone get to them when they are tied to such a mammal as this false god Gnuston?"

"Money is a shadow-show. A magic lantern silhouette performance projected onto newspapers and the social consciousness," Ian muttered. "Gregory made a very big deal out of donating his personal papers from his family's past. Never mentioning the contents, only making a lot of noise about his contributions to history, and a donation to the university. It was all celebrated, then thrown into an archive space, climate controlled and left to sit. He performed the show, after that the news cycle will move on. As far as the mass consciousness is concerned, it all sets to zero, but they feel better about him for some reason they don't fathom."

"Money is amoral, neutral. You can do as I do and spend every last tin on good works and support of the helpless and downtrodden, or do as the Gnustons do, make certain others suffer for your honor and glory," Cecil explained.

"For a legacy built on blood," Ian added. "He expected to make the university archives a sepulcher for his family's shame, gain praise and some tax write-offs for donations and then have them where no one can get at them and see what they actually say, make real those fading legends of bloody Desolation Gnugrange."

"You got to them, and now I wonder... have I unleashed an atrocity?" Sherlock asked.

"No, but I feel shame all the same," Ian sighed. "Money, money, money... Money bought my way in there. I am an academic, I hold money in some disdain... but I don't complain when it buys Madge beautiful dresses, ample food, a strong bed to rest her weary body after toiling for the university's gain. My money has status, my name has power. Gnuston has a collection and section of the library; Garanuug has a hall, a wing, a few classrooms and an endowment. If I say I wish to see the archives, a smiling functionary will open every door, ask no questions, and give me my privacy and access to tools that others would be denied. I would be disgusted but I hold onto a thread that this unfair slanting is all for the greater good."

"The greater good..." Sherlock said, looking down at his hooves. "The very idea is defined so selfishly. But I will not subject this goodness to sophistry and arrogance. Yes, the greater good, because this endeavor helps the helpless. It is only right you use this power you hold, we have none to use, but you do, for us. It is necessary."

"He's hiding a lot of literal skeletons in his closet," Cecil said, examining the photos and copies. "I wouldn't be surprised if he had a room in his house filled with skulls and bones like some twisted ethnographer who has gone mad. I have heard things. Terrible things."

"Academia is not pure. Our hooves and hands are very dirty indeed. The kind you mention are not talked about but they existed. They would follow bulls like Gnugrange, point at every bump and divot on the skulls of the dead and then boil them, clean them, and assemble them in their little murder rooms. Their time has faded, but I'm almost entirely certain that Purist, Professor Horncraft in the Classics department, would happily explain the weakening of our genes when predators are added. I only hope Madge doesn't have to wait long to crack his head open to examine the desiccated lump of neurons and find what made him a bundle of potential mental illnesses. He's due, the whole family is basically a case study about inbred genetic illness," Ian grunted.

"Surely... civilized mammals must be more aware. I would hardly have expected that out of the most unthinking in my home village," Sherlock said with some shock.

"Mr. Gyag, there was a time too close to our own to be comfortable, where the finer mammals believed that it served best to keep their good genes pure and keep money in family hands and hooves," Cecil chittered. "Their family trees resemble nothing so much as an ourobourus, a genetic lineage eating itself into oblivion. I'm led to understand some at least had the self-awareness to surreptitiously sneak in fresher genes."

"Fresher genes, and preserving money..." Sherlock mumbled. "The pieces begin to fit. It all comes to one, and all of this information has provided those pieces."

"I'm glad. This should help vindicate Madge, on some level, and let me sleep at night knowing that I helped relieve such a terrible situation," Ian sighed.

"Metaphorically, I presume. I would venture your Madge is sufficiently comforting," Cecil said with a soft chuckle.

"Very much so, but I still rest fitfully even in her plump and strong arms," Ian said.

"Was there any additional information?" Sherlock asked.

"This was what they had, and that means the connection is at least plausible. By donating this and keeping it in his archive, this demonstrates that Gnuston used to be Gnugrange, and the ancestor was a bloody and despicable fraud and speciesist. He poisoned desperate customers and scavenged the ones that he killed in the name of prey supremacy in order to turn their flesh into his toxic concoctions, making sapiophages out of the unknowing innocent," Ian huffed, sharply tapping the papers.

"An ancient shame, though it is quite unlikely he thinks of all the murders and horrors shameful. He does know enough that he is aware others would be scandalized and horrified by it. So while doubtless proud of such a blood-soaked ancestor, he would always deny him and his devouring of predators," Sherlock grunted.

"Other rich mammals feel hate and superiority toward those they despise, largely predators," Cecil asserted. "But they know better, especially in this technological world, than to say so anywhere they do not control. Someone could more than hear them. Someone could etch it into ones and zeroes forever, and take them to task for it."

"Yes, take him to task, I certainly will," Sherlock asserted, drumming his hoof caps on the arms of his coat. "I believe I have something of great import now. Thank you so very much, Councilor. And you as well, Doctor."

"In some roundabout way, this helps someone close to me, but more than anything else, it is the right thing to do" Ian said with a nod.

"My wife will be greatly helped by this. Her home, your home, will get help. And that is greatly important," Cecil said with a smile. "I don't mean to keep you both but, as Mrs. Gaius intimated, I am alone here, and while I love the presence of my daughters I can't offer triplets of nearly my size good care. Would you mind terribly staying here until someone from the agency arrives?"

Sherlock smiled and slowly shook his shaggy head. "Not at all. It seems a pleasant reason to remain, and pleasant reasons are in too short a supply these days..."

o o o

Hermione felt whole again, being both out of the hospital and out of Sherlock's caring but unnecessary overview. She was a grown stoat and could manage her own life without the restriction of light duty. Rather than being strictly restricted to the office filing her claws and pushing papers, she was finally allowed to be out and about seeking leads on her own initiative, putting to use her skills and her provisional license.

There had been so many new discoveries, partially thanks to revenge for her attack. The perpetrator, caught; M. Limo, caught; the pipeline, broken; the ones on the street, freed. After a fashion. They were not truly free, in shackles made of debts, having to lie on their backs or tremble on their knees to earn their daily ration of insects and bread. But economics was at least unfeeling and uncaring, it had no partiality, it was only staved off, it initiated attacks on everyone and the rich had defenses. The ones of the street were at least freed of a foe that looked at them with a jaundiced eye and frowned.

Her high-heel clad paws clipped along at her sprightly weasel pace in the direction of those women as the shadows lengthened and their proper day began. Every one of them was forced to be nocturnal, because even if day and night were natural and normal, nighttime was the best time to hide shame. Sex should never be a shame. With the right partner, at the right level of passion, it could be extraordinary. But for pay... a hard thing to make so special.

She clicked her way up to the Night Stalker Row as the ladies arrayed themselves, in the finest cheap attire. Hermione halted near to them as the smoking coyote Clover strolled over, clicking on her own heels, worn for business and not for preference. "Heard you almost got your card punched by the guy that took out Red. I hear that boss of your put his face through a car window and beat his goons into piles of fly-housing."

"M. Gyag has no rage in his form. He broke out the window, pulled the renard out into the street. He did protect himself from the goons, but only as much as he needed," Hermione said. "He... did what he needed. I... have no illusions..."

"Oh honey, you can admit to yourself, he avenged you," Clover said with a grin. "The dudes we get, they'd throw us onto a burning car to get out. You know what your boss did for me. You get a free pass to think he was a cartoon prince."

"Perhaps... perhaps..." Hermione said. She extracted her little black notebook and a pencil, flipping open to a blank page and dashing off the date. "Bon. There must be more secrets. I am not one of you, but I was named as one of you. The renard thought I was your kin, sought to end me like the innocent queen. I have the, comment dites-vous... cred? Cred. My letter of credit was signed with the poison blood they drained from my veins in the hospital."

"Cussing right," Clover said, the other women nodding behind her. "You and Red, you've got nerve. Maybe your boss doesn't have you under him, maybe that's not you. But you're in on this. You're one of us for better or worse."

"Better, I would say. In all this dark vale, I prefer those with honneur et loyauté. Those that may be trusted, relied on," Hermione said. "I do not think you lied, not ever. But I think you do not know all you know. Things that were truly considered irrelevant, they may mean more. What Sherlock has learned make ancient things mean so much more. What old tales do your fallen sisters tell in your memories?"

The women all converged, whispering in low tones, occasionally squinching their eyes tightly as they tried to capture fleeting memories. They talked with their hands and hooves a great deal, each one prompting the others to try and articulate the concept and memory tartling on the tips of their tongues. Eventually, Clover returned to Hermione and gave a nod. "There are a few things, some reluctant elements, some old talk, idle rumors. Our own folktales that live in women like us."

"I survived Mr. Limo's boss," Roxy, a wolf also smoking a clove said, letting out a smoky, shuddering sigh. "You lay there and you take it. He wants to bait you into talking. You can't win. You stay quiet, he gets pissed. You take the bait and you make a sound, he makes you pay for speaking in the presence of prey. It's all a game that's stacked against you. He wants something other than respect. He wants to do what he wants, and it doesn't matter if it doesn't make sense. He just needs an excuse."

"And did you... see anything? I asked before. But surely... no. You did not lie. But maybe you do not know you know," Hermione said.

"It starts with menthol," Roxy said, with a distant tone. "It's like they have one of those fancy air fresheners filled with menthol. Then like... some other scents. I guess to try and make it fancy, but they smear menthol around your nose too, and get the blindfold. They're brutal with it. They make sure it stays on. They keep up with the menthol goop, and make sure you can't smell and can't see. You can feel the hooves, that's obvious. Tasting means nothing. All I tasted was when he... well, no need to say. It wasn't really clear what was special about it. And good as these ears are, all you get is him screaming, some pathetic grunting, insults, and occasional mumbles from whoever is there, nothing good. I swear Mr. Limo himself mumbled that I would be so easy to kill like that, that he should do it at least once. Glad that freak's off the street."

"Little surprise. A mammal who murders will take no chances," Hermione said, scribbling down notes. "What else? If no details come, what of old tales?"

"I think Charlie got to Red," Clover muttered as she lit a new clove. "Got to her in a lot of ways. She really fell apart... but he got her to think about this place. Be proud of this garbage dump. It's her home, our home. He wanted Red to gather up the old stories, remember how things were, keep a record. Folktales for trashcan folks. Just like the college dude said. He talked a lot. Passed the time while I shook my stuff. Everyone keeps their own legends. You know where our legends start."

"Maire Wulfberg," Hermione said with a nod. "The mammal who undid your shackles so you could set yourselves free."

"We try to forget the old days, the dark days. But our jobs are old as mammals. Old as life; I hear smart birds learn how to pay for sex with food if they get paid in it. There was always somebody there before. Some flashy loser who thought he was managing us, doing something but taking all the money and giving out beatings," Clover said, spitting contemptuously on the sidewalk. "Pimps. They paid their cut to the dirty vice cops that got more and more infected. Then Stainless Wulfberg came up. If he didn't get them, bleeding, in front of a judge he buried them in Sahara Square, maybe with some help from the locals, if you get my meaning. Those fancy drunks and druggies figured out fast, we see men when they're helpless. The Old Girls graciously handed over a few of them beaten bloody. I think there was an understanding, they knew it was mostly an act, the rest of them got what was coming. WE got rid of them, took care of it all. But..."

"Mais?" Hermione asked.

"It's a fact of life, you pay the gangs something. A little something," Clover said. "Everyone does, one way or another. Better off as a discount on services but you pay to someone. And they used to pay that Mr. Limo. That was how the food chain worked. Now. But I guess... it wasn't all that different in the old days. It was... it was worse. You paid upward. But you knew how you were paying upward. The pimps acted like they were the top. Not even close. They kept the gangs pacified with free tastes. But there was an arch-pimp. Everyone knew. They were just too scared to say so. Someone always got their blood money. He always got his cut of flesh."

"Existing always. Yes, I know the stories, from the Old Country. The courtesans, trained in the arts of civility, but in the end, those who laid on their backs for their bread," Hermione muttered while jotting down notes. "They still exist. There are always those like you. But do you know if you and only you are made to pay?"

"Wouldn't know any of those fancy ones," Clover admitted. "Or the streetwalkers in the nice districts, like the Sahara Showgirls that perform in private for a little extra, and the Palm Walkers who always manage to get a room even if they start out broke. But they get busted by the cops. Cops stay out, we don't get busted. Before, it was the dirty ones that wanted us to keep feeding them. Even with no pimps, we still pay upward. Us. Just us. We pay, because we walk these streets specifically."

"This... pimp. He could not be given over. M. Limo, he always thought you worked for him," Hermione mused.

"Like scat we did," Clover snorted. "He didn't do anything but make idiots think he called the shots. His boss is all money and nothing but. Pays one gang to teach another a lesson, keeps us hooked on his junk, makes sure we place nice and send someone over to get the spoor kicked out of us. It's dirtier now there's only one pimp that does nothing but take the money. He's worthless, but he keeps hanging on like a tick."

"It does little, but M. Gyag know his name, who he is. What he is. Would you even wish to know it?" Hermione asked. "What you say confirms everything."

"At least let us know who it is. Why he's doing this to us..." Clover muttered.

"The why... oui, the why. Because we are wretches, and he is old. His money is bloody and old and he thinks he is pure, perfect. He wishes to kill us, or seal us. Money means little. He wants us to suffer. But if he can take, he will take. If we must live, we live for him," Hermione said. "Gregory Gnuston. His hate, his anger is our curse. If we cannot die for him, we will worship him."

"Not much we can do with that. Next guy he sends could disappear but he probably keeps them on the shelf. Six pack of goons, cheap," Clover said with a wry laugh echoed by the other women.

"He was another nation's soldier, picked carefully. So we assume. Replacements will be... less powerful. You said yourself, some were given over. Perhaps... perhaps the next will simply disappear," Hermione said with a shrug.

"Hey, it happens," Clover said, taking a drag and smiling as she clutched the cig in her teeth. "Word's always been out on the street. Don't you know? It's dangerous. It's Happytown."