Author's Note: This is what some of you have been waiting for! A glimpse into what happened to Nick one year ago. As always, I greatly appreciate your feedback. Leave a review, and always feel free to send me a message. Haven't started writing chapter 7 yet, but will get on that soon, and hopefully not keep you waiting too long.

Chapter 6

In Cold Blood.

One year and one month ago, things were looking up for Nick Wilde.

He was living his dream – even if the world outside of his own, hard earned little bubble was anything but rosy. Wilde Times, the amusement park the red fox was running just for predators, had become huge. Every evening he stood by the gate to the warehouse he had transformed into so much more, and watched predator after predator march in. They entered with tired and suspicious expressions, and exited each one with a smile on their faces. Nick had made it.

Him and his friends, whom he could also call his employees, earned a fair living from ticket prices alone. Of course running an amusement park was anything but cheap, but with Finnick, the fennec fox, as his partner, Nick occasionally made some money on the side. They offered businesses revenue in the ware house complex and had them set up store once or twice a week. For a small profit cut, those small predator businesses had a good chance at expanding their income in the face of so many giddy and unquestionably happy mammals.

Nick was especially proud that his park was a no-prey zone. Sign after sign stacked outside along a tall post right by the entrance. The blinking lights spelling out "Wilde Times" threw shadows onto the various posters that read "Chompers only", "No prey!" or "Be yourself!". The red fox had fought hard to offer the suffering predator species a way out of their dreary and oppressed lives for even a few hours.

Customers entered through a small walk-in clinic atop the cliff and then came down a hidden stair case leading to the once abandoned ware house complex right by the river and the floating market. The latter was a crime ridden area of Zootopia, but that couldn't scare any of the predators away.

Once the customers passed the small ticket booth with the red and white striped roof (Nick had painted that himself) they passed through a curtain, and were greeted by a wide grinning card board cut out of Nick himself. Often Nick would stand right there by his paper double and greet the customers with equal enthusiasm. He was on first-name term with all of his regulars. Had he claimed to know everyone before? Well, after opening Wilde Times it was certainly true. At least amongst the predators, Nick was beloved and well known, and he in turn made everyone else feel loved and important. That, and his famous pawpsicle stand, made him popular with the mammals.

On the inside, Wilde Times was a colourful heaven of flashing lights and chirping arcade machine sounds. There were predator themed carnival games of all types. They even had bumper cars! And with hushed voices, the rumour spread that Nick Wilde had found a way to disable collars, and would perhaps soon offer that as a service at the park. Be yourself indeed! Just a few hours of undisrupted excitement, a chance for the young ones to enjoy themselves without having to hold back their enthusiasm.

Nick did nothing to support or deny those rumours. It was good for business to have one or two suspicions whispered in the air, and they were not wrong. He had begun doing his research into that area, and he knew a few people. Of course he did.

The fateful evening that should later condemn the fox happened to be just one evening after his first encounter with the bunny officer. Nick still felt the occasional irritation when he thought back to the rabbit and her audacity to award him a parking ticket. It hadn't been his fault – some rodents had jumped out into the road and he had to brake and come to a stop. He had been so startled that his collar had zapped him. And he had stumbled out onto the side walk to catch his breath from the pain. The bunny had slapped a ticket on the van he had on that day borrowed from Finnick. The fox had to admit it looked like atrocious parking – he had slipped up onto the curb, the front of the car facing into the road at a good 45-degree angle.

Nick had been quick to regain his composure at the time, and during the evening, when he greeted customers at Wilde Times with a wide smile, it cheered him up to know that the bunny was probably laying face first in her bed, still feeling the sting from his words. Nick didn't feel good about having hurt her feelings, mind you. The bunny had, in fact, made the impression of someone who could perhaps have been truly good and righteous had society not brainwashed her into a false sense of just superiority. No, Nick felt good only about having put prey, his natural prey at that, into its place. He felt in control, and that was just how he wanted to feel in a city as chaotic as Zootopia.

Still – he hadn't evaded the ticket. One evening later, Nick had just closed his park for the early morning hours. As was his routine after an evening of work, he would go through the ware house and check for any damages. He turned off the machines at the master control switch, and watched with a satisfied sigh how the flashing lights and chip sound tunes faded into darkness and silence, one by one. When the warehouse was calm and dim, and only the fluorescent ceiling lights threw their mild light over his park, he clicked his tongue at one of his card board cut outs and leisurely wandered towards the office.

The office was a rusty trailer that had previously probably sailed seas and seen years of salt water. Now it was the base for Nick Wilde's paper work. It was 1 AM when he sat down on his high wooden desk chair with floral patterned cushions and committed himself to counting and organizing the evening's income. He made a pile for each major expense he had to account for, and put the rest aside onto a much smaller pile for actual profit. Thoroughly involved with his work, every thought about the bunny or the ticket had vanished from his mind. That was until he heard a faint thud outside, and then the unmistakable buzz of all machines coming right back to life.

Nick froze. His paws clenched around the notepad on which he had scribbled his calculations.

Neither Finnick nor Honey, the only mammals that would possibly know to be welcome at this time of night, would dare turn the machines back on. Wilde Times had a strict policy both on saving money where possible, and not drawing attention to themselves when the rest of the city was just about quieting down. The late night interruption filled the fox with both terror and anger. No one would just mess with his park and get away unscathed! The audacity! He pushed away from his desk and marched towards the trailer door. With a deep breath, his chest pushed forward to make himself look taller and prouder, he ripped open the door and stepped outside into the warehouse.

The arcade machines were chirping their metallic tunes. "Hey!", Nick called out. "Who is there?"

When there was no reply, he began patrolling the rows of arcade machines, subconsciously scanning the place for an improvised weapon. It wasn't long until he set eyes on the culprit, and froze with both disbelief and horror.

Before him, standing on its tiptoes, happily swirling about the joystick of one of the machines, was a sheep. It had thick black glasses sitting on its snout, and a cringe worthy grey cap reading "Go Ramchester!" on its head. The sheep's red flannel shirt was washed out and crinkled, and a small notepad and pen stuck out from the pocket of its khaki shorts.

Nick's thoughts were racing. Prey. Prey in his park. Prey had seen Wilde Times. Illegal amusement park. Predator themed attractions everywhere. Hell, the sheep was playing on one!

Nigh fought hard to regain his cool. Once he did, his expression set into a half lidded, self confident smile. "Can I help you, Sir?" he asked rather loudly. The sheep let go off the joy stick and turned to him with a start.

"Oh! Oh, you startled me, Mr. Wilde. My poor heart…Oh dear, oh dear. What a frightened lamb I am, huh? My oh my. My poor old heart."

Nick put his paws onto his knees and crouched down on eye level with the sheep. He smiled his best, fang-baring smile, a patronizing undertone to his voice. "Can I help you – because, you may not have read, but these premises are for predators only. Yeah. I know. It's a bummer! But hey, there are plenty of prey amusement parks, so…"

The sheep nudged its large black glasses back into position. Nick had a hard time guessing his age, but he would have placed him at no more than twenty years of age. The sheep had neatly kept wool and large dark eyes that turned just ever so slightly inwards towards its nose, giving it a look of cheerful stupidity.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Wilde. You are Mr. Wilde, right? The card board foxes look just like you! So I figured." The sheep seemed mighty proud of its deduction skills. "Mr. Wilde, my name is Lennart Ramsey. I was actually just so curious, so curious, wondered if I could have a look in here, see what the excitement is about. I got to say, what a fine establishment you run, Mr. Wilde."

The fox's ears flinched back for a moment. The sheep was unimpressed, unintimidated. Nick leant back, towering above the smaller creature with a look of professionally hidden dismay and well put on smugness. "That is high praise", he smiled. "I really appreciate the feedback. However,", Nick sighed regretfully.

"Did you see the closed sign? Or maybe, I don't know…the turned off lights and machines? It means we are closed. Mhm. Not accepting visitors at the moment. Out of business. And that means, unfortunately, really, that you have to leave. Lennart, was it?"

Again the sheep, not even skipping a beat, adjusted its glasses. It pulled the notepad out of its pocket and annoyingly started clicking the ball point pen. "I thought maybe you could make an exception", said Lennart, innocently. "I took some notes, you see…"

Lennar Ramsey started turning the pages of his notepad, painfully slowly, so that Nick could read the large letters upon it. His posture lost all confidence as he deciphered the comments, upside down.

Predators only

Violence-Glorifying?

SAVAGE!

Encouraging primal predatory behaviour!

Nick was struck dumb and silent. With his shoulders sinking and his ears falling back, he stared at the sheep with utter disbelief. He had underestimated the fellow, had failed to see past the thick glasses and the pink, nervous complexion. Lennart went on.

"You see, Mr. Wilde, I am a reporter for the Sheppard's Sunday News, and I received a tip to come and check this old ware house. At first, of course, I thought: Surely not! I shan't go in the middle of the night! But curiosity got the better of me, as it always does." He laughed unpleasantly. "I had every intention of writing a nice big article on this, of course. It would be a big hit. But you know what I think?"

Lennart paused as though he really wanted to know what Nick was thinking, but when the fox rose a paw and opened his snout to talk, the sheep went on cheerfully and undisrupted. "I think we could come to some sort of agreement! Call me a mad sheep, but I'm sure you don't want this place publically known, do you? I thought so, I thought so…"

Nick's smile tightened around the corners. His paws clenched on instinct, his tail dragged over the dusty ware house floor. He was fuming, his collar flashed yellow. The sheep noticed, a knowing smile spreading on its lips.

"No need to get worked up, Mr. Wilde! This needn't be so unpleasant for you."

Nick swallowed his anger. He had to tread carefully here, or prey would, once again, trample all over him. Tear down everything he'd worked for. He would not allow some random intruder to destroy it all.

"What do you want", he forced out between gritted death. Lennart Ramsay seemed pleased with himself.

"I knew you were a business man at heart, Mr. Wilde. A wise choice. Now, let's talk about what you can do for me-"

"No.", Nick slowly folded his arms, threw his head back with a half lidded glare. "Let's not."

It was the first time for the sheep to look surprised, the self-content, smart-ass smugness wiped off its features. "What?"

"Instead…", the fox began strolling out of the isle of arcade machines casually. The sheep followed, hurried to keep up with him. He treaded back to the far wall as he spoke. "let's talk about what I am willing to do for you."

Uncertainty spread on the sheep's features. It was made unsure by Nick's confidence, but his words had not yet conflicted with the sheep's demand, and as such the intruder was willing to let the fox go on. His face fell when Nick continued to raise one finger. "One.", he said.

"I am willing to not utter a complaint to your News Paper, denouncing you as the nosy, rude, inappropriate and unprofessional excuse for a reporter that you appear to be."

Lennart rose a hand to protest, but Nick waved him off with a "Ah papapapa! Two!"

Nick's smile widened. "I am willing to let you walk out of here, forgetting about the fact that you are trespassing on private property, sparing you the tremendous trouble of a charge and a criminal record."

The sheep was quiet, waiting in silent stupor for point number three.

Nick crouched back down, his voice once more patronizing and smug. "And three. I'll forget about this embarrassing little attempt at intimidation, allowing you to forget about it too. I shall even let you walk out of here with one of my famous Pawpsicles. Sound like a deal?"

His voice had become as sweet as though he was speaking to a child. The sheep's face was flushed with shame and agitation. He eyed Nick's collar and considered his options. Nick didn't let him think. "Let me guess", he continued seamlessly. "You are wondering if you can somehow anger me enough for this collar to go off. Provoke me, threaten me maybe, evoke that prey sense of superiority. Am I right? Of course I am. Let me save you the time and assure you that nothing you say could possibly intimidate me. Sly Fox. Cowering Sheep. Now. Do we have a deal?"

"You can't do that!", protested the sheep finally, in a voice that was high pitched and shaken with shame. "This place is entirely illegal! You have no right to sell anything, or – or…"

"Oh, but I do! I have a permit.", retorted the fox. "And this property legally belongs to me. Now, thanks for your visit! But please, don't come again."

He could see that the sheep wanted to reply, wanted to regain control of the situation, but when a low, threatening growl escaped the predator's throat, the prey clearly changed its mind. Nick Wilde was bluffing, of course, when he narrowed his eyes dangerously at the sheep and took one step towards it. But it was enough to frighten the smaller animal, and Lennart, clenching his note pad, quickly put the paper away and retreated.

"T-this isn't the last you've heard of me, Mr. Wilde. I thought you'd be a reasonable fox, but clearly I misjudged you! You will regret this. I assure you. Maybe not today, but…but…"

"Bye, bye now!"

Nick turned his back towards the sheep and towards the power switch on the floor, listening to the hooves of the sheep nervously tapping on the ground as it hurried away. He was still listening eagerly when he bent down to unplug the appliances once more. Just as he did he heard a hissing sound disrupt the air, rushing just past his ear. Then a thud. A whine. A groan. A breathless sigh.

Nick felt himself shudder. The fur on his neck stood tall, a primal instinct in him infatuating his mind with unexpected fear. Against his will or judgement, his eyes widened. He had paused, with the plug still in his hand. When he straightened his back and turned, the cable pulled out of the plug and the warehouse went dark and deadly silent once more.

He saw, between the dead machines, a pool of weak fluorescent light and moonlight cascading from the ceiling and the overgrown glass windows. There in the twilight lay the figure of Lennart Ramsay, unchanged yet different. His thin arms were tensing with surges of strength, the pale little body was twitching and shaking violently. When the sheep looked up, it was with an expression of mad anguish, feral stupor. Nick was backing against one of the arcade machines, the joy stick pushing into his back uncomfortably. Something was wrong.

"Lennart?", he questioned quietly. "Exit is…urh…that way."

The sheep had shaken off the cap on its head, and soon the glasses came tumbling after. When he stood, it was on four legs that soon began kicking. The cry that escaped the mammal's throat was loud and incoherent, vibrating with the force of its lungs. Nick had never heard a sheep emit a sound such as this before, but he had the vague, instinctual memory of it being animalistic and meek. None of the fox's words reached the sheep. It was thrashing its head about in lunatic fever, rubbing its body against the machines in an attempt to pull of the shirt and shorts. When it finally looked up at Nick, with an expression void of civilized meaning, it cried out again in a panic.

Nick was frozen in his place with his thoughts running in circles like a carousel. One word rose to the front of his mind distinctly and clearly.

Savage.

The sheep had gone savage.

Prey could go savage.

The violence spreading amongst predators had been a lie.

And as he came to that realization, his perked ears noticed distantly the sound of a voice.

"…been a mistake… missed…shot….out of control", he picked up vaguely. The sound was disrupted with the cries of the sheep, but it seemed to come somewhere from the ceiling, or the structure of iron bars supporting the building just beneath it. "…you sure? Will have to kill him." Then there was laughter, manic and cold. "Brilliant. I like your way of thinking. Yes. Understood. I'll get right on that."

Nick was frantically searching for someone in the shadows, but it was hopeless. The voice had echoed of the walls, could have come from anywhere. He was distracted momentarily when the sheep cried out even louder than before, and, madness lighting up its empty, black animal eyes, began charging towards the fox.

Nick vaguely remembered himself starting to shout "Oh no-no-no", and starting to run when something hit him in the shoulder. He stumbled. Fell. His head hit the edge of an arcade machine, and with blackness spotting his vision he crashed onto the hard ground. The sheep struck the machine next to him, leaving a dent in the metal. It was stumbling in pained stupor, trying to regain its orientation. Nick numbly gazed towards his shoulder, his paws feeling for the wound. A dart was sticking out of his fur and the green button up shirt he was wearing. Tranquilizer. That realization was his last before the world went black, and sleep slurred his thoughts.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. It was still dark. A draft was rustling the fur of the fox as he lay on the ground, vaguely moving the fingers of his paw. The sleep that had enveloped Nick Wilde had been one of the deepest and blackest he had ever experiences, and he came to with his thoughts still in a state of confused numbness.

Just as he tried to formulate a coherent string of thoughts in his head, it was washed away by a wave of sleepiness, like a castle of sand deconstructed by the nagging and dragging of retreating ocean waters.

His body wanted nothing but to stay in this state of pleasant numbness, but a shrill, distant sound disturbed his ears and urged him to wake up. He forced his heavy lids open, felt them resist him like gates of iron. Above him, he could see stars through the glass ceiling of the ware house. Something beneath his paw felt sticky and wet. He felt a vague sense of terror come upon him, but was unable to focus on the emotion. It slipped away like everything else. His mind was empty.

Even when he sat up and found that the liquid staining his hands was blood, his mind was empty.

A heavy, metallic smell filled the air. Nick registered scraps of flesh and clothing littering the floor like one might register the weather – indifferently and dismissive. Torn wool was drenched with blood, glittering in the fluorescent light. Mixed with the scent of blood came the stench of ripped open intestines and raw meat. Nick saw from the corner of his eyes what may once have been the head of a sheep, its mouth hanging open in death, the tongue passively drooping onto the floor. A pair of black glasses lay crushed by one of the arcade machines.

Nick licked his dry lips and found that he tasted blood in his mouth. Was it his own, he wondered? But he was uninjured. Painless and calm. His collar reflected green light onto his entirely blood stained fur and clothes.

Echoes of clear thoughts shouted at him to get the hell out of there, but he could not will his body to move, and the thought vanished before it could take clear shape. He sat still, his nose wrinkling with disgust at the smell, his paws dropping uselessly into his lap, his ears listening indifferently to the sound of police sirens.

Through a cloud of calm, he heard hurried steps approach, fire arms releasing their safety, boots coming to a sudden and horrified stop close to him. Voices were shouting at him, instructing him to raise his paws and lay himself on the ground. Someone was running away, followed by the sound of someone emptying their stomachs onto the ground. There were gasps and whispers, police radios rushing after the request for back up, the sirens going on and on in the backdrop.

Nick Wilde was compliant.

He didn't complain when they picked him off the ground and pushed him towards a police vehicle, closing cold hand cuffs around his paws behind his back. He didn't deny their accusations, didn't protest when they called him a murderer and lunatic, didn't flinch at the hatred in their gazes.

He was watching Wilde Times slip away into the distance through the window of a police car.

Only with sleepy confusion did he notice a tear running down the side of his face as they turned around the corner, and his amusement park was swallowed by darkness.