This will be a long (very, very long) chapter. Just a head's up.

I've sort of realized that I haven't given Sam as much time as I would have liked the past couple chapters, so I intend to change that. He's pretty essential to the story, so I'm excited!

And I had another oral surgery (I'm getting an implant. My last surgery was a bone graph and wisdom teeth removal, and this surgery they put the implant screw in). To make things worse, it had gotten infected. But I'm much better now and I'm here with a long chapter for you guys. Also, I started teaching an ESL class on top of school, so it's been a little bit crazy. I'm trying! Haha.

Side note: I know NOTHING about biochemistry or biophysics. I am studying English and foreign language—I can barely do long division or explain how a prokaryotic cell is different from a eukaryotic cell. So please, if I made an error, know I did my very best to learn from my Google crash course on biochemistry.

Guys, Hawktooth has this great story called Closed Doors—really worth the read. Go forth!

Enjoy.

.

Chapter 7: When the Ball is in Your Court 101: Professor TBA

The doctors were shocked at how quickly Jessica was recovering; her injuries had not gotten any infections, she was breathing well, and healing fast. She was still comatose, but it had been reported to Sam that she wouldn't be for much longer if she kept progressing the way she was.

Jessica was a health freak; had her own little herb and vegetable garden, had a kale-based smoothie every morning, exercised at least an hour a day. Sam used to tease her about it, but now he understood; Jessica had made her heart, muscles, and immune system very strong. Now that she was injured and in the hospital, her great health helped the doctors do their job of making her better.

The fact that Jessica was going to be fine, along with Nick and Judy's frequent phone calls and visits, was the only thing keeping Sam out of a bad mood. The expenses for his father's funeral was going to eat up his savings; he and Jessica would have to push back their wedding. Sam was still debating on whether or not to give a full funeral for his dad. Even if he didn't, the burial and headstone would cost quite a bit.

Sam was in the waiting room debating funeral options with Mr. Canusi of the Canusi Funeral Home, an aging wolf who looked like he too would need a casket and headstone soon. "Mr. Feral, I assure you," Mr. Canusi cooed in an eerily clear voice, "we have many headstone options that will fit your budget." He pointed to a binder in his lap, turned and displayed for Sam to see. "These stones are very nice, all under the price of—"

"What about cremation?" Sam interrupted, noticing the two-hundred to three-hundred-dollar price tags on the headstones. "How much does that cost?"

The old dog cocked a hairy eyebrow. "Two thousand dollars."

Sam nearly choked. "O-Oh. Uh, in that case…" He pointed to the least expensive headstone in the binder, a simple stone that costed one hundred and eighty dollars. "I'll take that one."

"Very good, sir. Would you like to go ahead and discuss casket options, as well?"

Sam suddenly noticed a large, dark, looming figure appear in the doorway behind Mr. Canusi. When he looked, he saw Chief Bogo with his solemn stare and hard-set jaw, standing patiently with his arms crossed.

Sam blinked a few times, and tried his best to focus back on the wolf in front of him. "Um…tomorrow. Come at two o'clock, if that's okay."

Mr. Canusi looked a little surprised, but he nodded and stood. "Very well, sir. Just know that we can't push off the planning much further."

"I know." Sam also stood, his butt sore and tingling from the poorly-cushioned chair. He adjusted the color of his tan-and-blue plaid flannel shirt. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Canusi. Thank you."

Mr. Canusi just nodded one more time, and slunk silently from the room.

Chief Bogo approached, his presenceyes huge and looming, and offered a massive hoof for Sam to shake. "I give my condolences for your loss."

Sam gave a slight tch, and took the hoof. "You know as well as I do it's better this way." His paw looked miniscule in comparison to Bogo's huge digits.

A gruff hm came in reply from the buffalo, which left Sam debating whether it was in agreement or disagreement of his comment. "I hear Miss Whitehall is improving."

Sam nodded and smiled, his mood improving immediately. "Yes, she is. She should be out of her coma any day now."

"And Hopps has told me that you'll be getting married. Congratulations."

The coyote chuckled, and scratched the scruff of his neck sheepishly. "Heh, yeah. Well, it may have to be pushed back some more because of Dad's funeral and what's going on with Jessica, but that will be okay."

Bogo nodded, and folded his intimidatingly giant arms. "Have Wilde and Hopps—or any of my officers, for that matter—informed you of what exactly is going on regarding your father and the attack?"

Sam's stomach suddenly didn't feel so good; he didn't know why, he hardly ate anything today. "No…not exactly."

Bogo's face suddenly melted into what could be interpreted as sympathy. "Good. They weren't supposed to." He motioned a hoof to the nearest two chairs, one massive chair and one smaller one. "Why don't we sit down? This could take a bit."

The nausea Sam was experiencing flashed; he followed Bogo to the chairs.

…..

Before Nick got his act together, he lived in quite a few different places. Hopped around for about fifteen years, never staying for long; but when he was twenty-eight, he finally settled down in the cellar of an old, half-constructed building in Downtown Zootopia.

This building was illegal to live in, of course, but the owner of the property was a young, rich, and slightly stupid jaguar lad who had inherited the property and didn't know what the heck to do with it. He never had it inspected or worked on further; Nick had no idea why the kid kept the building, but he did and never bothered with it once. This was advantageous for Nick, because it gave him a private and free space to live. There were even some communal showers and a laundromat down the street, which made it even better.

This would be the space where Jack, Judy and Nick would have their meeting.

Nick offered it because he knew that he had been a big butthead as of late, and unprofessional at the very least. He had jumped to conclusions and made a real ass of himself; he still didn't care for Jack, but he wanted to make it up to Judy. And, naturally, he wanted this mission to go smoothly.

Of course, he would never admit those things aloud. Nick intended to make things better as suavely and indirectly as possible. He just hoped they could get the mission over with soon so mammals would stop getting hurt—and, admittedly, he would be very relieved when Jack could return to the UMK.

After Nick trudged down the splintery, oh-so-familiar wooden stairs into the cellar he used to call home, he discovered that Jack was already present with his back to the entrance. He was leaning on Nick's old makeshift table (cinderblocks and a few layers of plywood), marking on some blueprints and muttering to himself. He typed something into a calculator, nodded his head, and made another note on a separate pad of paper.

Nick was about to announce his entry, when Jack waved a grey paw over his shoulder. "Hello, Officer Wilde. Come. We will discuss the mission while we wait for Miss Hopps to arrive."

Nick bit on his lower lip slightly, but approached the table anyway. He prepared himself for possible awkwardness, straightening his tie and taking a few deep breaths. "How did you know it was me?" he asked, scratching the fur under his chin in an attempt to act casual.

"Your footsteps are far apart, soft, and…laid back," Jack answered, peering down at the blueprints and writing something else onto his notepad. "Very easy to identify. Miss Hopps has a bouncier, faster pace. To be fair, though, this building does echo quite a bit, so footstep identification would be easy for anyone."

Tch. Nick couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Jack waved him around to come stand on the opposite side of the table, flashing blue-grey eyes at the fox. "We have to talk, Officer. Come around where I can see you, if you don't mind."

Nick didn't like being ordered around, but he complied anyway; he knew refusing to listen would be childish. And, technically, Jack was the leader of the mission, so Nick forced his trap shut and walked around the table.

Jack sighed, unbuttoned the top button of his green flannel shirt, and placed his red pen amidst the mess of papers. "Wilde, I intend to make this mission go as easily and fluidly as I possibly can. This requires that I have the trust and respect of all of my team members."

Nick's throat twisted up. Oh, great. I know where this is going.

"I know that you and I did not have the best of introductions. I also don't blame you for being skeptical of me," Jack continued, his eyes narrowing solemnly. "But it also doesn't take a genius to deduce that you don't particularly care for me, and—"

"I'm gonna go ahead and stop you right there, Stripes," Nick interrupted, waving a paw and chuckling slightly. "You don't have to worry about my cooperation. I want this drug to be eradicated just as much as you do. You've seen what it's done to Sam Feral and his fiancée."

"It's not just your cooperation I'm worried about, Wilde," Jack countered, leaning onto his elbows. "It's your respect, and more importantly, your trust. I cannot lead effectively without my team fully trusting me."

Nick didn't reply. He just stood silently, holding back snappy responses he knew would not help anything.

Jack just stared the fox for a minute, before one of his eyebrows rose. "It's about Hopps, isn't it?"

Nick flashed what he knew was a glare at the agent. "Carrots has a good heart. A big heart. She's also a bit naïve, a bit too trusting. I'm just protecting her."

"From who? Me?" Jack gave an amused chuckle. "What do I have to gain from deceiving her?"

"You're the spy, you tell me."

Jack gave him that glare again—the one from the elevator, when the two had first noticed one another. "I don't have to justify anything to you, Wilde. Your chief—your boss—expects you to respect my leadership, and therefore so do I."

"I don't doubt your leadership, Stripes," Nick snapped back, an angry mass of flesh twisting in his belly. "I doubt your intentions."

Jack's glare suddenly morphed into realization; his eyebrows rose, his ears perked, his chin tipped upward. "Ohhh…so I was correct. I didn't want to assume, but…"

Nick cocked an eyebrow. "Assume what?"

"Wilde, do you…fancy Miss Hopps?"

Nick couldn't speak. There was something caught in his throat; he was pretty sure it was his heart, on account of how rapidly his esophagus pulsated.

The hare leaned forward, his expression suddenly becoming much more serious. "Miss Hopps is a lovely rabbit. But Officer Wilde, I assure you, my intentions with her are friendship-related at the very farthest. My line of work does not permit me to—"

"Whoa, whoa!" Nick interjected, swiping the air with his paw. "I…don't! I don't like her that way. She's like, eight years younger than I am. She's…my partner, my best friend. And she's…she's a…"

"Bunny?" Jack finished, folding his muscular arms. "Wilde, mammals can't help who they love. Denying it will only make things harder on you."

Nick shook his head. This was so much to process. "Okay, look. I don't like Carrots like that. I'm protective of her because she's my best friend, and quite frankly, the only family I have right now." The fox straightened his tie indignantly, and cleared his throat. "And even if I did like her in that way, it would never happen. She's way out of my league, let's be honest."

Jack chuckled, and shook his head. "Whatever you say. But either way, it's obvious that she's the chink in your armor, so let me assure you that I do not intend to advance Miss Hopps. She's a wonderful rabbit, but as I said, my line of work does not permit me to maintain romantic relationships."

Nick didn't let himself show it, but he was relieved. Of course he had thought of the possibility of Carrots and Jack eventually having a romantic relationship, especially since they seemed to get along so well; but the reason why he didn't want that is because he wanted Judy to always be his best friend, and he didn't want their friendship obscured by anyone else. And he didn't have feelings for her.

Right?

"But back to the subject at hand," Jack continued, interrupting Nick's thoughts, "I expect to have your trust and your respect. I want this to be professional, and to go as smoothly as possible. Is that fair to ask, Wilde?"

Nick side, and rubbed the fur on the back of his neck pensively. "I…know I've been…skeptical. And a bit disrespectful. I apologize, it was childish of me. I also admit it was because of Carrots, and I realize that it was stupid to let personal things like that get in the way of work."

Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"So…you have my respect." He gave a small sigh that did little to relieve the pressure on his chest. "And my trust."

There was a small moment of silence before Nick leaned over the table slightly; he could feel his lip unintentionally curl halfway into a snarl. "But let me assure you of something, Stripes," Nick murmured, narrowing his eyes and pressing his claws into the pads of his paws. "If you deceive her, betray her, even so much as make her cry—I don't care how much training you have in however many martial arts styles," he snarled, his voice barely a whisper, "Words would never describe the depth of my wrath. You will regret it. Capiche?"

Jack nodded, seemingly unfazed but totally immersed. "Duly noted."

"Peachy." Nick shifted back into his original position.

Jack blinked a few times before thrusting his paw over the table, giving the fox a friendly smile. "So, are we in agreement?"

Nick glanced at the paw, then back up at the hare. His face, usually hardened and serious, was relaxed—his stripes seemed less like war paint and more like cradles for the creases of his smile.

For the first time since he had met Jack, Nick appreciated him. As Nick took the hare's paw and shook, he decided that he could respect this guy; they weren't so different, after all. He didn't know if Jack's claims of his true intentions with Carrots were honest, but at least now he and Jack were on the same page.

Of course, Nick didn't have to like him in order to respect him, but…maybe now he was more willing to learn to like him.

On their second shake, Jack's ears twitched a bit. "Ah…bouncy and quick. Miss Hopps is here."

Nick snatched back his paw. It took a few seconds longer for Nick to be able to detect them, but eventually, Carrots' familiar footsteps reached his ears as well.

Then, her little frame came into view; she came down a few of the top steps, before blinking and giving them both a wide smile. "Afternoon, boys. I'm on time, aren't I?"

"Yes, Miss Hopps. Don't fret," Jack answered from in front of Nick, checking his watch. "Wilde and I were just early. Had some things to discuss."

Carrots looked particularly pretty today. She was wearing a deep purple sweater that Nick absolutely loved; it clung to her figure and complimented the soft grey of her fur. He subconsciously sniffed the air for the scent of freesia, but today he detected flowery lavender perfume instead; she also had on cute little silver hoops at the base of her ears that he had never seen before.

Did she go somewhere today? Nick's heart stopped for a good few seconds. Was it a date?

Judy raised an eyebrow. "What were you discussing?" she questioned as she made her way closer to the table.

"We just had to tie up a few loose ends before the meeting. No big deal." Jack gave her a wide smile.

Judy glanced over at Nick, her purple eyes seeking confirmation.

Nick noticed, after a few moments of studying her, that she was wearing a little bit of makeup. His stomach felt like it was caving in. Oh God, it was a date.

Instead of revealing his curiosity and slight jealousy, Nick shrugged his shoulders and gave her his coy grin. "Stripes just really wanted some personal time with the Nickanator, I suppose. Who could blame him?"

Judy blinked a few times, then chuckled in relief. Her eyes crinkled cutely at the edges. "As long as there wasn't any bickering." She held up a large plastic bag, a picture of a happy dumpling dancing on the side. She smiled widely, revealing her large teeth. "I brought takeout! I figured this would take a while. Don't want to get hungry."

"Good call, Carrots." Nick waved her over. "Let's hope you didn't forget chopsticks."

With an enthusiastic flourish, she pulled three sets of cheap wooden chopsticks from the bag. "Of course not, that would be an atrocity," she sang proudly as she bounded happily over to the table. "Who eats Pawsian food with a fork?" She pushed some papers out of the way and plopped the bag on the table.

Jack chuckled, the sound almost shy. "It's been quite a while since I've had takeout."

"I'm sure you eat lots of exotic, amazing foods! You haven't had Pawsian lately?" Judy asked, pulling out boxes of what Nick assumed was lo mien or sticky white rice.

"I've had Pawsian, but only authentic cuisine. I spent a couple months in Taiwan recently." He chuckled again. "But I haven't had…you know, takeout. The English versions of Pawsian food."

"Too snooty to eat Americanized dumplings, Stripes?" Nick teased, half of him annoyed and the other half genuinely amused.

"Oh, no," Jack replied, gathering his papers and organizing them into a neat pile; he straightened the stack on its edge against the tabletop, tack tack. "I adore takeout. It's just been a while since I've gotten the opportunity to eat it. I maintain a very strict health diet while I'm on missions, and it's a rarity if I'm not on a mission."

"Well you can cheat your diet just one time, right?" Judy chuckled as she opened a takeout box filled to the brim with seasoned broccoli and peppers; the aroma was intoxicating. She waved the box in front of Jack. His eyes followed the enticing movement for a few seconds.

He nodded, and swallowed almost nervously. "I suppose it couldn't hurt."

Nick whistled. "You're truly living on the edge, Savage. An international spy and you're willing to go over the recommended daily sodium limit." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Most impressive."

Jack only chuckled slightly, but Judy snorted with great amusement. "Oh, shove it, Nick!" she guffawed. "At least he watches what he eats! You inhale blueberry muffins by the pawful. I have to be there to slow you down, or else you'll become the stereotypical pudgy cop." She shoved a pair of chopsticks into Jack's paws.

"Those blueberry muffins we get at the café are life, 're the reason I'm willing to get up at the buttcrack of dawn every morning," Nick replied sassily as he reached over to grab a pair of his own chopsticks; he went ahead and took some soy sauce packets, as well. In addition to blueberries, he also had an undeniable love for soy sauce-especially on white rice.

Judy cocked an eyebrow; Nick was almost distracted by the way her eyes glittered. Almost. "So the reason you get up is for the blueberry muffins, but it's not to help the citizens of Zootopia?"

He snickered. "No, Fluff, that's why you get up early every morning."

Nick expected another sassy comment, but she just rolled her eyes and gave that giggle that meant, You're dumb as hell, Nick, but I love you. He loved the meaning behind the giggle almost as much as he loved the giggle itself.

Then Nick felt a pair of eyes on him. He glanced over at the owner of these eyes; Jack was staring at the fox pointedly, one dark brow arched; the smug pull of his mouth was accompanied by a subtle, almost nonexistent chuckle that definitely said, Are you sure you're being honest with yourself?

Nick simply rolled his eyes, making it a point to be very casual with how he brushed off Jack's look. He quickly turned his attention to the food Judy was pulling out, and quickly reached for the teriyaki cabbage.

"Do you not eat bugs, Officer Wilde?" Jack asked, eyeing the many varieties of vegetables without a grasshopper or beetle in sight.

Nick shrugged. "No, I never really have."

"Why not?"

Nick stirred the teriyaki cabbage, spreading the sauce evenly and nicely. "My mom was a vegetarian—she was kind of insistent on defying the carnivore stereotype. So, I grew up a vegetarian too." He pushed the teriyaki cabbage toward Judy and picked up his chopsticks; he made sure not to look at her, though he felt her stare on him. "Been one ever since. Never really developed a taste for bugs."

Though Judy was obviously affected by Nick's explanation involving his mother, Jack was not. "Oh, I see," the hare replied, satisfied with the answer.

Nick swallowed a mouthful of cabbage. "And you can call me Nick, Stripes. None of that Officer stuff. It…" He paused for only a split second. "It gets old after a while."

A smile flickered around the corners of Jack's mouth. "Very well."

Nick didn't look up at Judy's face, but he was sure it was covered in pure amazement. He took another bite of cabbage.

"So, shall we start discussing the plan for the day of the wedding, then?" Jack asked, eager to get down to business.

And Nick, eager to direct the attention away from his change in attitude, nodded maybe a bit too quickly. "Yes, we should. Take it away, Stripes."

Sam blinked a few times; his brain, now overloaded with information, was struggling to process everything that Bogo had just revealed to him.

"So…this hasn't just happened to my dad," he finally muttered after a few moments.

Bogo shook his head, his expression as sympathetic as Bogo's expressions could be. "No. There are others."

There were no words that came to Sam's mouth. He silently watched a nurse pass by with a tray of medicine; a pretty doe. Though, in his opinion, this doe wasn't nearly as pretty as Jessica.

"I can't reveal every detail to you, obviously," Bogo continued from the corner of his eyes; Sam didn't face him quite yet. "But you deserved to know."

Sam nodded, a funny feeling rising in the pit of his chest. "And, this drug…you're investigating it, correct? Do you know what it is, what exactly it does?" He finally turned his gaze back to the gruff buffalo; Bogo sat with his elbows on his knees, a mixture of frustration and sympathy swirling in his eyes.

"Yes, we're investigating it…but we haven't gotten very far." Bogo's reply was under his breath, as if he didn't want mammals around them to hear. "We don't know much about it. In fact…" He cleared his throat. "…we know hardly anything at all."

Sam blinked. "Why is that?"

Bogo let out a small puff of air from his massive nostrils, his face stone. "I'm not obligated to say."

"Oh." Right, police confidentiality and all that. "So, why are you telling me all this?"

The chief didn't answer immediately. Instead, he simply looked at the coyote silently; his dark eyes were brooding and furtive, examining Sam as if he was trying to decide the best way to reply to the question. Sam had always been a little scared of Bogo, but in this particular moment, the buffalo seemed almost vulnerable. It strangely made Same feel more comfortable.

Finally, Bogo spoke. His voice was low, raspy. "Because I want you to know that you're not alone," he whispered, his brows furrowing slightly. "That there are victims just like you and Jessica, fighting to make their lives normal again. I want you to know that the ZPD will find the distributors of the drug."

"Are Wilde and Judy on the case?"

Bogo blinked. "No."

Sam's heart fell. "Why not? You know they could do it. They're the best."

"We have other capable officers, Mr. Feral. Currently, Officer Wilde and Officer Hopps are caught up in another extremely important case."

Sam didn't reply; he knew that Judy and Nick could wipe it out in an instant, if only they were given the chance. But he knew it wasn't his place to say so.

Bogo leaned forward again, as if it would emphasize his words. "I also need you to not speak a word of this to anyone," he warned Sam. "Not a soul, not even Jessica."

Of course Sam wanted to tell Jessica, but with some luck, he won't have to. Hopefully, the ZPD will find out the source of the drug ring and the success will speak for itself.

Sam nodded in agreement, realizing the severity of the situation when he saw Bogo's intense stare. "Okay," he agreed. His heart suddenly began beating with the ferocity of an angry bass drum. "Okay, not a soul."

Judy was, once again, hesitating as she stared at the bright yellow color of the front door at 180 Red Orchard Lane. It practically burned her eyes.

It was raining that day, and she was both thankful and disappointed for the covered front porch; if she was standing out in the storm, maybe she would have more gumption to ring the doorbell and introduce herself.

Everything in her being told her that this was a stupid idea. She would have marched right in ten minutes earlier, if not for the nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her, You shouldn't do this, he'll be so angry, he'll never forgive you.

But her gut told her this was the right thing. Usually, her gut was right.

Her finger once again hovered over the doorbell; it antagonized her, as did the voice in her head, and she fought both running away and barging in. She still didn't know what to do, she still didn't truly know if this was the right thing, but she had to do it, for him, for her best friend—

What happened next was a blur. The door flung open faster than Judy could say parsnips, and the rabbit herself immediately jumped away and into a defensive stance, more out of habit than out of feeling threatened. Judy's heard was fluttering like an irate bird, and she had to take a few deep breaths to slow down the sound of it in her ears.

"Oh, my goodness, I could hardly stand it!" the vixen in the doorway exclaimed, holding a dainty paw to her abdomen in excitement. "You were just standing there, my dear, out in the rainy weather and I couldn't wait another second."

Judy blinked. "I, uh—I—"

The older fox's amber eyes glowed with amusement as she gave a little twinkly laugh and raised an eyebrow. "You here to sell magazine subscriptions? I love Home and Gardens. If you're a Jehovah's Witness, I'm not interested; I'll give you some cookies to take to your friends, though, if you'd like."

"No, I—"

"I hope you like white chocolate macadamia," she interrupted again. "You need something to warm your belly, especially with this dreary rain—"

"No!" Judy exclaimed, less out of anger and more wanting to be able to get a word out. "No, I'm here to…" she glanced into the doorway, suddenly hearing broken music floating from inside the house.

Past the shoulder of the older fox, down the hallway and into a far room, Judy spotted a piano. On the bench sat a young bobcat, no more than six or seven years out, picking out an old nursery rhyme tune on the keys. He paused for a moment to peer at the sheet music in front of him with extreme concentration, and then continued to force out the tune, which sounded akin to something along the lines of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

"…I'm here to inquire about piano lessons," Judy finished. As soon as the words came out, she regretted saying them.

But the aging vixen blinked, and then broke into a huge smile; her canine teeth, worn but shining like pearls, didn't seem menacing at all. Maybe Judy was just used to it by now. "Oh! Why didn't you say so before, darling?" she giggled, her eyes like warm honey. "I'm just finishing this lesson with little Bobby. Let me get him packed up; let yourself in, dear, get out of the rain." And with a flourish of her floral skirt, she glided back into the lesson room to bring the bobcat to a halt on his practice and give him some sugar-coated pointers.

Judy delicately stepped into the house and closed the door behind her, not hesitating to glance around at the décor; everything was slightly scuffed with age, but meticulously clean. There were potted flowers and plants everywhere, ranging from desert cacti to tropical hibiscus to exotic orchids; on the walls, there were framed posters of Broadway shows and vocal jazz crooners like Billie Howliday, Billy Elkstine, and of course, Frank Swinatra. And despite the fact that this vixen was older, there was not a doily or cross-stich in sight; it was quite refreshing for Judy.

The small bobcat boy was shouldering a pack and fiddling with an umbrella as he passed, smiling shyly at Judy. While the vixen fussed with papers by the piano, the bobcat leaned over to Judy and asked, "You're Officer Hopps, aren't you?"

Judy just chuckled and winked at the young cat. He grinned gleefully, and turned to bound out the door both in embarrassment and excitement.

"Bye, Bobby! Be safe walking home!" the vixen cried out to him as he disappeared into rain with his little blue umbrella. "Don't forget to practice your scales!"

The bobcat waved politely and rushed toward the sidewalk, probably eager to either get out of the rain or to tell his parents of who he had seen at his piano teacher's house.

Judy couldn't help but smile. She was very happy to have the ability to inspire young mammals.

The fox rushed over to close the door and lock it, breathing a deep sigh of relief when the sound of rain and thunder was muffled by the wood of the door. "It is horrendous outside," she puffed, wiping imaginary sweat from her brow.

"It is pretty nasty," Judy agreed lamely.

"I don't prefer rain," the vixen continued, turning to the rabbit and gazing at her with the same honey-rimmed eyes. "I love listening to it while I drink hot tea and read Jane Pawsten, but not much else." Suddenly, she gave a great laugh, touching pads of her paws to her chest. "Oh, listen to me ramble! I haven't even introduced myself yet. How rude of me!"

"No, not at all," Judy replied, giving the vixen a smile. It was hard not to be happy around her; or at least, it was hard not to feign happiness. No one could ever want to disturb the feeling that emanated from this vixen—it would be an atrocity.

The older fox enthusiastically thrust out her paw for a shake; her fur was not quite crimson, more of a soft red-orange. "I'm Kathleen Wilde, darling," she said to the bunny, giving a sweet smile.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilde," Judy replied, taking the delicate paw and shaking it.

The older mammal gave an exaggerated pfft. "Oh, please. Just call me Kathleen. You make me sound a hundred years old. What did you say your same was?"

"Judy Hopps."

Her thin eyebrows raised. "The Judy Hopps? Oh, what a pleasure and honor to have you in my home!" Kathleen's eyes sparkled like chunks of amber; she was quite pretty for her age. "I knew you looked familiar."

Judy, slightly uncomfortable but flattered, forced a smile that she hoped looked genuine. "Thank you for having me here. What beautiful plants and flowers you have!"

Kathleen chuckled and waved the comment off. "Oh, it's just a silly hobby of mine. Nothing of importance, really."

"I love plants, though," the bunny mentioned, looking around fondly at the varied flora. "I grew up on a farm, plant husbandry was a huge thing around there."

"How interesting!" Kathleen grinned, apparently happy that someone shared her affinity for plants. "They're very therapeutic for me. Fortunately, I have quite the green thumb." The vixen waved her over motioning to an adjoining room. "Go sit in the den, I'll get us something to drink. Tea? Coffee? Lemonade?"

"A hot tea would be great, thanks."

Kathleen nodded curtly. "I agree, with how forlorn it is outside. It will warm our souls. Go and sit wherever you'd like, I'll put it on for us."

Judy had settled into a massive, olive green wing-backed chair that was more comfortable than it looked. She listened to the soft humming and clinking of dishes as Kathleen prepared the beverages for them; she also didn't hesitate to glance around the room and soak in her surroundings.

The piano Bobby had practiced at was sitting at the corner of the room, rid of dust but scuffed from years of love; there was a lot of space around the instrument, as if the area was waiting to be occupied by something. Many more plants were scattered about the room, with some large ferns pushed into corners and cacti lining the windowsills. The furniture was an older style, ranging in colors from dusty pinks to deep blues, leaving the room without a particular color scheme. There were more framed posters of old movies and vocal artists; but the one that stood out immediately to Judy was a small, chipped picture of a young vixen, the old photograph sitting on the side table next to her chair. She was beautiful, adorned in a sequined, scarlet-red dress that left just enough to the avid male fox imagination. She had beautiful, sultry eyes and a secretive smile, and stood in front of an old-fashioned microphone, the kind that was made of clunky, shiny metal. The vixen was in a dark room, with strobe lights setting fire to her fur and her dress; she seemed to be addressing a crowd. The coloring of the picture was faded slightly—Judy couldn't tell the color of her eyes, and she could barely see the red of her lips.

"Ah, you spotted my photograph," an amused voice chuckled, interrupting Judy's thoughts. Judy glanced up to see the fox setting down a tray with two mugs and a teapot; the air was filled with an earthy herbal scent.

"Excuse me," Judy said awkwardly, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I didn't mean to intrude…"

"Oh, no, dear, you're fine," Kathleen brushed off, giving her a soft smile and settling into a nearby loveseat of bright purple. She picked up the frame and gazed at it for a moment; not longingly, but instead with fondness. "This was me in my singing days, when I worked for a bar called Raterson's in Downtown Zootopia."

"You sang?" Judy asked with piqued curiosity. She knew she probably shouldn't dig for information, but she couldn't help it. She was a naturally nosy bunny.

Kathleen gave a sweet laugh. "Oh, yes. My stage name was Kathleen Deveraux. I sang there for about three years; it was an experience, truly one of a kind."

"What was your real name?"

"Kathleen Jones." She scoffed playfully. "Sounded like a suburban mother name, I couldn't let myself be known as that. I'm so glad I got married to John, my surname is much more interesting now."

Again, Judy's curiosity piqued. "John?"

"John Wilde, my husband. He died some years ago." A bit of sadness crept into her voice, and she reached for her mug; it was covered in a fantastically colorful paisley pattern. "He was a good mammal, a trustworthy one. Really defied all expectations folks had for foxes." She took a sip of her tea, and gave a hearty laugh. "But you would know all about defying expectations, wouldn't you, Officer Hopps?!"

Judy gave a giggle in return, slightly embarrassed but accepting of the praise. "Just trying to do my part in this world, that's all."

Judy was very excited, and was having a hard time containing this excitement. Not ten minutes into the conversation, Nick's mother was revealing things about Nick's father that Judy had been dying to hear for as long as she had known her friend. And putting a face and a name to Nick's mother was equally as exciting for her; she knew she probably shouldn't be doing this, but she was concerned for Nick's long-term well-being…and, to be honest, she had been itching to know more for a long time. Finally, her itch was getting scratched.

"How admirable," Kathleen replied; she gave a great, sad sigh, and gently put the fram back onto the table. "I suppose a singer in a bar doesn't do much more for the world than give something to distract mammals from their troubles. Now that I look back on it, it wasn't the music that did it for them, either. That job was a great experience, don't get me wrong, but at times it was utterly humiliating; you would be surprised how many drunk businessmammals tried to convince me to go home with them." She scoffed, and shook her head. "I walked in a naïve girl, ready to sing for the world, and walked out three years later a changed fox. I liked everything about that job except for the late-night patrons."

"That's really disappointing." Judy picked up her own mug and took a sip, her eyes never leaving the vixen sitting across from her. She was engrossed with this vixen, hanging onto every word.

Kathleen nodded. "Yes, a crying shame. After a few sad words with the barkeep and one too many rounds of scotch on the rocks or tonic and gin, they would turn their attention towards the vixen singing onstage."

Judy blinked, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "How crass."

The fox laughed, her cheeks pulling in amusement. "That's one way to put it. You would be surprised how many straight-laced predators, or even prey, would coo at a vixen after a few drinks, whether she was the same species or not." She paused for a moment, then giggled fondly. "Though, I can't say I'm too upset that those things happened. It was how John and I met."

Judy was taking a sip of her tea when Kathleen said this; when she processed the comment, she lowered her cup in surprise and curiosity. "Did he…coo at you?"

"Oh my, no. Quite the opposite." The vixen gave another soft, tinkly giggle. It sounded like the wind chimes out on her front porch. "This conversation has deviated very much from piano, hasn't it?"

Kathleen had fled from the stage to her dressing room, holding her favorite red dress together as best she could. It was torn, ruined; it had split at her side, revealing her slip and lack of brassiere beneath.

She had started crying out there. She hated that she had cried, especially when she looked in the mirror and saw the mascara sliding down her cheeks; her lipstick was smeared, with a little smudged on her teeth in the frenzy.

Kathleen tried to inspect the damage through her tears, running her claws over the loose threads and dangling sequins; she had spent a lot of money on this dress, had turned many tables in dilapidated restaurants to scrape together enough coins to pay for it. It was the signature aspect of her, the flashy red gown with the slit up the leg that made her feel like she truly was star material.

And now it was destroyed. Just like her career, which resorted to singing to old drunk males and trying not to breathe in too much cigarette smoke.

"Dammit," she cursed through her tears, running her eyes across her vanity for a safety pin and finding none. She plopped onto a nearby ottoman; her voice was nasally, shaky. "M-Maybe I can fix it…"

There was a slow, deliberate knock on her dressing room door.

It must be her boss. "I-I'm so sorry, Mr. Raterson, please just give me a few moments to compose myself…"

"May I come in?" a male voice murmured through the door, much too loud and deep to be Raterson's.

It was probably one of Mr. Raterson's other employees, maybe a server or something. "No, I…please, I just need to be alone."

"But I can help you." The door creaked open, only a few inches.

Kathleen puffed some air from her nostrils; the nerve. "I said no."

Despite her warning, the door was pushed open anyway. On the other side was a fox; handsome, green-eyed, and very well-dressed, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a newsboy cap settled between two long ears. She recognized him as a frequent patron; he had been coming weekly for almost two years, always sitting at the bar and occasionally sneaking glances at her performance. Every time, no matter what, he always slipped a nice tip into her jar at the base of the stage. He said once to her, even after he had nursed a few beers, "Your voice is beautiful." Not one obscene word came from his mouth. Kathleen had always thought of him as cute yet mysterious, and looked forward each week to the day that he would come in and listen quietly instead of whoop and holler like all the other males did after 9 o'clock.

But in this moment, Kathleen didn't give two shits about what kind of tips he gave, whether he was cute or mysterious; he was in her dressing room without permission. She gasped, taken aback by the nerve of the mammal. She fisted the rip going down her dress so none of her body was exposed the way it was onstage. "Excuse me, sir, but this is a private dressing room! I don't need to be attacked a second time tonight. I can call Mr. Raterson right now to get his guards to haul you out, I'm warning you!"

The fox stepped toward her only once, his eyes wide and mouth pressed into a firm line; Kathleen couldn't read his expression, which only made her more frightened.

She snatched a hairbrush off her vanity and chucked it at him with a grunt; it hit him on the shoulder, a nice thwack resonating through the room. He winced and gasped aloud, taken aback at the sudden impact, but took another step forward anyway.

For Kathleen, the next part was a blur. She was throwing things; perfume bottles, pillows, fur curlers, anything she could get her hands on. She didn't know whether she was hitting this fox or not, but she was determined to at least send the right message.

The next thing Kathleen knew, this fox was holding both of her arms and she was trying her best to thrash at him, snapping at him with her teeth and struggling to pull her paws away so she could sock him one good time in the jaw. He was saying something, but she couldn't hear him over the blood rushing in her ears.

She kept trying to flail her arms, but eventually the fox's strength overcame her own and her flailing slowed; finally, she caught a few of the words that came out of his mouth.

"…not here to hurt you, Kathleen, I'm here to help you, I promise—"

"How could you help me?!" she insisted, more tears sifting into her eyes. Shit, don't cry. "I don't need help, I need to get out of this place, I need to find a better job that won't have damn skunks climbing up on stage and trying to rip off my dress—"

"Kathleen." She paused and looked him in the eyes; they were an intense green, cradled by dark shadows of fatigue. His nose was only inches from hers. "Kathleen, I'm a tailor. I can fix your dress."

She sniffed; tears began to slide down the already-wet fur of her cheeks. "I don't…I don't have much money, I can't afford a tailor." She suddenly felt her dress hanging open at her side without her holding it together. She hoped that nothing sensitive could be seen.

This fox wasn't looking down at her dress, however. He was looking straight into her eyes, his brows furrowed with sympathy. He let go of one of her wrists to wipe some mascara from her left cheek. "You think I'm gonna charge you after what just happened?" His voice was smooth; she could tell he was charismatic. He chuckled. "No no, my dear. I wouldn't want you to throw out that beautiful thing; I can patch it up, no problem. Just needs some tender loving care."

Kathleen blinked, taken aback by his words. She wasn't entirely sure if he was only talking about the dress. "I…don't need your pity," she murmured lamely, still trying to keep together the remnants of her dignity.

His smile deteriorated at the words; he looked worried. "You think I pity you?"

"…Yes."

He scoffed playfully. "After an episode like that, the only one I pity is the skunk. He obviously leads a very sad life if the only action he'll get is sexually harassing the first pretty mammal he can find."

Kathleen only sniffed and looked away.

The grip on her right wrist lessened, shifting into just a gentle pressure. "So why don't you go change, and I'll see what I can do to help you?"

She didn't hesitate to use this opportunity to snatch her paws away from his. "How should I know you're actually a tailor, and not just some creep trying to get me naked?" she insisted, flashing him her absolute best death glare.

He paused for only a moment before reaching into his messenger bag and pulling something out, a flat piece of paper pinched between his claws. When he showed it to her, she had to take a second to register what it was: a business card.

She peered at the card through her tears: it read in looping script, Suit-topia: Need a suit? Suit-topia welcomes you!

Kathleen sent him an indignant look, one that said You could have picked up this card anywhere.

He shrugged, and took the card back. "You can either choose to believe me, or you won't. But I'm here to help you." He slipped the card into the breast pocket of his pressed button-up shirt.

The words were strangely soft and careful; it was then that Kathleen glanced past him and noticed he had deliberately left the door to the dressing room wide open.

Her heart softened, just a little.

Kathleen hesitated, but begrudgingly stood from her ottoman and quickly slipped behind a nearby room divider without uttering a single word, holding the ripped part of her dress firmly against her body.

As she began to change into her street clothes, she heard the soft voice of the fox sift through the thin bamboo of the divider. "When you've changed out of the dress, toss it to me so I can look at the tear." After a second, he added a pointed "Please".

She slipped on her skirt with one paw and threw the dress over the divider with the other, not entirely sure how she felt about what was happening at that moment. A part of her felt suspicious; the other felt grateful.

There was a shuffle of fabric and the tinkling of sequins, and then a slight hm. "It's only torn at the seam. Easy fix, no problem a-tall."

Kathleen breathed a light sigh of relief. She really did love that dress.

When she was finished buttoning her blouse, she carefully peeked around the divider before deciding to take a step out; he was sitting on the floor, his messenger bag slumped against him on the carpet and the dress draped over his legs in a shimmer of scarlet. In his paw was something that looked like a leather wallet; though, when he opened it, Kathleen noticed the glint of needles and pins lined up neatly inside.

Kathleen's wariness heightened when she saw him also pull out a spool of red thread. "So, you just so happen to have red thread handy?"

The fox didn't seem to take offense to the comment; instead, he laughed. Kathleen thought sound was amiable and endearing. "I'm a tailor who is always prepared, as dorky as it may seem. I never know when my high-paying customers will want to make a last-minute house call." He took the end of the thread and slid it between his lips, a very practiced action that was foreign and somewhat interesting to Kathleen.

Kathleen suddenly felt guilty. Here he was, trying to help her, and all she was doing was giving him grief.

She sighed, and trudged across the plush carpet to open a closet; inside were a few scuffed folding chairs. "Let me get you a chair…I'm sure it's difficult working on the floor," she murmured to him, reaching in to grab one.

He looked up at her; he had just finished pinning the seam on her dress together. "Oh, no, please. This is perfect, it provides more space."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, scratching the fur beneath his cap with one claw. "Oh, yes. I'm positive, darlin', thanks." He gave her a wide, coy smile; his green eyes shimmered.

Kathleen just blinked silently in reply, and closed the closet door back. After a few moments, she gathered up the courage to walk over to her ottoman and sit next to him, watching him push the first stitch through the fabric and pull the base of the tear together.

She watched him sew only five stitches before she could hardly handle the silence anymore. "I…thank you, sir."

The fox chuckled, glancing up at her for only a few seconds before returning his gaze to him work. "No need to thank me, Kathleen. And no need to call me sir, either, I'm not an old man quite yet."

Kathleen allowed herself a small, soft laugh, smoothing out her skirt in her lap nervously. "I also apologize for my attitude. It's…been quite the eventful night, to say the least."

"I would say so," he agreed, pulling the thread taught. A coy smirk flickered over his muzzle. "First you get attacked onstage by some hammered, horny skunk, and the next this weird-but-handsome fox turns up in your dressing room, claiming to be able to save the day."

"Well, you have saved the day, to be fair."

"You give me too much credit." He gave her a gentle smile.

Kathleen shifted uncomfortably. It felt sort of surreal, this regular patron she had always wondered about, in her dressing room repairing her dress and not trying to make a move on her. It was a little awkward, to say the least, but she was grateful that he was here.

"Er…sorry I chucked things at you," she murmured lamely.

The fox scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes. "Darlin', I do not blame you. After what just happened? No, you had reason to do that. I could have been another creep trying to harass you."

"But you aren't." Kathleen smiled at him.

His eyes flicked to her face what seemed like for half of a second before he returned them to his work. "Heh, no, I'm not." He rolled his shoulder back and touched it gingerly, careful not to poke himself with the needle. "Though, your throw is impressive. I won't be surprised if I have a hairbrush-shaped bruise in the morning. Ever think about playing baseball?"

"I would," Kathleen bantered back, "but, you know, I have to reserve my throwing arm for chucking things at weird foxes that come into my dressing room. Just in case."

He paused his sewing to snicker at her. "Sly girl."

She couldn't help but giggle.

There was a few minutes of silence; it was a little uncomfortable for Kathleen, but not unpleasant. She debated whether or not to offer him a refreshment (though all she had was water), but the question never seemed to reach her lips; instead, she watched him work. He didn't seem concentrated or strained at all; Kathleen watched her dress slowly transform back into what it was before, sequins still hanging haphazardly…she was just happy it was looking somewhat normal again.

Kathleen's eyes shifted from the dress in his hands to his face. He was handsome, to be sure; even more handsome up close than over twenty feet away, which was the distance at which she was accustomed to seeing him. He had pensive green eyes and an angular face; when he flashed his crooked smile, it revealed a coy and clever side to him that Kathleen had never witnessed.

"Why tailoring?" Kathleen asked him; she question had been burning at her lips for a while.

The fox laughed softly, and sent her a swift glance. "What do you mean?" His voice was rimmed with a teasing chuckle, as if he knew what she meant but wanted to embarrass her.

Kathleen felt a slight flush on her cheeks, and was thankful for her fur's color. "Well, er, you don't quite strike me as a sewing kinda guy."

"My dear, do you think I'm an old lady? You make me sound as if I'm into cross-stitching and knitting, too."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Well…are you?"

He laughed again, louder this time; there was that coy smirk again. It was attractive. "As long as you have the money, I'll do anything." He noticed Kathleen's eyebrow raising further, and gave her a pointed stare. "That has to do with tailoring."

"Yeah, oh-kay." She giggled and he rolled his eyes.

"So, why singing?" he pressed her, picking out a much smaller sewing needle from his kit. His eyes flashed back up at her; he did have really pretty eyes. "And at this bar? You're too good to stay here, you need to go apply to the Palm Hotel in Sahara Square, baby. That's where the good bars are at. You could sing at weddings, too."

Kathleen sighed, longing tugging at her heart. "If only…" she murmured; then blinked as she shook herself back to reality. "But I have a good job here, a dependable one. Demand for singers just isn't so high right now, even if you can play the piano—"

"You're a pianist?" the fox asked suddenly, looking up from re-stitching a sequin in surprise.

Kathleen nodded timidly. "Yes."

"Wow. Beautiful and talented. How long have you been playing?"

She blushed, and was once again thankful for her fur. "Since I was four…my mother thought music was an essential part to a child's education."

He nodded in agreement. "Understandably. I can't imagine why those high-end bars aren't throwing offers at you, being a singer and a pianist."

Sighing, Kathleen hung her head slightly and replied, "Because of aesthetic. It looks more appealing to have a male playing the piano while a pretty female sings, rather than a female doing both…and it doesn't help that I'm a fox." She rolled her eyes and groaned. "I'm a female and a fox. Every employer, whether they be prey or pred, constantly assume I'm trying to be some kind of sexual deviant trying to seduce or con them out of money. I have to dress like a nun to be taken seriously."

The fox said nothing. He just studied her for a moment, looking disgruntled and angry for her.

Kathleen nodded at his reaction. "Exactly! What's more, they don't want a vixen as a singer because it doesn't 'appeal well to patrons and customers'. Mammals are so prejudiced, they won't go to a bar with a vixen singer. It doesn't help that burlesque houses are stereotyped to be centered around vixens, so every time a high-end bar hires a vixen to sing, they lose lots of money because all of the arrogant, prejudiced mammals insist the club is turning into a burlesque house just because one honest vixen singer is hired. It's absolutely ridiculous."

He raised an eyebrow. "That seemed like it came from a place of bitterness."

Kathleen sighed, a weight placing itself upon her shoulders. "And guilt, to be completely transparent." She focused on her paws, which were now wringing the end of her cotton skirt together in stress. "Before Raterson's, I…did get a job in Sahara Square. This really pretty little club called Joanna's. Maybe you've heard of it?"

The fox nodded, still focused on his work. "Yes, I've been there a few times. Expensive."

"Yes, very high-end, the like. The owner, Joanna Xiong, was this sweet old panda from China who was very excited to take me on. After a while of me singing, her regular patrons stopped returning." Sorrow suddenly tugged at Kathleen's heart. The poor woman. "Unbeknownst to Joanna, rumors were circling that it was going to be made into a fancy burlesque house."

He sniffed loudly, glancing up from his work at the shag carpet he was sitting on as if he just had a realization and was tossing it around in his head. "I heard those rumors, I think. One of my clients talked about it."

"Did you believe them?"

"Oh no!" he insisted, looking up at her with an expression of something like desperation. "No, no. I've gone to that bar before, I met Joanna…I made a few suits for her husband, bless his departed soul." He shook his head, as if disappointed. "I couldn't believe it when I heard it. Most of the time, my clients aren't as prejudiced as most—I mean, they hired a fox, and you know how mammals talk about us—but sometimes, shit would come out of their mouths and it was all I could do not to walk out."

Kathleen nodded, a pang of realization hitting her in the chest. "I bet it's hard to get work…I know it's hard for me."

"It's ridiculous," the fox agreed, stitching another sequin with practiced fingers. "At the start of my career, I had to disguise myself just to get by. Thank goodness I've made connections in high places, because I wouldn't have been able to get by otherwise."

"Connections?" Kathleen asked, leaning forward in curiosity.

The fox noticed he had gotten her attention and sniggered. "Oh, yes. A certain little fellow in Tundratown pays good money in exchange for the suits he and his…employees wear."

"In Tundratown? Is he a bussinessmammal?"

"Of a sort," he answered, chuckling at her interest. "He owns a limousine rental company."

Kathleen blinked, and gave a great smile to him. "Ah, how wonderful! I'm so proud that you've managed to get so far."

"Me too." He secured the last sequin, pulling the thread taught and pressing the miniature reflective disc down into the fabric. "There, darlin'. Good as new." He snipped the thread and held it up for her to examine; his eyes were in stark contrast to the dress, green against red that strangely reminded Kathleen of Christmas.

She reached out to finger the part of the garment that had been ripped, to see that she could see no damage at all; it looked practically brand-new. Like it never happened.

"Wow," she breathed, taking the dress from him to get a closer look. "It's…so much better, sir."

"Don't call me sir," he said in reply, but it didn't have a single ounce of animosity. Instead, it was gentle, amused. He gave her another crooked smile and flicked his nose toward the room divider. "Go try it on, make sure it fits."

Kathleen didn't hesitate; she was in and out in a flash, hurriedly trying not to waste her time with this gentlemammal. He was probably going to leave soon, and to be honest, she didn't really want him to.

When she approached him after changing, he looked over her with concentration. He leaned in close to her side where the tear was, assessing and inspecting his work; Kathleen knew he probably meant nothing by the closeness, but her heart beat fast anyway.

"It should hold up nicely," he commented, straightening up and giving her another smile. His eyes did this thing where one crinkled and the other didn't, and Kathleen thought it was particularly attractive.

"I don't know how to thank you," she finally managed, forcing herself not to stutter.

"Don't thank me, Kat. It's my pleasure." He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "I can call you Kat, right?"

"Of course," Kathleen responded, and she felt a grin rise up to her face. Then, a blush. She usually hated it when people called her Kat, but for some reason, she liked it when it came out of his mouth. "Does this mean…"

"We can see each other again? I was just about to ask that." The fox laughed, and Kathleen couldn't help but giggle back. "I'm glad you mentioned it and not me, it would have taken everything in me."

"I don't know, you seem pretty brave. You did just walk straight into a vixen's dressing room."

His face softened. "Well…you needed help. I felt like all the comfort you've brought me the past couple years with your voice should be returned. I saw it as an opportunity to use my gifts to help you the way you've helped me."

Kathleen cocked an eyebrow at his and folded her arms, partly indignant and partly teasing. "I find that hard to believe. You didn't come for the beer at all?"

"No. Just Kat and her music."

The answer was so assured and straightforward; it made Kathleen blush more. She didn't know what to say.

Strangely, I'm thankful that that skunk came up onstage and ripped my dress.

He held out his left paw for her to shake; it was rugged-looking for a tailor, exposing years of hard work that probably came before the start of his tailoring business. "I'm John," he said, giving her a wide smile; this one wasn't as coy as the others were.

Suddenly, Kathleen felt very stupid for not asking his name earlier. "Nice to meet you, John," she said, quickly returning the pawshake. "And, hopefully, this won't be the first time we meet?" It was more of a question than a statement.

The fox named John reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the same business card he had tried to offer her earlier; this time, though, Kathleen took it. "My phone number is on the back," he told her. "Maybe we can get coffee or lunch or something."

Kathleen held the card close to her chest, but didn't look at it quite yet. "Oh, yes. That would be great." She chuckled. "My only request is that we don't go to a bar, because no offense, I'm sick of those."

John chuckled too, but louder than she did. His eyes sparkled again. "Understandably. I'll let you call me, I have a pretty flexible schedule this week. I know you work a lot here."

"Yes, I do. I'll be sure to give you a call."

They said their goodbyes; John called her Kat at least two more times. Kathleen may or may not have given him a small kiss on the cheek, and John may or may not have grinned like an idiot. Well, hell, they were both grinning like idiots, to be real.

When John tipped his cap to her a final time and closed the door behind him, Kathleen sighed; more out of emotional exhaustion than anything else. Getting sexually harassed and getting romantically involved in the same hour didn't happen often to Kathleen. She had to have a moment to process.

Turns out, this moment was more than five minutes for Kathleen. She just stood at the door, clutching that business card to her chest; it wasn't until Mr. Raterson came knocking on the door to tell her to meet him in his office that she finally looked at the card.

The front showed the name of his shop, logo, and catchphrase of his shop—all of which Kathleen thought was adorably dorky—but she flipped it over and read the back.

Johnathan Augustus Wilde

Tailor, Couturier, Repairmammal of Textiles

There was a phone number beneath his description; it was all Kathleen could do to not pick up the phone right then, just so she could hear his voice.

Nick was halfway through an episode of Friends and a third of the way through a bowl of microwave ramen when he got the emergency call.

Bogo sounded almost breathless—which was practically panic when it came to this particular Chief—and the buffalo went on to say they had another predator go savage in Tundratown, and he needed all officers on deck that weren't already given an assignment.

"To handle the crowd, the like. I expect you to haul ass over here, because it's chaos."

So now Nick was adorned with a tranquilizer pistol and bulletproof vest, weaving through Tundratown traffic, lights blazing and sirens blaring—he was doing just what Bogo told him to do. Hauling ass.

As he pulled up to the crime scene, there were already three ambulances and four cop cars; the fire department was even there, for precautions most likely. There was caution tape everywhere, officers running back and forth, talking hurriedly with firefighters and EMTs. In the midst of the throngs of murmuring mammals and flashing lights of reporter's cameras, Nick spotted Grizzoli and another unfamiliar elephant cop holding back what looked to be a failing blur of white fur. There was a cop bagging what Nick recognized as a pair of crushed glasses—they probably belonged to the assailant.

Nick hopped from his cruiser into the cold air and slammed his door, finally spotting Bogo amongst the confusion and jogging up to him. "Chief! Need help?"

Bogo glanced over at him, and snorted. A large puff of frozen mist ascended from his nostrils. "About time, Wilde! Where's Hopps?"

"Here!" a familiar voice affirmed; Nick glanced behind him to find Judy running up behind him, in black leggings and a bulletproof vest. She was in the process of attaching her tranq gun to her hip.

A flash of concern went through Nick. She wasn't wearing her ZPD-issued coat, and she was pretty prone to getting cold fast.

"Good," Bogo huffed, obviously not concerned with her lack of winter wear. "I need you two to do some crowd control. It's hard to get this polar bear detained, and the flashing cameras and crowds of mammals aren't helping."

"So back them off? Send them away?" Judy asked, straightening her vest. She was ready to jump to work.

Bogo shrugged, glancing back at the roaring polar bear, who was snapping his huge jaws at Grizzoli. "Just…whatever you can, I don't care. We need to get this damn bear in an armored truck or something." He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just please don't shoot anybody. That's the last thing I need right now."

"Uh, Chief," Nick mentioned, scratching the fur on his neck.

"What, Wilde?"

"Should, uh, should we call Stripes?"

Bogo didn't take long to realize the connection. Nick knew that was a clever name to say in public; they had a Lieutenant with the last name Stripes. Any eavesdroppers would be none the wiser.

Bogo blinked, his face unshifting. "Just worry about crowd control."

"Yes sir," the two said in unison, and the buffalo stormed away to deal a large group of enthusiastic reporters.

Nick glanced over at Judy; he was still concerned about her lack of jacket, and was about to ask her about it. Instead, he felt a smirk form on his face. "Let's hope you don't become a bunny popsicle, that polar bear would swallow you up in no time." A wave of an extremely familiar, earthy scent hit Nick's sensitive nostrils as he stepped closer to her…it smelled kind of like the tea that hipsters drink in coffee shops.

"Ha ha," Judy retorted, and stuck out her tongue at him. With that, she started off toward a throng of nosy onlookers; and with a smirk, Nick followed, wondering why Judy was drinking that tea and where she had gotten it from.

After dealing with the reporters (which was basically him saying "No comment," over and over again), Bogo turned away and lifted up a line of caution tape to enter the crime scene again; he went to a more isolated corner, lined with two cop cars; their drivers were assigned with communicating with the firefighters.

He pulled a phone from his pocket. A disposable one, $19.99 at a pawn shop. He flipped it open and punched in a slightly unfamiliar number.

There were only two rings before the other line was picked up. "Nothing serious, I hope, Chief? Another savage predator friend?"

Bogo, not bothering to wonder how the agent on the other line knew it was him. "Yes, unfortunately."

"Bloody hell."

"I figured you'd want to see it for yourself."

There was a smacking of lips as Jack realized what Bogo was referencing to. "Ah, video feed. Yes. I'm establishing the connection as we speak; I assume you have the button camera I gave you?"

"Of course."

"Bee's knees. I'll have Damon eradicate our conversation."

It wasn't a high-pitched scream when Nick heard it; more like a yelp, low and full of shock.

Nick and Judy were busy holding back onlookers who kept yelling questions and assumptions at them, all getting closer and closer to the caution tape; they didn't have time to focus on the polar bear, or who was holding the polar bear back. But when they heard the wail, they knew it was bad news.

The mammals in the crowd saw what happened before Nick and Judy did. They suddenly grew silent, their eyes wide and jaws slack; some immediately started running while others stood stock-still in astonishment.

Nick ran his eyes over the crowd, and then turned to find the source of the wail. "What's happeni—"

"Nick, look!"

He heard Judy's exclamation and saw her pointing, and when he looked, there was the polar bear; Grizzoli was slumped in the snow behind him and cradling his arm, which was covered in blood. The other elephant cop was looking confused, as if wondering whether or not to try to approach and detain the polar bear by himself.

Bogo was screaming orders: "Hold your fire! Protect civilians!" Officers were rushing as efficiently as they could around the expanse of the scene, doing their best to send the crowd running in the right direction and to form a protective wall between the crowd and the bear simultaneously.

Nick couldn't see the polar bear well from this distance, but he could see that he was crouched low, his stomach skimming the top of the snow. There were glints of hungry light where his eyes should have been; his muzzle was rimmed with blood and pieces of dark brown fur, and a low growl Nick couldn't quite hear trembled the bear's black-and-red lips. He wore torn denim jeans and a light blue polo shirt, the kind gas station employees wear; it looked like it had been tie-dyed with crimson.

But the bear wasn't looking at the officers, most of which were large mammals. He was focusing on the crowd; his glare was pointed at the smaller mammals. It followed a sheep. A pig. A hare with his three kits. It was as if it was indecisive, unsure of its next move. It sniffed the air, it's black nose taking in the smell of fear and frozen sweat, the same smell that wafted into Nick's nose. So much fear.

That's when Nick realized; his heart flew into his throat. "Carrots, the polar bear, it's checking out prey, we—" he looked to wear she was standing before, and she wasn't there. Nausea hit him with the realization that he couldn't see her, he didn't know where she was, and he was kicking himself for not paying better attention—

Turns out, she was one step ahead of Nick, and Nick didn't know if he considered that a good thing. Nick finally spotted her sprinting straight for the polar bear, kicking up snow that flew high above her pressed ears.

A couple of officers around Nick raised their tranq guns, ready to shoot the bear; Nick flew his arms out to stop them. "Are you crazy?! You could hit a civilian, you idiots!" Or Carrots.

"Oh. Uh, right." Nick didn't know who said that, and it didn't matter. He was watching Judy skid to a halt right beside the bear.

What in the hell is she doing?! Nick knew that the sudden approach of a lot of mammals would only antagonize the bear, so he kept his distance until he knew that Judy couldn't control the situation anymore—whatever she was trying to do.

The polar bear had broken through the caution tape and was approaching a gazelle and her son, who were both pinned against the wall of a nearby building. The gazelle, a middle-aged female cradling her son to her chest, was rapidly whispering into the ear of the little gazelle while he sobbed frightfully into her shoulder. Most of the officers in that area who weren't controlling the crowd had their tranquilizer pistols pointed at the bear, but there were so many running bodies it was very likely that one of the darts could hit a civilian, which wasn't desirable.

Judy was closer to the bear than any of the other cops, and she still had her gun holstered. Nick watched with horror as she took a few steps closer.

Nick made a split-second decision. "Don't shoot anyone! Just get civilians away!" he shouted at the other officers around him, who were already in the process, but the instruction seemed to make them more efficient and sure of what they were doing. They waved mammals away from the scene, screaming instructions and pulling back stragglers when they were running in the wrong direction.

Nick was sprinting toward Judy and the bear, about halfway there when Judy had put herself right smack in front of the gazelles.

Bogo must have been rushing towards the scene, as well, because Nick heard him yell, "Don't do anything stupid, Hopps!"

But it was too late. The bear, who was growing increasingly frightening the closer that Nick drew near, was now engrossed with the bunny; his dark, beady eyes were fully focused on her, looking her up and down, judging her as if in preparation for something. Judy was motioning behind her back for the gazelles to run away; after a few seconds, they finally got the message and fled straight to a pair of cops waiting to attend to them. They were both wailing with relief.

Nick screeched to a halt, the pads of his hind paws practically frozen. He was about ten feet away from Judy, and so was the bear. "Carrots, listen…" he called to her, his voice shaky. "Don't make any sudden movements, okay?" She was distracting the bear, using herself as bait to protect the prey mammals in the area. A stellar cop, willing to sacrifice her life, but Nick wasn't too fond of that thought no matter how noble it was. "Don't make him angry."

Judy didn't look at Nick. She was fully concentrated on the bear, who was getting closer and closer to her, step by step. He was snarling, a hot mixture of saliva and blood dribbling from his mouth onto the snow. "I would recommend a heavier tranquilizer, Chief Bogo," Judy said out of the side of her mouth, her voice low and strangely calm. She was crouched in a low stance, inching backward towards the building where the gazelles were only moments before; her ears were perfectly erect. She was getting ready to run.

"You heard her!" Bogo whispered sharply to some officers nearby; Nick didn't know who, he was too concentrated on the stand-off between the bear and Judy.

But then, someone was pushing a tranquilizer sniper into his hands; it was Officer Pakakubwa, a smaller lion with a distinct African accent. "You are the best shot on the force, Officer Wilde," the lion whispered to him, his brown eyes wide. There was a slight pat on Nick's back as an awkward good luck.

Nick nodded; he didn't have time to feel good about that statement. As soon as he raised the the weapon to his shoulder, there was a puff of snow and a snarl of anger; Nick watched through the sight of his gun as the polar bear leaped toward Judy, and almost simultaneously Judy sprinted to her right, the opposite of where the cops were directing the panicked crowds.

Nick couldn't shoot right then. He might hit Judy; the tranquilizer would, at best, put her in a coma. So instead, he slung the gun around his back, secured the strap against his torso and immediately began to sprint in that direction. Nick knew that a soon as the bear realized he wasn't sinking his claws into a rabbit, he would chase after Judy as well.

Nick was right. As soon as the bear saw which direction she had gone, he was after her. Nick could hear voices behind him, the crackling of pounding hooves on snow, but they were too far behind to worry about at that moment.

It wasn't until Nick watched Judy disappear into the white-covered trees of the Tundratown Central Park woods that he realized what she was doing. She was leading the bear to somewhere where there wouldn't be a lot of civilians, where Nick could shoot without worry that he could hit someone.

She was smart. Too smart, at times.

So Nick ran as fast as he could, keeping a firm eye on the rear of the bear, who clearly very wanted to get back at Judy for something. That's when he remembered the puff of snow right before the bear leapt at her; she must have thrown a snowball at him. Stupid bunny.

Nick had just jumped through an ice-covered bush when the walkie-talkie at his hip beeped. "Nick!" the walkie screamed, the voice breathless and almost covered with background noise. "Nick, do you read?!"

His lungs were burning. His feet were burning. His legs were burning. He grabbed the radio and pressed down the button, swinging the gun back around to his front as he saw the bear slow a little. "Yeah. Quite…quite the mess you've gotten us in, Carrots!" Even he couldn't believe he managed sass right then.

There was a huff over the line. "Shut up. Listen, I-I don't know where…to go from here! I…can't run forever, I'm…not that good." She was heaving breaths, probably more out of fear at this point that exertion.

"Well, h…he can't run forever, either. Just keep going, I'll…I have a sniper."

"Best shot…on the force…"

He knew what she was trying to say. He fastened the walkie at his side again, ignoring the static, and swiftly positioned himself on a nearby icy rock; he had not taken his eye off the bear the whole time. He could not see where Judy was, which was good—it meant she was probably out of his range.

He brought the sight to his eye, aimed, and fired. At the last half a second, the bear veered off to left and the dart struck a tree where the predator once was.

"Dammit!" he pinned the sniper to his side and sprinted off toward the bear again. Nick could hear his snarls, smelled Grizzoli's blood on his muzzle. But the smell was getting fainter, which means the bear was getting farther away. He had to make up for lost ground, and fast.

Judy had no idea where she was going.

She supposed that her legs would be hurting if they weren't completely numb from the cold. So, at least she didn't have that to worry about.

What she did have to worry about was this rabid bear chasing after her, and inching closer and closer with every passing minute.

Judy had taken out her tranq pistol and shot one or two darts at him, only for the polar bear to swing out of the way; when she was looking over her shoulder at him in shock, she could have sworn he had sneered at her in between snarls.

She could hear his breathing. His huffing. The growls in the base of his throat.

They were all she could hear.

Oh God, I gotta find a way to lose him.

But right when she thought that, she ran straight up to a cliff; it was a small one, probably caused by a fault and a small landslide, but it was still too tall for her to jump and too long for her to dart around.

She was stuck.

Now, Judy didn't give up. She assessed, pressing herself against the icy rock as she scrambled to form another plan in her head; she watched the bear draw closer and closer to her, and with every passing second it seemed like a lost cause.

Then the bear was only feet away. He only paused to glare at her for a few seconds, but those seconds seemed like a million years; the blood on his fur had frozen and was edged with snow, his lips curling and hot misty breath pooling from his mouth in frozen clouds. He was so big, so large compared to Judy; she didn't know that something so large could seem so agile. Usually bears tended to be a bit clumsy, but this one—crouched in the snow with the thin slits of his eyes and the rippling of his muscles—seemed as graceful as a leopard.

Judy didn't realize that the bear had slashed at her with his long claws until the last second, and she just barely evaded the hit. Yet another slash, a close evade. Where in cheese's sake is Nick?

The two did that for a while; the bear would snap his jaws at her, and Judy would manage to jump out of the way. Judy kept trying to dart to the side in an attempt to get around him, and he would always give a wide swipe to keep her from going in that direction. As this continued, the more and more Judy thought, I have to counter his attacks. One swift kick to the nose, that's all I need.

So every time the bear would take a bite of air at her, she would deliver a powerful kick to the head. It only made him angrier, and lose control of his swings; every time he would take a swipe with his claws, Judy would move out of the way just right so he would hit his paw against the icy, unforgiving rock behind her. He would scream in pain, and would only get more enraged.

Judy kept trying to kick him square in the nose, because bears' noses were sensitive and she knew it would debilitate him; but he kept thrusting his head out of the way, almost like he knew what she was trying to do. It amazed Judy, because it seemed to her like he was super-conscious of every move she made, but not to the environment around him.

Judy had just missed his nose and nailed the bear one good time in the shoulder when she spotted a familiar red blot on the snow, approaching rapidly.

Nick! Relief flushed through her. For only a split second she took her eyes of the bear to focus on Nick; there he was, sprinting as fast as he could toward them, tranq sniper in one hand and walkie-talkie in the other. He was practically yelling into it, probably letting Bogo know their location.

Giving in to the distraction was a mistake, even if it was only for a split second. She felt three lines of fire run diagonally across her side where her vest didn't protect, and she hissed in pain; the bear had scratched her one good time, and she could already feel the sticky heat of blood start to pool around her open wounds.

"Dammit all to hell!" The faint exclamation wasn't her; it was Nick. He must have seen it happen.

She quickly pressed her paw against the scratches and looked at the bear just in time to see him stretch his jaw wide and let out a huge roar.

A pang of fear went through Judy. He must smell my blood. He's only going to get more out of control from here.

Nick must have figured that too, because almost immediately, she heard a sharp thwap; a dart had implanted itself into the cliff only feet above her, right where the growling head of the bear had been seconds before.

The bear didn't notice the dart. Instead, he took another swing at Judy, which she dodged; and despite the growing pain in the side, she managed to deliver a jumping axe kick to the bottom of his jaw. It was not as powerful as Judy would have liked, but it still disoriented the bear for a moment, just enough time for Nick to take another shot.

There was a thwap and a puff of snow where Nick's dart missed the bear's thick leg. Judy knew the fact that he kept missing was not because of Nick's lack of competence with firearms, it was because the bear almost seemed to anticipate each shot Nick was going to make; it was eerie, considering the bear was not dodging Judy's kicks very well.

"Dammit! Hang in there, Carrots!"

She was trying, she really was.

….

Bogo and the others hadn't showed up yet. That wasn't good, considering they really could use the extra mammalpower; Nick and Judy needed them there now.

After Nick's fourth missed shot—which he was definitely kicking himself over—he checked the magazine. One dart left. He knew he had more in his smaller tranquilizer pistol, but they didn't have the same amount of tranquilizer that his sniper had; the sniper's tranquilizer could subdue the bear in only a few seconds, whereas he would need three of the pistol darts to subdue him in the same amount of time. He quickly established his pistol as the backup plan.

He raised the sight of the sniper to his eyes one last time, and watched Judy deliver a beautiful thrust kick right to the bear's chest. He could see her blood start to drip onto the snow; he could smell it, too.

He exhaled slowly. He forced himself not to focus on Judy, but on the bear; as if they were the only two things in the world. He focused the crosshairs of the sight on the leg, which seemed pretty stationary as he tried to keep his balance from Judy's powerful kicks.

With Nick's next exhale, he squeezed the trigger.

He watched the dart implant itself perfectly in the side of the bear's thigh.

Yes! Nick tore the sniper away from his shoulder and watched with anticipation. He'll fall down any moment, we can get Judy to the hospital, and everything will be okay…

But the bear didn't fall. He didn't even sway. He kept swiping at Judy with his bloodied claws, letting out growls of fury every time he missed; Judy sent Nick a wide-eyed stare of purple fear.

"Why isn't it working?!" she yelled to him, countering a slash with a kick to the bear's knee; it didn't do much damage, but it did make the bear give a great roar.

"I have no idea!" he yelled back. "Hold on, I'll think of something!"

"No, Nick! Stay back!"

He barely heard her. He was quickly establishing a strategy in his mind. Okay, I have no more heavy tranquilizer. I don't know how effective my pistol tranquilizer will be; I may need to hit him two or three times. And the range on these pistols is horrible, especially in comparison to the sniper…

Then Nick looked at the long, heavy gun in his hand; with the other hand, he touched the pistol at his hip. When he looked up, he watched Judy give yet another beautiful, powerful kick to the bear's side.

Then he got a crazy idea, and decided to go with it.

Immediately when he made his decision, he started to sprint towards the bear's back. He didn't get rid of his sniper, despite its lack of ammunition; instead, he kept his paw wrapped around the base of the barrel.

The bear was so focused on Judy, he didn't notice the fox's approach; however, Judy did. "Get back, I don't want you hurt too!" she snapped at him, her arm still wrapped around her bloodied side.

"Just trust me!" He sped up as he approached the bear's back, his hind paws pounding into the snow; he wasn't even thinking about the cold anymore. He swung the strap of his sniper over his shoulder, and with every step the gun bounced against his back.

When Nick was only feet behind the bear, he leapt from the snow and sent himself soaring toward the bear's back; Nick's body hit against his spine, sending a wave of nausea through the fox. Nick ignored it and grabbed onto fistfuls of the polar bear's mud-smeared white fur.

Now he had the bear's attention. The bear finally took his focus away from Judy and roared, reaching around his head to hopefully tag the fox on his back with his claws; instead, he only slashed his left shoulder. He let out a poisonous, hissing roar of pain.

"Nick, what are you doing?!" Judy exclaimed. Nick couldn't see her; the world was in blurs around him.

Nick didn't answer. He just tried to ignore the bear's thrashes, and prayed that his sniper was still slung around his shoulder; when he checked, he found it was. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

Nick forced himself to pull himself up onto the bear's shoulders; it was difficult, because the bear was trying his best to knock the fox off by tossing his body back and forth. In one movement, Nick took one paw and pulled the sniper from off his shoulder and around the bear's massive neck; he grabbed the opposite end of the barrel with his other paw, and using the bear's neck as leverage, pulled as hard as he could.

The bear's roaring was cut off when Nick pressed the sniper against his windpipe; immediately, he went from trying to claw at the fox to trying to claw at the gun closing his throat, his movements becoming less deliberate and more out of desperation. He pushed up on his hand paws, his roars coming out more like sputters as he frantically tried to throw Nick off his shoulders.

"Carrots!" Nick called, taking his focus off of the bear and to the ground where he knew the bunny was probably watching in shock. "Carrots, get your pistol!"

He found her a second after that request left his lips, though, and he realized that she was, as usual, one step ahead. She already had her pistol raised and pointed at the bear, one eye closed and concentrated; she kept changing where she aimed with the movement of the predator.

"Nick, I can't get a good shot! I might shoot you!" she cried, never once lowering her gun.

"Don't worry about that, just shoot!" At this point, Nick didn't care; chances needed to be taken. This bear was too dangerous to be let loose, and he was tired of his head getting thrashed around; his neck was starting to hurt.

"Nick, I'm not—Oh, screw it!" Nick watched in horror as Judy refastened her pistol into her holster.

He repositioned his grip on the sniper; his paws were getting sweaty despite the cold. "Carrots, what the hell are you doing?!"

"Just trust me!" Nick found her at the base of the cliff; her paw was off her side, and he could see the blood spreading. She didn't look perturbed by her wound, though; she was crouched low, as if ready to jump. "Can you turn his head this way?"

"I'll…ugh! I'll try!" Nick pulled heavily with his left arm, leaning his body in the same direction with a long grunt.

At first, the bear's head didn't follow the motion; but eventually, his desperation for air became too great. With a strangled, choked gasp and three great steps on his massive hind legs, the bear unknowingly turned his body toward the waiting rabbit.

"Okay, hold him still!"

Nick didn't have to hold him still for long, though (like it was even possible for him to do that). With her powerful, bunny-grade legs, Judy leapt from the snow and rebounded off the side of the icy cliff, her eyes narrowed and flashing—she looked terrifying. The next thing Nick knew, the bear's head was jolted to the side with a spine-tingling crack and a shower of blood flew into the air.

The impact was so great, it pushed the sniper out of Nick's paws and sent it skittering across the muddied snow. With the ability to breath came the ability to roar, and the bear wailed in pain; within a split second, both Nick and the bear were plummeting to the ground. Fortunately, Nick hit the ground first and had just enough time to roll out of the way before the bear squashed him into the snow like a frozen blueberry pancake.

Nick's head hurt like hell; he must have hit it on a rock or something when he had fallen from the bear's shoulders. Still laying in frozen slush, feeling wetness seep into his clothes, he closed his eyes and pressed a paw gingerly to his head; he felt a hot and sticky substance sneak past his paw pads.

"Nick!" exclaimed a voice; when he opened his eyes, he saw Judy crouched over him. Her eyes were wide and heartbreakingly purple. She lost the look she wore earlier, when she kicked the bear in the nose—the one that made her look more intimidating than anyone Nick had ever seen. She wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, pulling him up into a sitting position. "Are you alright?!"

"Yeah…yeah, I'll be fine." Though his stomach said otherwise, he stood with shaky legs and looked over to the debilitated bear.

It wasn't a pretty sight. The polar bear was wailing in pain, writhing in the snow with blood dripping down either side of his face; his nose was bent grossly to the side, reddened bone spearing through his black skin.

Nick couldn't help but be impressed. Judy's kicks were nothing to scoff at, that was for sure.

Without skipping a beat, Nick pulled his pistol from its holster, aimed it at the bear, and squeezed the trigger three times; one two three, fwip fwip fwip. It took only a few seconds for the tranquilizer to take effect, slowing and eventually stopping the bear's pained thrashes.

Nick stared at the bear for a few moments, letting himself breathe a sigh of relief. Finally.

Judy sighed too; Nick couldn't see her expression, but in his peripheral vision, he watched her slump tiredly. "Those darts worked."

"The other one must have been a dud." Nick couldn't bring himself to move—he couldn't decide whether it was the bitter cold or the fear that paralyzed him.

He felt a tiny arm wrap around his side. "You okay?"

Nick looked down at the bunny beside him. She was gazing up at him with wide eyes; she had smeared blood all over her face, mud across her forehead and down her neck, and snow was packed heavily into her fur. That's when he realized why he was so scared—he wasn't scared to jump on that bear's back. That's not what scared him the most.

It was when he watched her blood seep through her clothes. It was when he first smelled it.

Nick suddenly remembered that Judy was hurt; he whipped his head toward her scratches, looking at the way she was trying to press her tiny paw against the large wound. "Oh my God," Nick managed, pushing her paw away and pressing his bigger one against it. Her blood was hot; it filled his nostrils. "I don't know what the hell you were thinking."

"I was protecting civilians," she coughed, wincing with the newfound pressure. "It's my job."

"Don't ever do dumb shit like that again, do you hear me? Ever."

She gazed up at him with amusement and a little bit of pain—she let her head fall against his chest. Nick knew she could hear his rapidly-beating heart. "No promises, Slick." A patch of mud appeared where her temple touched his vest.

Relief flushed through him when he heard the sound of sirens and the whirring crunch of off-road snow tires getting closer.

Nick couldn't help but smile at Judy. She was beautiful. "And what did I tell you about him eating you up like a carrot popsicle? If you had brought a coat this wouldn't have happened." Nick couldn't understand why he was deciding to banter now.

Regardless, Judy rolled her eyes and gave him a snicker. He could still smell earthy tea past the blood; it was on her breath. "I'll be sure to remember that."

The next thing he knew, medics were surrounding them with bandages, shock blankets, and water; EMTs were hauling the bear into an ambulance.

…..

Bogo had his disposable cell phone pressed against his ear; he was taking longer to pick up than before.

Bogo had been there since Wilde had taken off in a stupidity sprint towards the bear. He had instructed his officers to stand back; there wasn't much good anyone could have done by that point. The whole time, his button camera was rolling and Jack was watching from the other end; and, amazingly but not surprisingly, Wilde and Hopps had taken down a rabid polar bear with an unloaded sniper and one of Judy's kicks.

The line rattled; there was a short breath. "Chief."

The Chief pulled a small disc, only the size of a sequin, off his middle button; with a tiny crackle, he crushed it between the tips of his hoof. "You've seen what exactly the drug does in person." He glanced over to Wilde and Hopps, who were sitting on the tailgate of an ambulance with medics covering their wounds with gauze. Hopps had gotten a pretty good wound on her side, but she seemed to be holding up fine. "What do you think?"

There was silence for a moment. Bogo waited patiently.

"…I think," Jack finally said, his voice as cool as the snow that was packed on the ground, "that I have myself a very competent team. I appreciate your recommendations."

….

Sam had spent the past three hours in Jessica's hospital room, making up homework and reviewing his bank account; though, admittedly, most of his focus was on the bank account—calculating expenses for his apartment, medical bills, and now the funeral. He planned on calling Jessica's parents to see if they could help with some of it, but seeing how much attention they paid their daughter in the past, Sam didn't count on it.

The only thing that was saving Sam from going into debt was the fact that he had recently won a scholarship in biochemistry that gave him money back—but after the cost of everything it was barely any profit. He had also been taking off work to stay with Jessica, which meant he wasn't making any money.

Sam felt a mix of relief and fear—he thought for sure that the cost of the funeral and medical bills would suck him dry, but nonetheless, he barely remained in the black. But he was afraid for future costs—how could he pay for next month's rent? He could work overtime, but that would mean skipping class, and that wasn't an option if Sam wanted a degree.

Sam slumped back into his chair with a great sigh, his neck and back aching from hunching over for hours on end; with a groan, he watched the numbers and calculations blur into a messy haze on the pages in front of him.

I have to do something besides stress over money for a minute.

He dumped his papers onto a side table, hoping that relieving himself of his work would relieve himself of at least a little bit of stress—it didn't. He smoothed back Jessica's bangs and gave her a quick kiss on her perfect forehead; as he left, he closed the door behind him.

He had stopped at a vending machine to buy a grape soda, and was slurping it as he walked down the hospital hallways; he watched with interest as nurses and doctors passed, pushing patients in wheelchairs or carrying clipboards as they rushed around from point A to point B.

Sam once hoped to be a part of this one day. Not a doctor, but instead working in a lab in a hospital, finding cures for diseases and new medicines that would save lives; most, if not all, aspiring biochemists hope to one day find cures for things like AIDS, malaria, and ebola. Sam's dream was to find a cure for cancer, or at least a therapy that was less harmful than chemotherapy—he realized that this probably wouldn't happen, but he could aspire. Even if he found or developed one thing that could help future biochemists discover the cure for cancer, he would die a happy coyote.

Sam watched a little girl bear, all her fur completely gone, talk to the nurse that was pushing her to her hospital room. He had experienced watching his father slowly die and seeing Jessica tied up to all those machines—not to mention witnessing his mother go through chemotherapy only to be sent home to die…and now, he didn't know if he wanted to work in a hospital anymore. There was so much death.

Maybe I can work for an independent laboratory, Sam thought to himself as he dodged a doctor rattling off instructions to a secretary.

He took one last sip of his grape soda, crushed the can between two paws, and tossed it into a nearby trash can. He didn't know what he was going to do. All he knew was that he was going to try his hardest to find cures to fight against the evil that people have in their bodies—or put in their bodies, like this drug that killed his father and injured Jessica. He was so close to his degree; he didn't regret for one second taking a full load of summer classes so he could graduate early and move into the Master's program. He was one step closer to helping people like his mother, like Jessica…even like his father.

It made him wonder about the other families who had relatives that died from the drug. Even though Jeremy Packard was an asshole and ruined Sam's life, he was still Sam's father. Sam still had those memories from when his mother was still alive and his dad was happy, and they would go to the park every Saturday and get ice cream from the ice cream truck every Thursday after school.

Did the other families have those memories, like he did with his dad? Happy ones, now tainted with bitterness and heartbreak?

A pang of sorrow stabbed in Sam's heart as he pushed through a set of double doors, not bothering to look at the sign to see where he was going. There was still hope for Jeremy Packard—hope that he would finally understand Sam, that he would give Jessica a chance despite her different species.

But now there was no chance whatsoever. All because of this drug. His dad was dead, and Jessica would be forever scarred.

Sam was suddenly pulled from his thoughts when he realized that there was nobody around him. No doctors rushing to and fro, no nurses pulling gurneys or patients pushing their IV poles beside them like sad pet lizards on limp leashes. The hallway was completely empty. He heard muffled laughing nearby, however; when he looked through the thin glass window on the nearest door, he saw he was looking into a breakroom; around the table sat five mammals. They all had coffee, sandwiches, and doughnuts scattered amongst papers and laptops. A meeting of doctors, maybe?

No, not doctors, Sam told himself as focused from the mammals to the whiteboard across the room—there was a sixth mammal, a zebra, writing out a complicated equation that Sam recognized immediately. These guys are biochemists…that must mean there's a lab nearby. His heart did an excited jump at the thought.

He looked down the length of the hallway to see if there were any more rooms; there were four doors. Two side by side in the middle of the hallway, one small door that appeared to be an entrance to a janitor's closet, and a larger door with push bar at the opposite end.

He glanced back in the breakroom. They seemed to be in a heavy discussion about the equation on the board; two mammals were scribbling out equations now. It was a biophysics equation—it looked like they were trying to figure out how exactly how proteins were affected in a specific specimen. Sam couldn't help but study the problem for a moment. He was taking a Principles of Molecular Biophysics class that semester, and the more he learned in the class the more he enjoyed it; he was a little more than proud that he could follow along with these biochemists, who would have had PhDs and Doctorates.

Sam glanced back down the hallway to the large door at the end. He wondered if their lab was through that door…

No, Samuel. No. You will not go and contaminate anything. They could be figuring out the antidote for the drug, and you could go and mess everything up.

But he could just peek inside. He'd only ever seen the laboratory at his college—he had never seen, well…a lab where they were getting shit done. Their lab was used students how to properly handle samples, professors trying to force them to become enthusiastic about a General Education class.

Yeah, he convinced himself, stepping away from the breakroom. Just a peek inside. No harm done, right?

When Sam approached the door and pushed it open, he saw that it didn't lead to a laboratory; it led to a stairwell, one that was big and echoey, all grey cement and iron handrails—not a drop of paint in sight.

The booming sound of the door closing behind him was almost as loud as the beating of his heart. Oh god, what I'm doing right now is probably so illegal. He looked down the stairwell, spotting another door with a keypad at the bottom. What the heck. What are they going to do, arrest me? Put me in jail? When I have Jessica to support and a father to bury?

Truth was, Sam was very scared that that could happen. He went down the stairs anyway, his stomach tightening and sweat beading beneath his fur, despite the heavy use of air conditioning inside the building.

Sam approached the door, and saw that the keypad was not, in fact, a keypad, but a card reader—one that you slide a card into instead of swiping. It probably read a microchip on the biochemists' work IDs…which meant that without an ID, Sam couldn't get in. Or, peek. Whatever the case, it was looking like he couldn't open the door.

But whether luck, destiny, or karma was on his side, something was. A card was stuck in the reader. Upon closer inspection, it was the zebra's ID; a fellow by the name of Carlton J. Quagga.

Upon discovering this card, Sam knew two things: one, he couldn't take out the card because that would be record of Dr. Quagga opening the door when he didn't—and two, the presence of the card in the reader could mean that the door was unlocked.

So, to see, Sam twisted the handle and pushed. The door was, in fact, unlocked—Sam felt a confusing combination of fear and giddy anticipation. His heart leapt, but his stomach sank. He supposed a part of him was hoping the door was locked so he wouldn't be tempted to sate his curiosity…but it was open, so he was tempted.

Sam gulped and swung the door all the way inside.

The laboratory was beautiful, if a laboratory could be beautiful. Everything was shining stainless steel, bright fluorescent lights, and clean white walls; there were huge vault doors that could only lead to amazingly spacious freezers and refrigerators. The lab equipment looked very high-end; there was a wall dividing the room in the middle, the other side Sam figured to be the high-hazard zone. Crammed into a corner away from the equipment was a card table scattered with notes to keep paper and lead pencil away from the samples, with a large cork board above it tacked with DNA frames and other various notes.

If you put Jessica in there, wearing his favorite blue dress and holding a plate of her to-die-for double fudge brownies, he would be in absolute heaven.

Sam knew the second he walked into the room that he would not "just peek in"—this was too interesting, and he was just too curious—so he grabbed a pair of reusable gloves he found at the door and slipped them over his paws. He may be a trespasser, but at least he was a polite trespasser.

Any mammal not affiliated with biochemistry would first go to the lab equipment, fascinated with how they may work—they may go to peek into the freezer or refrigerator to see if samples and test tubes were bright colors and slapped with huge hazard symbols like on TV. But if one was a biochemistry student, he or she would already know what all the lab equipment does…and, to top it off, they would be smart enough not to walk into a laboratory freezer or refrigerator without looking at an inventory first.

No. A biochemistry student in a functioning lab would make a beeline for the notes the scientists took; which is exactly what Sam did.

He approached the table with a hammering heart, his eyes already fixed onto the strands of DNA and microscopic pictures of proteins tacked to the corkboard. There was an empty, heavily insulated lunchbox on the back corner of the table, its contents—a bag of cricket chips and a water bottle, both sealed—were sitting beside it. His mouth started to taste like pennies—the way it does right before he's about to puke—as he leaned down to read the notes on the table, the writing all scribbles and illegible cursive.

Fortunately, being a biochemistry student, Sam was well-practiced in reading scientist chicken-scratch. One of the papers on the top of the pile read:

Jeremy Packard, Sample #7: Results

Sam's stomach twisted gruesomely at the words; he straightened with a gasp. Oh my god. He looked again at the DNA strands and pictures of proteins on the board…it was like he was gazing at them through a pair of sunglasses, or the florescent lights in the lab suddenly changed their brightness. Are one of these my dad's DNA? Are these his proteins?

He continued to read.

Observations from various tests, which follow, display no explanation as to why J.P. was exhibiting an overly-aggressive nature. Liver failure suggests overuse of drug.

But was his dad poisoned, or did he take the drug voluntarily?

Drug is most likely injected directly into the bloodstream, due to its high potency.

Sam couldn't deny that he could definitely see his dad abusing drugs; he abused alcohol, after all.

Sample #7 of 52 samples displayed no new information. 10 samples will be tested, and then the process will rotate back to the samples of previous specimens so we may compare the results more closely.

Friendly reminder to Gary: DON'T PUT THE SAMPLES IN THE FREEZER.

Sam blinked, trying to process this information. That's probably what they were debating over in the breakroom, he thought to himself. The application of the equation to this makes perfect sense.

He pushed that paper to the side to see if there was another written copy of the work they had been doing on the whiteboard. Sam studied it closely, picking it up and staring at it with squinted eyes.

He noticed a small error in their work. I hope that this is only the first time they solved this, because their process isn't completely correct. Glancing down the remainder of the scribbles, his brow furrowed. Wait, this is wrong, too. How could they have PhDs and get this problem wrong?

In their defense, Sam considered the fact that this probably wasn't the only thing the biochemists were trying to find cures or antidotes for. They were probably burnt out, understandably…but the other part of Sam told him, Dude, these are mammals' lives. They need to pay closer attention.

"It's probably just one of many versions of the problem," he whispered to himself…out of curiosity, he spread a stack of banana-yellow notebook pages across the table like clumsily spreading a deck of cards. He was right—there were pages stapled together with the same equation but with different results on each page, both drastic and slight.

Wow. They're having trouble, for sure. And understandably; Sam had never before seen such a complex problem. The biochemists have a lot of different elements to tie in together—not just samples from his father, but also the samples from all the other victims before him.

If you can call them victims, Sam thought to himself, bitterness raising like bile in his throat.

Sam couldn't help but pick up the whole stack and sift through it, looking at each error or change in the other versions of the problem; occasionally, he would glance toward the cracked door behind him, just in case the hospital's biochemists returned to test more samples.

There are two things that everybody should know about Sam: the first is that Sam is overly curious, even nosy. Sam has a horrible habit of eavesdropping, and—more applicable to now—poking around where he shouldn't be poking around. It's not that Sam is a bad fellow that wants to be in everyone's business, absolutely not—it's that Sam simply craves information, like one would crave to scratch an awful itch. All mammals have that desire for more information and greater knowledge, but for Sam, it feels to him that it is more of a need.

This leads to the second thing that everyone should know about Sam, which is that he cannot leave anything unfinished. This is partly why he makes such a good biochemistry student and has the potential to be a great biochemist—because he can't stand to leave questions unanswered. Sam craves information, and when the information he is given is incomplete or leaves him with more questions, he can't leave it alone until his questions are answered. This is another reason why mammals see Sam as a nosy guy.

So, naturally, Sam wanted very badly to go and look at the samples himself, particularly his dad's samples. Of course, as a biochemistry student, he wanted to see what exactly these biochemists were straining over; just looking at unsolved problems wasn't enough, at least for Sam.

For the record, Sam did try to convince himself otherwise—to just set down the papers and walk out, don't worry about the samples. Wait, what happens if they find my DNA in one of the samples?

But Sam knew the proper ways not to contaminate samples. He'd been trained heavily in that practice.

But oh, man, Jessica would rip me a new one if she found out. Judy too. Plus, I can't pay court costs.

That is, if he got caught.

It didn't take long for him to make his decision. He took one of the scrap papers with the problem on it, folded it up, and put it in the pocket of his jeans. It had a coffee stain on it, they wouldn't miss it.

Sam took a deep breath, as if it would settle his heart. Before he could change his mind, though, he rushed over to the refrigerator, twisted the massive metal handle, and pulled.

He was greeted with a flush of dry, cold air. It felt amazing; he had been hot and sweaty under his flannel shirt, mostly because of nervousness.

The walls of the massive refrigerator were lined with industrial metal shelves, test tube holders with various sealed samples organized neatly into categories. The fluorescent light of the fridge gave the corners of the grey walls an ominous darkness, beakers casting slight shadows onto the stainless steel below them like reflections of a ghost on a lake.

Maybe it seemed so creepy to Sam because he was scared out of his wits.

Despite the growing bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, Sam ventured further into the fridge anyway; he glanced across the labels in front of the rows of sample tubes. They were black text on laminated white paper, stuck with heavy-duty tape to the shelves below the tubes. He read off the names aloud on the labels, touching them with the tips of his laboratory gloves as he went. "…Unknown Drug, Iratus Venenum."

Sam had to appreciate their creativity. They had named the drug angry poison in Latin. Very fitting; the drug seemed more like a poison than an actual drug, anyway. At least, a poison to the community.

There were little stickers with names on each of the little test tubes. "Timothy Lechat," he read on one group of samples. Sam remembered him—he was on the news, a jaguar who attacked and killed one prey and injured a prey and a predator. The news didn't say anything about his death being associated with Iratus Venunum…but the ZPD most likely didn't want the drug publicized. Bogo was probably stretching it just to inform Sam about it.

He continued to skim the sample labels. "Dick Sandeclaw… Julianna Ratel… Kyle Grizzby…" He could remember hearing about Dick Sandeclaw, but he couldn't remember the other two.

"…Jeremy Packard." That name was familiar.

Inside a few of the tubes was blood, so dark it was almost black. Sam felt strange staring at samples of his father's blood, thinking of how his own was bound to it.

In a few of the other tubes were a few hair, skin, and saliva samples—but the blood was what was important. At least, it was as far as Sam knew. He counted them; there were twelve in all, with six blood samples and six of everything else altogether.

Didn't the paper on the table say they were only going to test ten of them?

This is the part where Sam's craving for more information came in. These biochemists didn't know what was going on—and Sam desperately wanted to know. At this point, it was even more than his desire to know more about "Iratus Venunum," it was about his father. It was about Jessica. He wanted to know exactly what killed his father and put Jessica in the hospital.

His biochemist in him was whispering over and over in his ear, You can figure it out, you can find the antidote, you can prevent anyone else from feeling the way you feel right now…

So, Sam picked a tube—a blood sample, the one on the very end of the holder—and lifted it off the shelf.

It burned his hand, even through the glove. His father's name on the label burned an imprint into his vision; even when he looked away it was still there, floating in the air.

Oh, god, what am I doing?

The other part of Sam—the daredevil, the risk-taker—wrapped a paw around his heart. You're taking matters into your own hands, Sam.

With that, the sample gently cradled between the tips of his fingers, he rushed out of the old of the refrigerator and into the open room; he didn't think to check if the biochemists were back yet, but fortunately for him, they hadn't returned.

Sam had to get out of there, but he couldn't just walk out with the sample in his paw—he had to find a way to keep it cold before he could transfer it to another refrigerator.

The lunchbox.

He rushed back over to the table again, spotting the lunchbox; it was patiently waiting as if it knew what was about to happen. He grabbed it and turned it upside down over a nearby trash can; crumbs fluttered out.

I should protect the sample with something. It can't break, it can't leak…but I can't take their sample boxes, they would notice that.

After a few minutes of rummaging, being careful not to disrupt the current organization of things, Sam found a clean Ziploc bag with a zipper seal; he slipped the sample into it and pressed all the air out before closing it. His paws were shaking horribly.

I need cushion. He didn't know if it would work, but he took off his flannel—the fabric was still cool from being inside the fridge—and wrapped it around the bagged sample to provide shock absorbance and some extra insulation.

After putting the sample inside the lunchbox and zipping it tightly, he glanced around the room to make sure it didn't look like it was disturbed. Hopefully, the only thing the biochemists will notice is the missing lunchbox—and with some luck, they wouldn't notice the missing extra sample, either. At least, they wouldn't notice until they did inventory, which was most likely at the end of the day. With some luck—which the universe definitely owed Sam, after the shit that just happened—whoever will be taking inventory won't pay attention to the lack of another extra sample.

Sam assumed they wouldn't. The drug may be deadly, but it had to be ingested or injected; or else, after all, why would they call it a drug? Any loose sample laying around wouldn't kill anybody, it would just become contaminated.

Sam tugged at the collar of his white t-shirt nervously. He didn't know if that would happen, but he was banking on it.

He hung the lunchbox over his arm as he slid his gloves off, heading toward the cracked door with his heart pounding in his ears. The paper with the problem scribbled on it burned in his pocket, and the tiny sample suddenly felt like a million pounds—but he was going for it, he had gained momentum at this point. He couldn't stop now.

Sam managed to make it up the stairs and out the hallway without attracting any attention.

Twenty minutes later, the door to the laboratory was pushed back open.

"Dammit, I keep leaving my card in the reader," Dr. Quagga murmured, fingering the card in his hoof before re-clipping it to his lab coat.

A leopard slipped past the zebra, giving him a smirk and a pat on the top of his head. "I'll remember this the next time you nag me about putting the wrong samples in the freezer, Carl."

"Oh, stuff it, you quack," Dr. Quagga, his voice a half-laugh.

A hyena with bright blue lipstick filed in after the leopard and the zebra, giving a timid giggle. She adjusted her lab coat around her orange dress, glancing at the two. "Y'all both need to quit nagging. You were at each other's throats over the IV drug during our whole break—we didn't even get a break."

"She's right, you know," came another voice from the hallway.

"Hey," the leopard mentioned, now leaning over the card table with his water in one hand and his cricket chips in the other; his eyes were skimming over the papers with confusion. He bent over to look under the table, and then straightened up to look at his coworkers accusingly. "Where's my lunch box?"

20,000 words! That's literally double what my chapters usually are. I thought about splitting the chapter in half but then decided that it wouldn't work with the way I had set up the scenes and the way I want to continue it.

And I'll note this—due to the length of the chapter, it was very hard to pick out typos. I hope if there are a lot, it wasn't a big deal to look over them. And AGAIN, if I got any biochemistry stuff wrong, I'm very sorry! I hope that if you noticed any errors, you were able to look over them and enjoy the story anyway. (I don't even know if equations are used in biophysics or biochemistry.)

Lots of stuff happened in this chapter. SO much stuff. Now WCN is gaining momentum, and I hope that it's exciting you guys, because it's exciting me! We know about Nick's mom and how she met John, also getting a closer look at his childhood—Sam was a huge part of this chapter too, obviously. We also know more about the connection with Nick and the owner of the "limousine rental company" (coughcough MR. BIG coughcough). And I finally got to write a scene with Nick and Judy IN ACTION working together! I'm super excited. The next few chapters are going to be so fun to write—and hopefully, for you guys, fun to read!

Also, I'll advertise again: go read some of Hawktooth's stuff! Hawktooth is a great writer, someone I go to for advice and such; absolutely fantastic. Go check it out!

Love y'all. Please leave a review and tell me what you think; I know I'm slow about getting chapters out, and reviews will help get me motivated and push them out faster. I also love to hear all your opinions, advice, etcetera.

Thank you so much for reading my story, I am really and truly thankful.

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