Political
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38 years ago…
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Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta…
"Huh, what?" Sleepy eyes opened, looking around curiously as they adjusted to the lack of light.
Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta…
"Mommy?"
"Anna, sweety? What's the matter?"
Anna looked up as her mother walked in, turning the light on and revealing her sleepy visage. "I heard a sound, mommy."
"You know, I did too," she spoke, glancing around quickly. "Maybe one of the gutters is loose."
Anna nodded, feeling a hint of relief. That made sense. "Okay then."
"Yeah…"
"-Just I heard a lot of people talking about stuff earlier, it sounded like something bad might be going to happen." It was the truth, things had been a bit odd lately, the grown ups and even some of the other pups in her class acting weird. It had worried her, and with that sound it had done so even more.
But mommy said it was okay, so it was okay, right?
Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta… Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta… Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta…
She shuffled up on her bed, pulling down her thick duvet and peering out of the window, looking around and trying to see anything. "Is this an April fools?"
"Ah. -We can only do those before twelve," her mother said very quickly, leaning down and ruffling her head-fur. Her eyes closed and she grinned wide, her tail wagging behind her. "So no," her mother said, planting a kiss beneath her right ear. "Just go back to bed please."
Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta… Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta… Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta… Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta… Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta…
"Mommy," Anna said, breaking off and suddenly concerned again. "It doesn't sound like it's a loose gutter." She looked out, squinting, thinking she could see some flashes or specs of light out there.
There was a pause, her mother taking a breath in and out, a worryingly serious expression growing on her muzzle. "-Anna," she spoked, something holding on her tongue. She bent down, holding her paws tight and looking into her eyes. "I need to tell you what's going on, but please stay calm…"
She was cut off by a set of dull bangs from outside and a large one from inside, her father charging in. "They're coming!"
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Zootopia: Present Day.
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"Donuts or churros, Fluff?"
"Donuts. We're cops Slick, what kind of question is that?"
"Touché," Nick agreed, smiling as they cruised down the road. He kept his eyes peeled though; he had a job to do. They turned a corner, slipping past the entrance to a metal industrial shed before rolling down past some older brick buildings, every now and again spotting one with boarded up windows or a sprig of a tree growing out of it.
"Falafel or halloumi?"
Off his shades came as he looked at her. "Hot damn, now there's a tricky one."
"I know," she spoke, smiling.
"Well, haloumi tends to just be haloumi. But you can have different kinds of falafel, and in different things, so falafel it is. Bugburger or fried fish?"
"Nick!"
"What? You asked me about vegetarian stuff, I ask you about meaty stuff."
"But you've tried those things," she countered. "I haven't yours."
"Well then," he spoke, "you'll have to try them both when I order them at…"
"-So that was what this was about!" Judy exclaimed, before looking at the smug fox.
"Guilty as charged," he replied. "I mean, we're in the neighbourhood." Indeed, they were -almost. A few years back, The Pacific Terminal, used in the times of the great ocean liners as the start and end point for routes out to the Australia, Pawaii, the East Indies and the rest of the orient, had been restored. Now a great indoor market, with large windows and outdoor terraces facing the ocean, it was a prime tourist destination. Just like the nearby Sunset pier, a long-loved fun park destination, fifteen minutes walk away, jutting out of the already popular waterfront.
It came as no surprise then that the footfall between the two was enormous. However, the land in between was a tourist unfriendly mess of old rail-lines, quays and this kind of rundown industrial area. And, with plenty of rich tourists or younger teens on their own, it was a prime spot for wanna-be stick-ups and robberies. Indeed, it had soon surged as one of the most crime ridden areas in the city, and easily the most crime dense. So, the good members of the ZPD were patrolling around to help scare off the malcontents.
"Or, as I'm the driver, I use my executive veto and take us to the seaboard."
"You'll really go to the crummy and expensive place rather than the nice and expensive place to spite me?"
"To win, yes," she said, only to pause as her radio fizzed, Clawhauser speaking out.
"We got a 10-10 at Pacific Terminal, anyone nearby?"
"10-4, Ben," Judy replied, her eyes narrowing. A fight was in progress, at… "Don't say a word, Slick."
"Wasn't going to," he replied. "After all, I can just smile smugly in silence."
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Anna shivered, crying into her mother as the sound of bullets echoed across the town. There was a dull explosion, the little girl whimpering as she cuddled up closer. Her father, peeking up over the windowsill, narrowed his eyes. "They're taking the government house," he spoke. There was a lull in the sounds and Anna let go of her mother, looking out nervously as dawn came. The autumn sun was lighting up the familiar view of colourful squat-built houses and the low dull hills beyond. Her ears pricked up as a strange vehicle rolled past. Not a tank, but almost one, hard angular metal on top of multiple tractor like wheels. It looked ugly and nasty amongst her home.
Her father looked at her and told her to stay put, walking out.
A few minutes passed, before he walked back in. "It's done," he said coldly.
Not long after, people began coming out of their houses. She was held between her parents' paws as they assemble on the street, looking on. Over half of her neighbours were like her, small canids with dull grey fur tinged with a slight brown hue, like a well weathered piece of wood. The inside of their ears and tips of their tails were white, but a single band of darker fur wrapped around the latter, right above the tip. The rest of them tended to be the old marine species, otters and seals, alongside some wolves. In a way she was a wolf too, but they were supposedly very different species. She just knew that their one was bigger than her one, though she felt that was okay. Most of the people who lived here were her kind anyway.
It all came as a shock then as the troops began rolling past. There were the soldiers she knew, the ones who often stayed here to protect their town: wolves and lions and a few other different kinds of mammals, the only ones of their kind she'd ever seen in person. But they were marching towards the playing fields, paws or hooves on their heads, escorted by many other bizarre mammals in different uniforms, holding guns at the ready. Strange tall ones with long necks and woolly coats; types of goats she'd never seen before, even on tv; massive otters with slick brown fur; whole herds of horses where she'd only ever seen one before; a tall looking wolf with dark red fur, like a giant fox; huge big cats, a big like leopards or cheetahs but with flower like splotches on their fur; and lots of small squat brown furred creatures too.
They escorted the friendly soldiers away, before one, one of the giant cats who she'd later learn was a jaguar, picked up a microphone, speaking out.
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"Two foxes, one speaking in Spanish?" Nick queried, as they slipped out of their cruiser and head inside.
"10-4," Ben replied.
"Are you sure that one of them isn't a zorro?"
"They didn't say, but both are said to have grey fur."
"Right," Nick grunted. He'd been pleasantly surprised when the academy, as part of its 'species sensitivity' courses, had touched upon the difference between true foxes like himself (genus: Vulpes) and false foxes (genus: Lycalopex). The latter, also generally referred to as South American foxes, usually preferred to be known as zorros and, while most were fine with it, some could get very ticked off if referred to as a fox.
Just because the police knew didn't mean the public knew, or cared. They entered the huge space that was the terminal, the main area filled with tables and chairs while being interspersed with trees. It was very similar in appearance to the main railway station, though when the arch reached its apex the other half was cut off by a wall, part of a whole verandaed frontage that hosted many of the trendy shops and markets.
"Second floor," Judy said, and off she went, leading them up some black cast iron steps before travelling along an almost ship like promenade, slipping past various mammals.
"There argument is over there," someone said and they turned, entering a small store. It was almost anticlimactic; only one table was knocked over, its contents strewn across the floor. Apart from that, the only evidence was the two mammals themselves, staring each other off with their fur raised and teeth baring.
"Okay," Nick announced. "Everyone, just calm down here, okay?"
The two held back a bit, letting the red fox get a good look at them. He brought his radio up and spoke in. "Okay, two perps, seems like they were getting argumentative but no real violence. One is a male zorro, a chilla to be exact. Mid-thirties." Also known as a South American gray fox (zorro), they looked like a slightly smaller and more rounded version of Nick with grey back fur and white belly fur.
"Affirmative," the cheetah acknowledged. "And the other?"
"Female, mid-forties."
"Species?"
"Honestly Spots, I don't know. I've never seen a canine like that before." Indeed, he hadn't. Superficially, the colourings were fox-like: a slightly off-grey coat over most of her body, with a very small white bib and a white tipped tail. What set her apart though was the black band on her tail, right above her tip and, rather more pressingly, her size. She was as big as a coyote, and if it wasn't for those colour tells he'd have bagged her for one. Maybe there were some rare fox types that Nick didn't know about, but he was still pretty sure the red ones were the largest.
The canine, or rather canid, seemed to acknowledge it, before looking at them. "Sorry," she said, sounding very British. "I have to explain it a lot. I'm a…"
"-Warrah," the chilla spoke with a south American accent, smiling. "She's a warrah." There was a pause as the larger canine began to growl.
"-I am not a…"
"-You are!"
"-Warrah!"
"-You always have been, you always will be," he shouted. "Face the facts, it's not offensive, it's the truth."
"Warrah?" Judy asked, pausing as the larger canid glared at her.
"Don't listen to him," she spoke. "I'm a…"
"-Warrah!" he spoke again, only for her to carry on.
"-Falkland…"
"-Warrah!"
"-Islands…"
"-Warrah!"
"-Wolf!"
"-Warrah!"
Nick glanced at Judy before picking up his radio. "Spots, this isn't a fox-zorro thing. It's something a lot messier."
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"Residentes de la Islas Malvinas," the jaguar spoke. "I am commander Alejio of the Argentinian liberation force. The imperialist forces have removed, and the islands are the under control of their rightful rulers. To all those descended from Europeans, have no fear, your lives will go unchanged. But this is a great day for the native warrahs, who for the first day are liberated from the oppressors who took their islands from them."
There was a long pause, no-one speaking. Anna looked around, confused. "Mommy, what's a warrah?"
"I don't know dear," she spoke, before looking around. Other Falkland Island Wolves like her were doing the same, confused.
The commander looked on, frowning. "I repeat, to all warrahs…"
"What's a warrah?" someone spoke.
The jaguar looked on, confused. "You are! You are a warrah. Dusicyon Australis, critically endangered indigenous canid of Las Malvinas, we are here to liberate you under the flag of mother Argentina."
Anna's mother looked down. "A warrah is what they call us," she said.
"But I don't want to be a warrah! I am a Falkland Islands wolf!"
"To all warrahs! You are warrahs, there is no more discussion about it," he spoke, before carrying on, discussing the new rules and laws that were to be put in effect. Most of them went over Anna's head, she was told to just behave and stay safe. They all went home and sat down, just taking in the news. Scared, Anna cried into her mother.
"I don't want to be a warrah, I don't want to be one…"
"You're not," her father said, eventually. "They can take a lot from us, but they can't take that."
They tried to, though. They tried to.
A few days later, all residents of the island were given new ID cards. Anna couldn't help but sob on seeing hers, both at the Argentinian sun in place of a union jack and the species name given for her. Warrah. She. Was. Not. A. Warrah!
She was a Falkland Islands Wolf, she had been since she was born, she liked being one!
Thankfully, her parents soon got a marker and scrawled out the offending species name, putting the right one in its place. She was worried that they'd get in trouble, the invaders had guns after all! Her father reassured her that all members of the species were doing this, and that they weren't going to shoot them. "It'd be total genocide if they did," he spoke, rapping his fingers against the table. "They don't seem like they could do that."
They couldn't, nobody got in trouble for the change. Instead, a month later when the real liberation force was approaching, they were all given new ID cards. These ones were completely black, the words made out in white, making them impossible to sabotage.
In the short period of Argentine rule, many things like that happened. The teachers refused to address Anna and those of her species as warrahs, or teach Argentinian history. She remembered an assembly where the whole school was given a big presentation by the islands' military commanders, coming in to tell them about the great Leapardo Galtieri, their president.
"We didn't vote for him!" one of the older kids, way at the back of the hall, shouted.
The soldier giving the presentation snapped to, looking over. "Who said that?"
Nobody answered the question, though someone else did speak. "The Iron Lady's gonna get you!"
The soldier snapped around. "You should be grateful for him, especially the warrahs amongst you who he freed."
"What's a warrah?" the same mammal asked, Anna looking back to see a Falkland Islands Wolf like her speaking.
"Yeah, what's a warrah?" someone else asked.
"What's a warrah?"
"What's a warrah?"
Soon everyone was asking out, even Anna, and she giggled as the soldiers ordered them to be quiet, then ordering the teachers to order them to be quiet. The teachers stood silent, many of them asking the same question themselves. The soldiers soon left, fuming.
They tried a few more times. Soldiers began coming in individually, teaching the cubs in small their classrooms. It didn't go well. The first teacher was a 'cappy-barra' who tried to be friendly. Whenever he addressed them as a warrah though the kids ignored him. They didn't fear them. They didn't respect them.
Soon, they gave up. Anna liked to think that they'd beaten them, but it was more that they had other things going on. A few days later she woke up to a loud series of bangs off in the distance. The British were coming to save them, they'd bombed the airport. The next day someone came in, beaming with news he'd heard over the radio. An Argentine battleship had been torpedoed by a nuclear submarine. Everyone cheered.
With winter setting in, school was soon cancelled, and her parents and family began to get ready for what was coming next. The rest of May was spent with the far-off sounds of jets and explosions in the air, Anna occasionally looking for them out of her window. With a pair of binoculars that she usually used to look at the penguins, she'd see the Argentine fighters fly fast and low, going out to see. Near the end of the month, she was seeing harriers in the air too. Near the end of May, the news had come in, the soldiers were landing. The next few weeks were scary, the sound of gunfire echoing off in the distance, interspersed with the screaming of jets in the air.
And all the time, it got closer and closer and closer.
And all the time, through all the fighting, two things never changed.
She, a Falkland Islands wolf, was called a warrah, and she hated it.
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"Back off, back off," Nick spoke, getting between them. "Okay," he said, before glancing at a nearby mammal. "Independent third party, how did this start?"
The hapless ewe he'd picked on shrugged. "I… -he asked why a warrah like her was wearing that."
"That?"
The chilla pointed. "The flag of her oppressor." Nick turned and groaned, realising that she was wearing a union jack T-shirt.
"And then she said that it was her country and that she wasn't a warrah, and things just got worse."
"Right," Nick groaned, turning to the South American gray fox. "Hey, Mr Fox?"
"Yes," he spoke, smiling.
Nick paused, annoyed. He didn't mind, right… Made things less fun, but oh well. "Leave her alone."
"No."
Nick blinked. "Excuse me, I'm asking you nicely and I'm a police officer…"
"-and you're wrong. She is not a wolf, she's in a completely different genus. She's a warrah, just like las Malvinas son Argentinas."
The wolf barred her teeth, but Judy went up to her with a paw, calming her down. Nick locked eyes with the smaller fox. "Leave her alone. Her species gets to choose what it's called…"
The fox glanced at him, frowning. "I was born in Argentina, hearing about the heroes who went to liberate our land! Taught day after day about how the warrahs are one of us, brothers and sisters stolen from us, colonised by a foreign power on the other side of the world! I did essays about how it must feel to be one, renamed, your indigenous language wiped out, made to love your conqueror, freed for two blissful months before being reconquered."
"Oh, shut up," the wolf shouted. "Before the British came there were no trees on the islands, my entire species lived in the stone age. I'm a Falkland Island Wolf, I'm British, I was when I was born, when you guys invaded my home, and I am now. So just piss off!"
Nick looked back to the chilla. "It seems like you're wrong."
He snarled. "No, I know what I was taught and I know it was true. It's you and the warrah who are wrong. Las Malvinas son Argentinas."
Nick groaned, before looking at Judy. They both glanced at the wolf, who sighed. "Well excuse me, I'm going to leave and be wrong in peace."
The chilla smiled as if he'd won a great victory. Nick groaned, knowing that it wasn't a fight worth fighting. "Just leave the wolf alone," he ordered.
"Sure, I will leave the wolf alone," he spoke, a smile growing on his muzzle as the others turned to face him, even the wolf herself. "After all, maybe she wants to be called a wolf. Do you know what the Spanish for wolf is?" He turned to stare down the Falkland Islands wolf, his grin growing sickeningly. "Lobo. It's Lobo, Senorita Islas Malvinas Lobo."
The wolf paused, before turning and storming out, the chilla heckling behind her. Nick frowned on, annoyingly unable to do anything.
He'd stopped a fight though, which was probably the best outcome there was. The chilla went back shopping, happy in his victory, while Nick eventually left. He found Judy again, sitting down with Judy and the wolf.
"Sorry we couldn't do much," he spoke, looking away from her. "Free speech and such…"
She sighed, looking away. "I guess it is what it is," she said, before looking around. "How many mammals do you think are in here?"
"Oh, a few thousand," Judy said.
The wolf nodded. "More than there are in my homeland. More than there are my species in the world…"
Judy blinked a few times. "They're that rare?"
She nodded. "But almost all are on the islands. Around two-hundred are in the UK too, about ten-percent, which is just about a viable population. I went there a few times, so it's not my first time being in these crazy crowds, being in places with more species than there are members of mine."
"First time dealing with one of those?" Nick asked, gesturing over to where they'd come from.
"No," she said. "Dealt with quite a lot of them for a few months when I was six…"
There was a long pause.
"Oh, it wasn't so bad," she said. "Except being called the wrong thing. I mean, what's a warrah?"
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AN: Dusicyon Australis, alternatively known as The Falkland Islands Wolf or the Warrah, is an extinct canid and the only native land mammal on the islands. They were described by Charles Darwin on one of his voyages, who literally predicted that they would soon go the way of the dodo (and was sadly correct). This chapter was based on an idea I had, about how the very names of species could become political tools. With this species linked to a place with a very recent conflict, and a similar renaming issue, it seemed like the ideal set-up to explore it. IRL, all Falkland residents are descended from British settlers, there being no indigenous peoples. In this situation, that isn't true. However, any indigenous population would have lived in truly deplorable conditions for millennia up until the settlers arrived, given the lack of even trees on the islands (present now around Stanley after being imported). Stone age would be an accurate term.
The demographic/historical situation would therefor be more like British Overseas Territories such as Montserrat.
The Falklands war started with the Argentine invasion on the night of the 1st of April, 1982. The next morning, the British garrison surrendered and were repatriated by their captors.
This chapter was posted on the 1st of May, 2020, the 38th anniversary of the first Black Buck raid, in which Vulcan bombers made the 12,000 km round trip from the RAF base on Ascension Island to attack the runway at Stanley. The strategic value of the raids is debatable: it certainly caught the Argentines unawares and stopped the use of the runway for fast jets, but none were based there at the time, instead flying in from the mainland and having only five minutes of combat time before having to return. Had they been though, then the British aerial dominance in the war might have been destroyed: the British planes were outnumbered 6 to 1, and were made up of sub-sonic harriers. These could stay low and were very manoeuvrable, with excellent weapons systems, letting them hit the ground attack aircraft going for the ships. Had the Argentinian supersonic mirage interceptors been able to engage them in prolonged dogfights, the scales may have been significantly tipped.
As it was, the runway could still be used by Hercules transport aircraft, resupplying the ground troops.
On the 2nd of May, the nuclear submarine HMS Conqueror sunk the Argentine destroyer General Belgrano (in the story it's referred to as a battleship, in a generic sense). It's the only case of a nuclear submarine sinking a ship in open combat. Originally the USS Phoenix, the ship was noted for surviving Pearl Harbor unscathed. While some arguments were raised about it being a legitimate target or not (it was just outside the total naval exclusion zone, though the British had stated over a week before that any ship posing a threat outside the region could be attacked), records show that it was working its way towards the British fleet at the time. Her Captain later stated that the submarine did its duty in sinking her, a position held by the Argentine Navy but not the Argentine government.
The decision to sink the ship was made by PM Margaret Thatcher herself. The destruction of the spaceship in David Tenant's first Dr Who episode, ordered by PM Harriet Jones (and narratively condemned, leading to the fall of the character), has been noted for its similarities to this event.
323 men were lost, 772 rescued. As was tradition (since the first world war) amongst royal navy submarines returning from successful deployments, Conqueror flew the Jolly Roger, in her case with torpedoes replaying the bones and with an atom symbol present below the skull. In recognition of her successful sinking, the outline of a warship was sewn on in one corner.
The Belgrano's sinking contributed to the Argentine Navy, including their carrier, staying away for the rest of the war, giving the British naval superiority in addition to air.
Stanley, the capital of the islands (renamed Puerto Argentino during the conflict) and (as of 2016) home to 2,460 out of the 3,398 residents, was liberated on the 14th of June.
In 2013, a referendum was held on the status of the islands, 99.8% of the population voting for the status quo. Argentina refuses to recognise the locals as party to the negotiations.