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The Fire Triangle

Part Two:

Oxidizer

I have stood here before, inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles, running round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain

The Police

Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Cont'd…Part 2)

At this point, Conor finally understood something; he needed to stay the heck away from that lighting scaffold—but he also understood that just as necessity is the mother of invention, so too is desperation the mother of the Hail Mary.

While waiting in the restroom for the cops to depart—hoping they'd depart, if the truth be known—he had used his time to great advantage, keeping watch on their activities by way of their surveillance and body cameras. From this, he had deduced their strategy in trying to locate him. Instead of sweeping the theater from one side to the other, as in normal police procedure, they had started at either end and were working their way in towards the center. That told him yep, Tuffguy Tufts definitely thought he was here somewhere; it was exactly the right tactic for him to employ in such a scenario. The idea was that if the suspect tried to flee from either search group, he'd run right smack into the other one. And any lingering doubts that the ZPD thought he might be lurking in some hidden corner of the amphitheater were all too easily dispelled; did you notice that pair of police drones hovering over the theater seats?

"And how about those guys, at the edge of the lawn with spotter scopes?" the fugitive young silver fox lamented to himself. "Ohhh I was soooo wrong about those cameras covering the theater seats. They weren't put there to catch me sneaking into this place; Tufts is figuring to maybe nab me on my way out of here."

If that was true, it had been yet another smart move on the ZPD squirrel's part. Up until now, Conor had been holding that escape route in reserve, in case the tunnel entrance was compromised.

Not any more, he couldn't.

Puffing out his cheek, he let out a long, slow breath, once again fogging up the lenses of his gas mask. By this time, he had ceased to be amazed at his adversary's level of intelligence.

But foxin' A, how the heck had that bushy-tailed little jerk managed to dragoon THIS many cops into his operation? "All these guys…just for ME?" Conor shook his head in astonishment. The only thing he could think of was that somebody way, way up on the food chain must have that squirrel's back—somebody with a LOT of clout—and whoever that somebody was, they were about as easygoing as a drug cartel; 'Bring me the head of Conor Lewis!'

As of yet, he hadn't stopped to consider just who his nemesis' sugar-daddy might be; in the present circumstance, it didn't matter. What did matter was, how the heck was he supposed to make Erin's audition performance with a whole foxin' army of cops looking for him? For a moment he considered a little good ol' SWATTING; create a false alarm, somewhere else in the city, and draw off some of that army to another location, the further away from here, the better.

Nice idea…except, "What, are you THAT dumb, fox? Do you seriously think the head of ZPD Cybercrimes never considered that possibility? Lil' clue-by-four, smart guy; it's only been done about a zillion times already."

No, Conor had had to admit; Tufts wouldn't have overlooked that gag. He might even have figured out a way to turn it to his advantage.

Several more moments of wrangling with his situation and/or conscience followed—after which the fugitive young silver fox was forced to come to a bitter decision.

It was time to get his tail out of here.

Yes, he'd made that promise and yes, he'd come here with the understanding that the cops might be waiting for him—and yes he'd resolved to stick it out only a few minutes ago.

But that had been BEFORE he'd seen how many officers Tuffguy Tufts had looking for him. Jiminy Foxin' Christmas, he'd never expected that geekwad squirrel to show up with half the stinkin' force in tow!

"All right, you little nut-cracking slimeball; you win this one, but I promise you, you're gonna pay for it later—BIG-time."

Okay, fine...having, at last surrendered to the inevitable, he would head on back to the secret tunnel entrance; take that tunnel to the Lionheart auditorium, and then Sayonara ZAPA.

There was just one, teensy-weensy, but ever-so-crucial, tiny, little detail…

First, he had to GET to that tunnel-entrance—without being spotted by the cops, or overheard by them; that hidden door wasn't exactly the quiet type. Thanks to hacking into the ZPD surveillance cameras, and the two of his own that he'd planted, he would at least be able to tell when the coast was clear…he hoped.

But other than that, where was he hanging, right now? Oh yeah, in a restroom, backstage by the Gazelle Amphitheater's rehearsal area. And how was he supposed to get from here to that tunnel entrance? Lessee, there was no way to access the right side stage-wings from here; there was a door, but it was padlocked from the other side. Sooo, the only way to get there was to go back the way he had come. In other words, he'd have to return to the left side of the stage and cross to the other side—in full view of not one but two ZPD surveillance cameras and those spotters in the back of the seating area.

Unless…!

Conor could only shake his head at the thought. That stinkin' lighting gantry! It wasn't visible from either the theater seats or the ZPD surveillance cameras—and that included the stairs at either end. If he took the high-road and did it real quiet-like, then he might, just might, make it back to the tunnel entrance without being noticed.

But if he was spotted while crossing the lighting gantry, he'd be the proverbial sitting duck.

It was not an attractive option; in fact, he hated the idea of going back up there. But what other choice did he have? Bottom line, playing it safe was no longer an option if he hoped to make it out of here without getting caught. It was roll the dice or nothing.

But before he could even pick up those dice, he'd have to wait until the cops were finished with their sweep of the amphitheater. Conor didn't allow himself to dwell on what would happen if they discovered his secret tunnel entrance; if they did, they did. Of much greater concern was the possibility that ZPD might find his drone, and/or that other gadget he had stashed upstairs in the pavilion. Neither one could be used to trace his location, BUT...

As of right now, Tuffguy Tufts couldn't be 100% certain that his suspect was here in the amphitheater; all he had was a hunch. If his guys found either that drone or the other gadget however, then that hunch would be confirmed. And what would happen next was something that the fugitive young silver fox REALLY didn't want to think about.

Of the two, the drone was the bigger concern. The second device was well camouflaged; you could look straight at it and not know it was there. The drone, on the other paw, had been all but impossible to keep hidden. Cats 22, concealing that thing to the point where it couldn't be spotted would have rendered it unable to become airborne. And so all the young fox could do was mentally cross his fingers and wish for it not to be found. If he got lucky and the cops didn't disvcover it, then it might turn out to be a useful item later—but in the meantime, don't get your hopes up, kid.

Conor's biggest worry however was—he could only make his move between the time of the ZPD's departure from the amphitheater and the arrival of the academy staff, stage crew, audition judges, etc.…and of course the participants and their families. Once they showed up, no way could he make it to that tunnel entrance without being noticed. Even in a best-case scenario, he was going to have an escape window the size of a postage stamp. At worst… "Window, WHAT window?"

What made the whole thing really galling was that it was something over which he had absolutely zero control. The only thing he could do right now was to keep an eye the cameras and to try and keep his finger off the panic-button.

Like a receding tide, the officers combing the stage area went away very gradually. First there were at least a dozen of them, then only several, then a few, then two, then only one, a police pig, and then finally none at all. Conor forced himself to give it an extra minute or two, and then went to the door of the restroom, took a short, hard breath and opened it.

Once again, he found himself alone—but this time he felt no sense of elation, only urgency. More than anything else, he wanted to run like Hell for that tunnel door. While he knew he wouldn't, the sensation was enough to make him queasy all over again.

And, speaking of queasy, now that he was at last free of Barf-Bag Central…

First order of business, get that dang gas-mask off. Conor did, and then raised his forearm, sniffing at the crook of his elbow. He had brought out only a hint of the stench of that restroom with him—but that'd be enough if he got within olfactory range of either one of those wolf-cops he'd dodged earlier. Wolves had not only a killer sense of smell, but an awesome scent-memory. A wolf could encounter an odor for only a second or two and ten years later, still be able to remember where and when he'd smelled it. One little whiff of a certain, young silver-fox, and those lupines would know in a flash that there'd been someone else in the bathroom with them…and also right where to look for that certain someone. He was going to have to deal with that issue before he moved on again.

Setting down his backpack, Conor opened it again, this time carefully. After first returning the gas-mask to its hiding place, he unzipped one of the side pouches. Inside was a plastic spray-bottle about the size of a pepper-mill, filled with a semi-translucent, teal-blue liquid. The label read, Medi-Hare Biological Odor Eliminator.

A good spritz later and the bottle went back in its pouch, after which Conor was sniffing at his arm again. There, that was better; maybe now he could finally get a move on.

But first, one last check of the cameras; okay nothing showing, there still might be some cops out there, but…

"Shut up and get GOING!"

Conor did, and did.

When he came through the door to the stage area, there weren't any officers around here either—but there were still those stinking security cameras. He had to practically perform a limbo dance to get to the foot of the lighting gantry without being spotted by either of them—and even then he couldn't be 100% certain that he hadn't been seen. Well, no time to worry about that now; he needed to get to his hidey-hole and pronto.

Dropping down on all fours, Conor ascended the stairs as stealthily as he could, trying to keep a low profile. Normally that would have been easy-peasy, but not now; that stinkin' pack on his back felt as conspicuous as a camel's hump. When he reached the catwalk, he continued to keep his head down, moving in a low crawl. He was about a third of the way across when he heard it, a whirring buzz, like the sound of someone blowing across a sheet of waxed paper.

He stopped, tensed, and flattened himself into the floor. He knew that sound; he ought to. He had one of those babies of his own, parked in a niche upstairs.

Carefully, silently, he undid the Velcro closure of a shirt-sleeve pocket and pulled out a dental mirror, holding it just over the rim of the catwalk. His paw was trembling and so was the image, but never mind, there it was, about six feet below him—a ZPD police drone.

Conor tensed again and hurriedly withdrew the mirror, struggling to keep his teeth from chattering. His tail felt as if it had been charged with static electricity.

"Easy…easy, get a grip fox; that thing can't see you from down there."

True enough…but what if it had a microphone?

"Cool your jets; even if it does, it won't be able to hear you over the sound of those rotors, not as long as you keep..."

The rotors… Oh foxtrot, the noise was getting louder; the drone was rising upwards, coming right towards him. And when it came level with the catwalk, oh yeah, then the cops would be able to see him; he'd be right in their stinkin' faces.

What could he do? Wait…that disk at the center of the scaffold; get moving, hurry!

No time to put the mirror away, Conor stuck it between his teeth, and bolted for the disk on all fours…as fast as he dared without making a racket. Flattening himself against its surface, he noticed for the first time that the edge of the thing turned inwards, like the lid of a prescription bottle. It offered perhaps an inch or two of concealment and/or foothold; pitiful, but he didn't have a whole lot of choice at the moment. He also noticed that in spite of its shiny appearance, the disk was actually constructed of painted wood and plaster, and that the interior surface was uneven—would you say sculpted? And not only that…

"Knock it off and listen for those ROTORS!"

Conor dutifully obeyed, cocking an ear and tilting his head, barely able to hear anything over the sound of his own labored panting and the galloping of his heart.

Finally…yes the drone was still there; it had slowed its ascent but it was still coming. Agggh grrrr, and here was something else he hadn't considered. He had assumed that Tuffguy Tufts would never dare to send a drone up here—and he'd been half right at best. No, the ZPD wouldn't run a drone over the stage while the auditions were happening, but before the show?

Ohhhh yeah, there was something that blankety-blank squirrel would do.

Now Conor could hear the miniature aircraft getting closer, almost level with the scaffolding. The noise was barely above the beat of a hummingbird's wings, but to his ears it was like the roar of a turbofan engine.

He pressed deeper into the disk, knowing it wouldn't help but unable to stop himself. And then he watched as the drone lifted into view.

It was tiny, nearly small enough to fit in the pawlm of his paw. A casual observer might have found it ludicrous that even a young fox could be so terrified of such a puny, little machine. This young fox, however, was nobody's casual viewer; he knew a thing or two about surveillance drones—and he also knew this particular model, an Ottrel Evole Dual 640, popularly known as 'the orange brick.' At the moment, its camera pod wasn't facing in his direction, but if it did…

The Dual 640 got its name from the fact that it was fitted with two different types of cameras, one optical; the other one infrared. It was this second one that was turning Conor's tail into a bottle brush. Even if he'd been able to get completely under cover—which he couldn't—the infrared camera would still be able to detect him by way of his body heat. AND it could use his heat signature to tell not only where he was, but also where he had been.

His only advantage was that the Dual 640's camera pod was mounted on a fixed rather than a swivel mount; in order to see anything around its periphery, the entire aircraft was obliged to pivot. Okay, that was one small thing in the young fox's favor. Wait, it was moving again, rising up into the rafters…what the heck now? Sure, it was a small-size drone, but to maneuver in a space as tight as that... whoa, whoever was flying that thing must have some serious piloting skillZ.

Or…not necessarily, now that Conor thought of it; the Dual 640 also came with a wicked-good obstacle avoidance system. It was even more popular as a tool for performing infrastructure inspections than it was as a law-enforcement drone.

All right, but didn't this machine have a downside…hadn't he heard Kieran getting mental over it once? Come on fox, THINK…that camera pod may not be able to pan from side to side, but it can sure as heck pivot to look downward. And if it turns and looks down with that infrared camera…wait, he had it; the thing about this particular drone that had nearly driven his sea-mink mentor postal. Shedding his backpack ever-so-carefully, Conor opened it and pulled out his laptop again…and also his miniature 'Borg Cube.' After nearly causing the death of those two gerbil jerks, he had sworn never to use it again, a vow that was quickly downgraded from 'never again' to 'except in case of emergency.'

And the term, 'emergency,' fit his current situation to a T.

Accessing the police drone's control module took him all of ten seconds; easily done when he was already inside the ZPD's database. Taking actual command of the miniature aircraft was out of the question however. THAT would blow his cover straight into orbit. Heck, for all that he knew, Tuffguy Tufts might be counting on him trying to jack one of the ZPD's police drones.

But a drone-jacking was not what the fugitive young silver-fox had in mind. What he did instead was order the Dual 640's control console to contact the Ottrel website and make one, simple inquiry.

In less than a second, he got a reply…exactly the one he'd been hoping for. But would it work? Only one way to find out; moving the cursor to 'Yes', he clicked and then hurriedly disengaged from the control module.

Then he settled back, mentally knocked on wood…and waited.

A minute passed…two minutes passed…

And then his ears pricked up as he heard the Dual 640's rotors changing pitch. Did that mean…?

It did. Without preamble, the little drone dropped out of the rafters and flitted away in the direction of the amphitheater entrance. Its movements were jerky, disjointed, as if the machine had become afflicted with a stammer.

Conor wanted to laugh, but settled for a smile instead. Somehow, his ploy had worked. Though he couldn't see or hear it, he knew—he just knew—that somewhere right now the ZPD's resident drone jockey was one step away from having a conniption.

After all, that was what Kieran had nearly, done the first time HE'D flown one of these puppies—and he was usually the Rock of Gerbaltar when it came to matters of self-control.

"Y' stupid little perisher! " The sea-mink had screamed, clutching the miniature aircraft as if preparing to choke the life out of it, "Oi ought t' use yer for a real brick!"

"What's the matter?" Conor, then known as Dylan, had asked him.

Kieran had promptly wheeled on him, waving the drone like a signal flag.

"What's the matter? What's the matter! I'll tell ye what's the matter, boy. Seems this silly little twit's got a firmware update available…an' now the stupid website won't leave the stupid control console alone 'til I upload it."

"So click 'No." Conor had shrugged, and the effect had been like dropping a lit match into spilled gunpowder.

"Oi did, y' little idiot...'bout a dozen times! And every single one of 'em, the enquiry window came right back again, 'Would yer' like to upload now?' Piece o' junk, it's loike a bratty little kid's what it is; 'Are we there yet, Daddy? Are we there yet, Daddy? Are we there yet, Daddy? '"

"Okay-y-y, so...upload the firmware…and be done with it." This time the young fox's suggestion had been delivered a lot more cautiously...though you'd never have known it from Kieran's reaction. Not to put too fine a point on it, he'd come halfway out of his pelt–snatching the up control console and all but shoving it in the young fox's face.

"What d'ye think I'm DOIN' then, boyo? Here, 'ave look at this, why don't yer? Foive stinkin' minutes, and it's not even a third o' the way done."

After that, Conor had wisely chosen to clam up and keep his opinions to himself. By then he'd known that to a cyber-warrior like Kieran McCrodon, five minutes was an Ice Age. Even so, who would have thought that what he'd learned from the sea-mink's meltdown that day would come in handy sometime in the future?

He'd had no way of knowing whether or not that update inquiry would work. It might trigger the Evole website into demanding an upload right NOW…or it might do nothing at all. The latter possibility was anything but a remote one while the drone was in active flight, but it had still been worth a try. After all, there were plenty of other apps that refused to take 'later' for an answer if you inquired about an update—or sometimes, even if you didn't. In the end, the young fox's ploy had worked, but there'd be no such thing as patting himself on the back. The fact that this particular drone had chosen THIS particular moment to insist on a firmware update might be just a little too much of a coincidence for Tuffguy Tufts to swallow.

Well, that was just another chance Conor would have to take. After all, what else was he supposed to have done, just sit here and hope that the drone pilot would get bored or something and call back the machine on his own?

Come to think of it, why was he just sitting here now? Yeah right, time to get moving again, but first…

Returning the dental-mirror to its pocket, Conor used his laptop to check the view from both his and the ZPD's surveillance cameras. It occurred to him then that he could use that hack to see if the drone had noticed him earlier, simply play back the footage from its cameras for the last few minutes. That should really wait until he was inside the tunnel though… Aggggh, grrr, no it couldn't, there wasn't any wi-fi down there. He'd have to wait until he made it to the Lionheart Auditorium before he could review that drone footage.

Except… it was going to take him a while to get there and what about that stinkin' infrared camera? The Dual 640 hadn't turned its camera-pod in his direction after climbing up to where he could see it, but what about before then? Could that thing have picked up his body heat even through this whatever-it-was disk? Dangit, he had to know.

Okay, one quick playback before he pulled out. Moving the cursor to the appropriate window, Conor clicked on it, watched it expand, and hit rewind. Right away he knew he was safe; there was the disk, as seen from slightly below, as clear as a full-moon on a cloudless night…but with no outline visible of anything behind it.

But then he noticed something else; some kind of design was etched into the surface of the disk…only barely visible in infrared, but there it was all right.

Without thinking, he switched over to the other camera and…

Ohhh, so that's what this thing was for…it was actually an oversized medallion, done up in faux-gold and embossed with the school crest. Dumb fox, he should have known all along. There'd been another one just like it, hanging over the stage for last year's auditions…

Waitaminnit…hanging over the stage?

Conor looked up fast, and for the first time, saw the cable running upward from the top of the disk. Looking up even further, he saw the pulley assembly.

"Ohhhh, fox…!"

His thoughts were cut off as, somewhere below, an electric motor hummed. And then the medal detached itself from the scaffold and began to drop downwards, taking him with it.

No time to think, only to act; Conor snapped the laptop shut and heaved it up onto the catwalk. It landed square in the center, bounced once, skidded a couple of inches and then stopped. Pulling himself into a crouch, he leaped up after it in a fox pounce...only realizing his mistake after it was too late.

Between having only an inch of purchase on the rim of the disk—and forgetting about the weight on his back—Conor badly miscalculated the jump. Without those two encumbrances, a soft landing on the catwalk would have been a slam-dunk. Instead the only thing that slammed was his chest into the guardrail—at full force. When he hit, the air exploded from his lungs, and a swarm of charcoal specks filled his vision. Dazed and unfocused, he reached up blindly, grabbing at anything. His paws closed on empty air, and then something was sliding up his arms…No, his arms were sliding downwards; he was FALLING!

A lightning bolt of adrenaline shot through the young fox's body, jolting him instantly alert. The railing; grab the railing before…

Too late…he felt it skitter off the pads of his paws. He flailed desperately, claws extended, even though he knew there was nothing between him and the floor. In his mind's eye he saw it rushing up to meet…

He felt his left paw smacked against something flat and metallic…and rough; the latticework floor of the catwalk. Dig in with your claws; grab it, and hold on...OW!

His arm seemed to have been wrenched from its socket…but at least he wasn't falling any more. It wouldn't be for long though, not unless he did something and did it fast.

Swinging upwards with his other arm, Conor scrabbed frantically with his claws, and felt them dig into the floor's gridwork. Slowly, laboriously, he pulled himself upwards, rolling onto the catwalk and coming to rest, face down and panting.

Below him the medallion continued its descent. Wait, where was his tail, was it dangling beneath him again? No, there it was splayed out on the catwalk behind him. Ohhh, if he ever got out of this place...

Getting up on his elbows, Conor raised his eyes and…Aggggh grrrr, willya gimme a stinkin' break already! All that futzing around, jumping onto the scaffold and trying to pull himself back up again had caused his laptop to slide around the floor like a hockey puck—and now there it was, about three feet in front of him, teetering halfway into space on the edge of the catwalk, almost seeming to mock him.

"Thought you were outta the woods huh, fox-boy; well-l-l-ll, guess WHAT?"

Forcing himself not to growl, Conor got to his feet…or tried to. The motion caused the catwalk to sway just ever so slightly—and the laptop to tilt sideways, in the direction of the floor below.

"I-I-I wouldn't do that if I were you, kid."

Conor stopped what he was doing and very gingerly lowered himself onto all fours. He was absolutely certain that NOW was when the cops would show up. After the way everything else had gone south this morning, why wouldn't they catch him looking like THIS?

Muttering silent curses, the fugitive young silver fox began a slow crawl towards the errant laptop, making his way with the stylized, deliberate movements of an actor in a Kabuki play.

Inch by inch, he crept towards the precious notebook computer…watching it tilt and teeter with every little movement that he made. He was two feet away now, a foot and a half…Dangit, this was taking forever! He had less than a foot to go when the laptop decided that was close enough and slid off the edge of the scaffold again…and this time, it wasn't just teasing.

Lunging desperately for the runaway computer, Conor grabbed for anything within reach—and this time he got lucky, catching it with both paws and…

…And now HE was starting to over the edge; in his desperation to retrieve the laptop, he had overshot the mark and there was the floor again, coming up…!

Conor jerked to a halt as something caught him from behind. For a second, he felt the old rage rising up again, but then quickly realized nobody was there.

Cautiously pulling himself backwards, he managed about an inch of movement, before something yanked him a halt again. But this time he was able to pinpoint the thing that was holding him; it was just in back of his right shoulder. His backpack had gotten snagged on something. He pushed back a little harder; nothing happened. He tried again, at the same time wiggling his shoulders.

That worked; he came free again, falling backwards into a sitting position on the catwalk floor. If front of him, he could see a bolt protruding from the underside of the guardrail…perhaps a quarter of an inch, but enough to stop his fall.

Wait, the laptop…had he…?

No, it was still there in his paws. Pulling it in close to his body, Conor held on tight, wanting to let out a righteous fox-scream and knowing he didn't dare.

He stayed like that for perhaps half a second, and then bared his fangs, holding the laptop at arm's length, staring and snarling under his breath.

"Whose stinkin' side are you on, anyway? And as for you…" he turned his eyes upwards, towards the ceiling, "alright, I get the message already, I'm outta here. Now will you PLEASE cut me some foxin' slack?"

So saying, Conor took off his backpack again and opened it. After unceremoniously jamming the laptop back where it belonged, he closed it up, hefted it and continued on his way, no longer moving on all fours. The heck with that; enough was enough. If somebody spotted him, if another drone showed up, if the cops were already waiting for him downstairs…well then, that was what was gonna happen. He was fed up to HERE with all this frinkin', stinkin', Mission Impawssible garbage.

That did not, however, prevent him from climbing down the stairs on all fours. It wasn't that he was any less conspicuous this way; it was just that all fours allowed him to move a whole lot faster. Right now, the only thing he cared about was getting back inside his tunnel and ditching this crummy funhouse, once and for all.

When he made it down to ground level and stood up again…wonder of wonders, he still had the stage to himself—or did he? That medallion hadn't lowered itself after all; there had to be somebody else around here somewhere.

Maybe…but wherever they were, it wasn't on this side of the stage. Otherwise they'd already be yelling for the cops.

Remembering to keep clear of the surveillance cameras, Conor edged his way along the back wall of the right-side stage wing…and then Hallelujah, there she was, the secret door leading down to the hidden tunnel and still no surveillance cameras pointing at it. Yeah, it was going to make a racket when he opened it, but right now it could set off a siren for all he cared; he just wanted to get the heck out of here.

Padding silently over to the hidden doorway, he felt for the sweet spot, pressed once on the left and then…

…And that was when he heard the wee voice coming from behind him, "Hey you, what are you doing back here?"

Conor froze in his tracks. His first instinct was to throw open the hidden door, duck though, close it behind him, and chock it shut. The animal speaking to him was obviously a rodent; even without the door being braced, they'd never be able open it without somebody bigger to help them.

His second thought was to turn and attack; any day, he couldn't take an animal this small…

"Don't…EVEN…!" his inner voice growled.

The third notion to cross his mind was…except for Tuffguy Tufts, the closest thing to a rodent on the ZPD payroll was Judy Hopps. And that obviously wasn't her voice speaking—or the squirrel's.

So it wasn't a cop, but…heyyyyy, it was a voice he knew the young fox suddenly realized. That knowledge brought on a strange sensation, a curious mixture of rising hope and a heavy heart. He could still make it out of here without the cops nailing him, but now there'd be a price to pay.

…And it wouldn't be on his tab.

He turned around and dropped his gaze.

There, in front of him, perched on a rolling stool, was a young Asian black rat, clad in black pants, a white shirt, and a burnt-orange vest, topped off by a black tie, worn at half-mast. Affixed to his ears was a seriously spendy-looking, rodent size headset. He was seated in front of a pint-sized control console…and he looked more than a little bit frightened.

"Wh-What are you doing here?" he asked again, pushing back against the edge of the workstation.

For a moment, Conor was puzzled. What the heck, why didn't he…? D'ohhh, right…of course; his friend hadn't recognized him through his disguise. Raising his paws to the side of his head, he pushed upwards, indicating for the rat to remove the headset. Mike Daehan complied with trembling fingers, and the fugitive young silver fox dropped swiftly into a crouch.

"Easy bro'; it's me, Conor."

Mike said nothing to this. But his twitching whiskers and furrowed brow told the fugitive young silver fox that the changes he'd made to his appearance—and his scent—were turning out to be even more effective than he might have imagined.

As for the rodent's skepticism, no worries, that was easily handled.

"Remember the first time we jammed together Mike? It was on Firth of Fifth by Genetsis." He allowed his nose to wrinkle and his ears to turn backwards. "I wanted to keep going, even after I broke that guitar string, but noooooo, you made us stop until I fixed it and then we had to start all over again."

Mike's whiskers stiffened, along with his tail.

"Oh, give it up already Conor; nobody can play that solo with only..." He gasped and his eyes and mouth flew open. "Oh my God, it IS you!"

The young fox only grinned, and his friend's incredulity vanished in an instant, replaced by an expression half aghast, half bewildered.

"Wha…what the heck are you doing here? Are you crazy or something?"

Conor felt his grin turn lopsided. "You're only just NOW figuring that out?"

Mike's paws clenched and went to his hips.

"Don't make jokes, this is serious. There was a cop here only a couple of minutes ago and they're almost ready to start letting mammals into the amphitheater." His whiskers stiffened, along with this tail. "Jimminies Conor, the ZPD'S expecting you!"

At once, the young fox felt his ears beginning to wilt. That wasn't anything he didn't already know, but hearing it from Mike was like a smack across the chops. He really had messed up that badly in coming here.

But then the young Asian black rat did something odd. Dropping from his stool he beckoned with a paw, "C'mon, hurry!" and got down on all fours, skittering across the floor of the stage wing. For one, incredulous second, the young fox thought he might be making for the hidden door. Not quite; about a third of the way there, Mike stopped, stood up on his haunches, and pointed at the ground, "Quick, over here."

Conor went over to where the rat was pointing and what now? It looked like there was a handle embedded in the floor, of the kind seen on roadie cases.

"Don't just stand there, grab it and pull!" Mike's voice was an imperative hiss…and Conor's head was reeling; his friend had never sounded this forceful before. He reached down and yanked; nothing happened.

"Not that way, the other way. Pull it to the left, not right."

Growling in annoyance, the young fox complied and this time, to his immediate surprise, a section of the floor gave way and came upwards…but only by an inch or two before he had to let it down again. Whatever the heck this thing was, it was obviously geared towards a larger species than a fox.

Grabbing the handle again, this time with both paws, Conor braced himself with his legs apart. At first the section of floor came up only grudgingly—very grudgingly. It felt as if he was in a tug-of-war with a rhinoceros. However, he was also beginning to feel the same sense of urgency as his friend…because now he realized that what he was pulling on was the lid of a trap-door. What he wasn't so certain of was whether or not he could get it all the way open. But then, at a little past the halfway point the going became easier, much easier, and the trap door practically fell open on its own.

Peering over the rim, Conor saw a flight of steps leading downward, much shorter than ones in the hidden tunnel, but still…

A thousand questions bloomed in his mind, but only one of them made it to his lips. "What the HECK?"

Mike's whiskers went rigid again.

"Shut up and get DOWN there!"

Conor did, but then looked up again, thoroughly baffled.

"How'm I supposed to shut this thing?"

Mike's face appeared in the hatchway with all four of his incisors showing

"Oh for…there's a crank right next to you, don't you see it?"

"No, I…wait there it is." It was embedded in the wall on his right and smaller than the young fox expected, just his size in fact. There was also a two-way toggle switch, but that wouldn't matter 'til later. What mattered now was that his bud was right; he needed to get this door shut, and right now!

Closing it turned out to be a lot easier than opening it; the crank turned almost effortlessly in his paws. This thing might need a larger species to open it from the outside, but from down here almost anyone could manage it. That was hardly surprising, Conor realized, as his eyes began to adjust to the dimness. There wasn't enough space in here for anything bigger than a coyote or a jackal.

But…what the heck was this place?

Any further thoughts along these lines were preempted by the soft thump of the trap-door closing—causing Conor's heart to answer with a thump of its own. Had anyone heard that? Cocking an ear, he listened carefully. The only sound was the scurrying away of tiny feet, and he immediately gave himself a mental kick.

"Awwww NUTS! I never even thanked him!"

As one door closes another one always opens—or so the old chestnut goes. Right then, a pair of buses parked in the service area of the Gazelle Amphitheater, were disgorging a steady stream of bunnies and other small species.

The first ones off, as befit their station, were Bonnie and Stu; followed by Stu Junior and the older Hopps children, with the youngsters bringing up the rear. As the rabbit of the hour, Erin could have claimed first exit privilege, but had insisted upon waiting her usual turn. Besides, she wanted to stick with her posse.

When she finally stepped off of the bus, she noticed something that made her ears prick up and her nose begin to twitch. Parked just up ahead was an oversized utility van, emblazoned with the words, 'Benjamin Furnklin – The Punctual Plumber.' Underneath was a caricature of the famous portly beaver and beneath this was a slogan, written in Olde Colonial Script. 'If There's Any Delay, It's You We Pay.'

"What now? What the heck is THAT doing here?" She hoped it didn't mean…

"Hello-o-o? Ground control to Major Erin… Come in, please; you're holding up the line."

"Oops, sorry Jude," she said, moving out of the way with a nervy grin. In the background several of her girlfriends were giggling behind raised paws.

"What is it, Sis?" the older bunny asked, still curious about her sister's unexpected hesitation.

"Ohhh, nothing," Erin shrugged and waved a paw at the plumbing truck. To her considerable surprise, Judy's ears shot to full attention.

"Oooo, I see what you mean. That's not a city truck; it's from a private plumbing company. There must be something pretty serious going on here for them to get called out on a Saturday."

"I know, right?" Erin replied, trying not to speak too quickly. "I just hope it won't affect the auditions." She tried but was unable to keep her foot from thumping.

Judy clapped a paw on the younger bunny's shoulder. "Don't worry Sis, I'm sure the school's on top of it. Now c'mon," she smiled, "let's go find our seats."

Not…quite; just inside the theater lobby was a sign, written in several different languages. The only message that mattered to Erin was the one up top.

'Attention: All Admission Applicants – Please Sign In At The Registration Desk.' Next to these words was an arrow indicating the appropriate direction.

Erin stopped and turned to the others looking slightly embarrassed, or maybe she was just a little nervous; who wouldn't be after all?

"Oops, looks like I need to go get registered."

"Want me to go with you?" It was her sister Violet, who seemed to have taken note of the younger bunny's mild case of anxiety.

Erin considered the offer for a second and then shook her head.

"Noooo, I got this," she said, and then held out the cases she was carrying in the direction of her posse. "Can you guys take care of my bass and pedalboard while I go get signed up?"

"No problem," Sue Cannon answered at once, stepping forward to take custody of the cases, along with Jill and Terri.

"Thanks guys," the young doe-bunny replied, passing them over. She was just about to go, when she became aware of something. What were Mom, Dad, and Violet looking at her like that for?

"Uhhh, what?" she said, turning in their direction with a twitching nose.

"What!" Her mother's foot was thumping like a telegraph key. "You wouldn't let your father or me anywhere NEAR that guitar last night."

"Or me," Violet chimed in, equally perplexed.

Erin just stared curiously for a second. "Well, yeah," she said, wondering what the heck the big deal was.

The other three Hopps bunnies just looked at each other. And then Bonnie sighed and waved a paw.

"Never mind, go ahead Erin. We'll see you down at our seats in a few minutes."

There were actually three registration tables, set up at the far end of the foyer and arranged by species size. They were all doing a brisk business, with a line-up of at least ten kids apiece. It was the middle table that interested Erin, the one reserved for Small Mammals. Taking her place at the end of the queue, she could only marvel at the number and diversity of applicants hoping to be accepted for admission into the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts. Sweet cheez' n' crackers, there were just sooo many kids here—and from so many different places and walks of life. Here was a young wallaby, done up as if for the red-carpet at the Pawscars. Whoa that dress she was wearing looked like it cost more than the Hopps Family Farm made in a decent season. And check out the Tasmanian Devil in the double-breasted blazer and mirrored shades standing beside her. Was that her—what did they call it, her fursonal assistant—maybe even her bodyguard? And now look at the coati-kid over there. He was practically in rags, with rips in his jeans that were obviously not a fashion statement; the shirt he was wearing could have had thrift-shop written all over it.

And these were only two of many, many young hopefuls; before another minute had passed, Erin's sharp rabbit-ears had heard voices speaking in maybe a dozen different accents. Twice, at least, she picked up on conversations taking place in a language that she couldn't understand. And that wasn't even mentioning the myriad of different species strewn throughout the theater lobby; from towering elephants all the way down to pygmy opossums no bigger than a gumdrop. It was thrilling, and at the same time daunting. The greater the number of kids trying out today, the lesser the likelihood that any one of them would be accepted for admission to ZAPA. The number of open slots for this year's incoming class was a fixed figure; it would not increase in proportion to the number of applicants.

Well then, Erin decided, she would just have to give it everything she had; heaven only knew, she was as ready as she was ever going to be.

The line she was in was long, but fast moving. In less than five minutes, the young, white furred bunny was only one animal away from getting registered.

And that was when everything ground to a halt amid a din of raised voices.

"What do you mean I CAN'T try out?" The jaguarundi in front of her demanded. Moving his legs apart and planting his feet like a sentry, he capped the statement with small growl

"I'm sorry," a patient young female voice responded, "but these aren't open auditions. First you have to…"

"No way!" the feline interrupted and then leaned forward. Erin heard a banging noise and then "I saw online that anybody's welcome!"

"To watch, not to participate," the female speaker replied, beginning to sound irritated. Erin could sympathize; the idiot standing in front of her looked like he belonged here about as much as a polar bear belongs in the Amazon jungle. His studded jacket was missing half its studs and was decorated with a crude anarchist's 'A'. The lime-green dye-job on his head fur had been applied so clumsily that it looked as if he was suffering from radioactive mange. It was a near no brainer that the trio of piercings in his ears, and the two in his tail were only the tip of the iceberg.

"That's it, snot-nose," he snarled, "I'm not talking to you anymore. Go call your supervisor…right NOW."

"Oh, I'll call someone," the unseen speaker snarled right back, having obviously had her fill of this pinhead. "Jason? Got a problem over here."

"Be right thea'," a curiously melodic voice answered from behind, and then someone strode past Erin, excusing himself as he went. "Beg pardon."

She immediately felt her ears rise up. Uh, ohhhh…an Afurican Wild Dog; there was another animal you didn't want to mess with—because you never messed with just one of them; you'd invariably have to take on their whole pack. These guys had the most tightly knit social structure of any canine species; one for all, and all for one, that was their creed and their lifestyle.

Moving swiftly around to the front of the line, the wild dog got between the jaguarundi and the table, speaking in hushed tones. Even with her keen hearing, Erin was unable to make out what he said, but the feline apparently got the hint. Moving swiftly out of line, he headed furtively towards the exit. Midway there, he stopped, turned around and raised his paws, making devil's horns with his fingers, and screeching like a set of claws dragging on a corrugated roof.

"Good luck, LOSERS!"

And then he was out the door, pursued by a chorus of derisive laughter and catcalls from the kids still waiting in line.

Erin wasn't able to join them; it was her turn next at the registration table.

Except…now she could see who was running that table, and of all possible animals... Ohhhh, Sweet Cheez' n' crackers, she was a coyote. Uh, what was it the young doe-bunny had had said to herself earlier—something about no longer being bothered by the mention of Craig Guilford? Uh-huh, riiiiight, nooo problem…until she found herself face-to-face with another member of that creep's species.

Oh great, and now the coyote-girl was beckoning to her. "C'mon hon, you're up.

She had high cheekbones and a broad face for a member of her species. She might almost have passed for a smallish wolf. For the occasion she was wearing a loose-fitting, rust-colored shirt with a wide, matching bandanna wrapped around her head. Draped around her neck was a necklace of turquoise disks strung together like a roll of coins, and above this, she wore a tiny bark-skin pouch, held in place by a simple cord.

"Hon?" The coyote girl was looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, quit being such a wuss already," Erin's inner voice rebuked her. She swallowed and stepped forward.

"Okay," the coyote girl asked, looking up with her fingers poised over her laptop. "Name…full name please?"

"Hopps…um, Erin Janelle Hopps." the young bunny answered, mad at herself for being so nervous.

The girl 'yote seemed not to notice. Looking down at her computer screen, she typed in Erin's name and after a short pause, smiled and nodded.

"Okay, there you are. Do you have your letter of invitation with you, or some other form of ID?"

Erin wanted to groan; the letter inviting her to audition today was back inside of her guitar case. Dangit, she knew she'd forgotten some…wait, hadn't the coyote-girl also said, 'or any form of ID?'

"I have my student identification card. Will that work?"

"That'll work just fine," the young canine said, holding out a paw.

It took Erin less than a second to find her ID, but then why not? There it was, right in her wallet where she'd left it.

After only the briefest of examinations, the coyote-girl smiled again and gave it back, at the same time consulting her screen again.

"Okay-y-y, it says here that you'll be both singing and playing an instrument for your audition today, buuuut…" Her eyes found Erin's again, "it doesn't say which instrument."

"Oh uh, bass guitar," the young bunny answered. The coyote girl nodded and entered the info, but before she could say anything else, another voice joined the conversation.

"What, play bess guitah you say?"

Someone moved around behind the table, the Afurican Wild Dog Erin had seen chasing off that punk/metal Jaguarundi a moment ago. He was dressed in jeans and a long, midnight-blue, collarless V-neck shirt with a sunset-yellow tribal design stitched around the neckline and the hem of his sleeves. On his face he wore the pearliest grin the young doe bunny had ever seen.

"You name Erin, right? You de bunny Conah was talkin' 'bout, the one he played with at Carrot Days fest?" His accent was rich with the veldt of his homeland.

"Yeah, that's me," Erin answered, twitching her nose in surprise—not so much at the wild dog's question, but more over the fact that…why the heck was that coyote girl looking as if she'd just stepped on a piece of broken glass? "How do you know Conor?" she asked, the inquiry seeming to come out of nowhere.

If such a thing were possible, the canine's smile seemed to broaden even further.

"Oh we know Conah real well, Dana and me; went to Academy wid' him last year." He said this while laying a paw on the coyote-girl's shoulder. She stiffened as if a chunk of dry ice had just landed on it. "We jam togeddah many, many times."

"Jason…" the coyote girl said…in a very even tone.

"Conah tol' us all 'bout you…said you got a great singing voice…"

"Jasonnn…" Her voice had risen slightly.

"Said he couldn't wait to see you audition…"

"Jason!" This time it came out as an angry bark—and it had the desired effect. The wild dog stopped and stared at her in confusion.

"Eh, what then?"

She responded by hissing at him through a wall of bared teeth and drawing her thumb across her throat.

"Well, 'scuse ME, missy," the wild dog growled. And then straightening up and thrusting out his chin, he turned and walked away, all dignity.

Dana watched him go with a shaking head, and then turned her attention back to Erin.

"Sorry about that, now how many pieces of gear do you have with you today?"

"Uh, just two, my bass and my pedalboard," the bunny girl responded, and then snapped her fingers, "Oh, and my bag with my stage outfit, too."

"Don't want to forget THAT," the coyote replied, her smile reminding Erin that she too, had once auditioned here. And then reaching under the table, she produced a trio of tags on elastic strings. At the same time, with her other paw, she moved her laptop's mouse and clicked. In the background, a printer began to buzz back and forth. While this was going on, Dana reached under the table again, this time coming up with a clear, plastic cardholder, skewered through the top by a safety pin. When the printer ceased its motions, she got up and came back with a stiff, business-card-sized piece of paper which she slipped into the cardholder.

"'Kay, here's your badge," she said, passing it to the young doe-bunny, "make sure you don't lose it." Erin nodded and saw the young coyote pointing at the three tags. "Those are for your gear. You'll want to put your ID number on them along with your name. It's printed there on the upper right side of your badge."

"No sweat," Erin replied, raising a thumb. She was about to say thanks, but stopped, sensing that Dana had more to tell her.

She did, but for some reason, her mouth had angled sharply to the left.

"All right, now it may be a while before they're ready backstage; there's, errr…a problem with the restroom back there. They'll make an announcement over the PA when everything's good to go. When you hear it, you'll want to report to the left side stage entrance—which will be on the RIGHT side as you're looking towards the stage." She allowed herself a small grin, "Confused yet?"

"Nawwww, I think I got it," Erin answered, flipping a paw back and forth. Craig Guildford's species or not, she was beginning to like this 'yote-girl.

Dana flipped her paws upwards, "Okay-y-y then, you're all set. Good luck, bunny."

"Thanks," Erin smiled and got out of line. She would have liked to say more, but there were others waiting behind her.

Passing by the female's restroom on the way to find her family, two things occurred to her. Number one; there was trouble with the restroom backstage? Ah-haaaa, so that's what that plumbing truck was doing here. Number two; if that was the case, perhaps she'd better go now while the going was good.

There was a line-up for the stalls inside of the restroom… long, but no worse than anything Erin had to put up with at home; coming from a family as big as hers occasionally had its advantages.

Exiting the restroom a minute later, she halted in her tracks beside a door marked, 'Staff Only', feeling her ears rise up. Somewhere on the other side, a familiar voice was speaking.

It was Jason, the Afurican Wild Dog that she'd encountered a while earlier. His tone was wheedling, almost a whimper.

"All right, tell me what I did, then."

Dana's answer was taut and high with annoyance.

"Ohhh, are you really going to make me spell it out, Jason m'Beke?"

Erin leaned back against the wall, pretending to study her cell-phone screen, at the same time keeping one ear turned in the direction of the door. She knew she shouldn't but…

"Yes…okey, I'm stupid, okey," the young wild dog was beginning to sound almost as exasperated as her, "So tell me, what did I DO, then?"

The answer came in that same, very even voice coyote girl had used before.

"If there is one day…when you do NOT want to bring up Conor Lewis's name…it's today!"

"What, then?" Jason's voice had gone from inveigling to incredulous, and perhaps even a little scornful, "What, you think he's goin' to appeah out of nowhere if I say his name?"

"No," Dana told him, this time in a crisp growl, "But some COP might. Maybe you didn't notice, but there's a whole raiding party of them here today. No? Well I sure as heck did, and I have better things to do than go through another inquisition with thatdlodziłgaii jerk, Toffy…or whatever his name is. And don't you DARE make that joke, 'nobody expects The Inquisition'…again!"

Erin bit her knuckle, giggling in hisses through clenched teeth. She could almost picture the girl-coyote, thrusting a finger in Jason's anxious face. If the next thing he did was apologize, her suspicions would be confirmed.

"Okey, Okey Dana. You're right, I'm sorry, I didn't think. Forgive me?" He was speaking in that puppy dog whimper again.

That was good for another stifled snigger from Erin. Yep, she'd been right about these two…but it was hardly surprising; they were both canines after all.

"Mmmm, I'll think about it." Dana replied. HER voice had turned playfully coy—which meant that yes she'd forgive her guy, but it was going to cost him. That was something about which the young, white-furred bunny was 100% certain.

And on that note, she pushed herself off the wall and went on her way; it was time to go find her family and her girlfriends.