Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.


The Fire Triangle


Part Two:

Oxidizer


Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Part 1)

"The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away."

William Golding - Lord of the Flies


Sunday - 18:27 hours, Zootopia, Little Rodentia.

With a squeak of frustration Tommy Whitely brought his paws down on the table, causing his laptop to jump a good half inch. He had just been blown off the road in Slaughter-Race—again! That, he could live with; it was what happened next that made him want to hurl his computer out the window; the phenomenon known as gamer sympathy:

Speedbum115: You lose, looser

Mastablasta23X; Burrrrrrned

Shedevildestoryer3 4: Tuff Luck, Sucka!

There were enough of them to fill two pages…and that was nothing compared to what he was hearing in his headset at the moment.

What made it doubly frustrating for Tommy was that he shouldn't have been tossed from that round. He had the driving skills; he could smoke just about anyone you'd care to name in Sugar Glide.

What he didn't have was the computer power, something that comes with the territory when you're a rodent, in his case a deer mouse. It's a simple fact of life, the smaller the mammal, the smaller the computer, the less memory and processing power you have available. And with its tres-cool graphics, Slaughter Race required a lot more gigs than Sugar Glide, at least if you wanted to compete with the big boys.

There was, in fact, a way for Tommy to obtain what he needed to win, or at least advance—but it was risky, way risky. If his dad found out, he'd be grounded for the rest of the summer; not the best thing to happen when you just got your driver's license. Even worse, he'd lose his internet access until the end of forever.

But then…was that any worse than some of the chances he'd already taken? Case in point; the version of Slaughter Race he'd been playing was of the 'unlocked' variety. He had acquired it from his best bud, Ted, who'd acquired it from his sister's boyfriend, who had acquired it from…Tommy had no idea, and honestly didn't care. As long as his folks thought it was a righteous buy, purchased on Amazoon he didn't need to know any more.

Dangit, he could easily make it to the next level—and beyond; he was sure that he could.

If he only had the gigs…

Gritting his teeth as if preparing to receive a booster shot, the young deer mouse moved the cursor and clicked, moved it again and double clicked, and then stopped—breathing lightly and staring hard at the pop-up window that had just appeared on his screen.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DISABLE YOUR ANTI-MALWARE PROGRAMS?

[_]YES [_] NO

THIS IS NOT RECOMMENDED

Tommy gulped down a mouthful of air, moved the cursor to 'Yes' and clicked…all the while keeping his eyes tightly shut.

He would make sure to turn the anti-malware apps back on when he was done—and he would accept no invitation, download no apps, and click on no attachments until he was done…so help him, Gamer GodZ.

Once more opening his eyes, he re-opened the Slaughter Race app, flexing his fingers and squeaking under his breath. "All right jerks…say hello to the new me."

First thing was first however; he needed to select a vehicle and get it pimped for competition. The first choice was easy, a 1970 Dawdge Challenger like the one from the movie Death Proof—and that other film whose name he was never able to recall. Along with his ride came the usual accessories, armored windows, nitrous injection, and a barely-concealed mini gun…the weapon of choice for most Slaughter Racers.

And ohhhh, what have we here? The option to load it with depleted Uranium slugs. Ooooo, he hadn't seen that add-on before…but hey, those bullets could get through just about anything and the selection only cost like 5 extra credits. He could easily swing that, and so he clicked on the icon at once.

Ahhh, the poor, eager, young deer mouse; he had no idea what he'd just let loose on his computer. Nor was he going to; his laptop wasn't the target, and for the moment the rogue application had only one purpose; find and infect more computers.

By the time Tommy finished his game, succeeding in reaching the next two levels as planned, the malware that he had unwittingly uploaded had spread to the computers of at least seven other players—all of whom had also disabled their anti-virus software. At least five more had acquired it directly from the same source as him. After logging off from Slaughter Race, one of them, a guinea pig from Bulltimore named Sarah Wheatland shared a video she had created on Dik-Dok. Several minutes later she received a frantic DM from her online bud, Magebuni520, a jackrabbit living in Pawstin Texas. When she'd clicked on the video, instead of the playback starting, a popup window from Maulwarebytes had appeared. 'File Not Opened Due to Trojan.' Upon hearing the news Sarah immediately deleted the vid—both from Dik-Dok and her computer, but by that time at least two dozen others had viewed it—and of those, less than half had seen it blocked by their anti-virus software. The rest remained blissfully unaware that their computers had been infected.

And of those, at least five had already spread the bug to at least several other users.

Meanwhile back in Little Rodentia, Tommy was being told to shut down the computer and come to dinner. He had remembered to re-activate the anti-malware apps, but by then it hardly mattered. Later that evening his father, an accountant, went upstairs to use his computer—which used the same DSL line as his son's—sending out an email with an attached file to several clients. Everyone who clicked on it immediately set the exploit free on their hard-drives…and in this instance, none of their anti-virus programs spotted it. Malware programs share at least one trait with vampires; if they enter your domain by way of an invitation, they become nearly impossible to expel.

For the next two hours, the trend continued, with the bug hopping from one computer to another, sometimes several at once. Every now and then, it would be caught and quarantined by an anti-virus app; most of the time it was not. By the end of the first hour, the malware had gone international, by the end of the second, it was a global phenomenon.

Then…at precisely 23:30 hours Zootopia Standard Time, in response to its encoded instructions, the bug stopped spreading and seemed to go dormant. It hadn't; it was zeroing in on a new target, and preparing to deploy an app that so far it had been keeping in reserve, an exploit known as Eternal Zoo.

By that time, most computers in Zootopia had been put to bed for the night, except for those in the Nocturnal District and those belonging to gamer geeks. Of these, no one noticed the fact that their hard-drives were running a tiny bit faster than normal and that their cooling fans were having to work just a little bit harder than before; with the malware spread across so many computers, there was no need to overtax any single one of them.

And the bug had not yet become fully awake.

At exactly 23:45, ZST the computers infected with it—those that had been shut down earlier—began to boot up. Almost one noticed; their monitors all remained dark as did their LED indicator lights. The only clue that any of them were active was the humming of fans and hard drives. And that lasted only long enough for the infected computers to launch their digital missiles at a new target, a process that took less than 1.5 seconds, after which they immediately shut themselves down again. When next their owners booted them up, the first action they'd take would be to scrub the malware from their drives; it had served its purpose, now buh-BYE.

Flashing across the Wi-Fi Ethernet and racing along the DSL lines, the malicious bots began converging on a single target. When the first ones hit the firewall, they were unable to penetrate—but these were only the vanguard of an onrushing horde.

It was no contest; even with state-of-the-art anti-malware—which this system most definitely didn't have—trying to deflect a clustered cyberattack is like trying to ward off a swarm of angry hornets with a single can of bug-spray. There's no way you can stop them all. In mere microseconds, the firewall was breached…and in another location somewhere, nimble fingers began to type further instructions.

Sunday – 23:50 hours, ZPD Precinct-1, Zootopia.

Seated behind his reception desk, Officer Robert 'Bob' Sparks was in a chipper frame of mind—for him anyway. The corners of his mouth, which normally remained in an extended downwards arc, were almost flat. If you looked closely, you might even have noticed them angling slightly upwards.

It all stemmed from the fact that, after much nagging by his fellow officers, the Asiatic wild ass had caved and had cataract surgery—and it had turned out to be one of the best decisions he'd ever made. Oh, his vision wasn't up to 20/20; he still needed reading glasses now and then. But it was a heckuva lot better than before; he could even see his workstation screen without them.

Had he chosen to study that screen a bit more carefully, Bob might have noticed that things were running a wee bit more slowly than usual. Had he bothered to run a systems check, he would have observed that the ZPD mainframe's power consumption had spiked by a good 30%. Nor did he notice that his workstation's webcam had just become operational…as had every webcam and body-cam in the precinct.

But that was understandable; none of the indicator lights were glowing. And besides, it was almost midnight, getting close to the end of the night-shift; only a little bit more than an hour to go before clock-out time, when the graveyard gang would take over. And so it was that Bob was more concerned with his watch than with his computer-screen—as were many of his fellow officers; tired and edgy and ready to call it a wrap. It had been a long watch, with that crowd of protesters out front. No officer could get in or out of the precinct without being subjected to a non-stop heckle. And it was no use trying to make an end run through the loading dock or the backside parking lot entrance. The protestors had, hours ago, discovered those exits and had both of them under siege as well.

Bob gritted his teeth and stifled a bray. He had hoped that with the onset of darkness the brat-pack out front would get bored and call it a night. And so the majority of them had—only to be swiftly replaced by a new batch of young miscreants. Of the newcomers, most were members of this or that nocturnal species—meaning they were in it for the long haul—and all of them were sporting chips on their shoulders the size of railroad ties. Every once in a while they would serenade the precinct with an impromptu musical performance; 'I Fought The Law', 'We're Not Gonna Take It', or a new addition to the mix, 'My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark.'

"What the heck is THAT all about?" the donkey had wondered the first time he'd heard it. He would have been considerably less puzzled had he known that one of the kids arrested at the ZAPA tryouts, Erin Hopps, had incorporated it into her audition performance.

"Hi, good evening."

Bob wasn't startled that he hadn't heard anyone approaching. The kids outside had started in with another one of their Acapella renditions, a tune called…'Breakin' The Law', or that was what it sounded like. Peering narrowly over the edge of his desk, he saw a bobcat in a peace officer's uniform, not the serge-blue of the ZPD, but the earth tone green of—he looked more closely—the Burrow County Sheriff's Office.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Hey there," the cat replied, looking almost as lugubrious as Bob himself, "I'm Deputy Mac Cannon, BCSD." He stretched up to lay a paper on the desktop, "here to interview a prisoner in the youth jail; Craig Guilford's his name."

Bob's ears jumped upwards, "What, now?" But when he snatched up the piece of paper…he was unable to read it without his glasses, dangit. All right, where were they? Oh, okay…but now he could see that the document bore the authorization signature of no less a fursonage than Chief Bogo. Okay, the best thing to do here would be to send this kitty down the hall and let someone else deal with him.

"Just a second," he said, and pressed a button on his intercom, the one connecting him to the Precinct One Youth Jail Lieutenant's office.

"Sparks?" a surprised voice queried over the speaker, "What's up; what's going on?"

"I have a visitor here," the wild ass replied at once. "A Deputy…Cannon of the Burrow County Sheriff's Office; he's got authorization to see…"

"Awww, NUTS!" the Lieutenant on the other end responded with a groan. He'd either forgotten Mac Cannon was coming, or else he'd been hoping that the bobcat wouldn't show up until after his shift was over. Bob Sparks didn't care, one way or the other, as long as the Burrow County Deputy was out of his face, and no longer his concern. "Okay, send him up," the voice on the intercom said, something for which the donkey was profoundly grateful.

Mac further gratified him by declining to accept an escort. "Don't bother, I know the way."

He was under no illusions that the ZPD would be pleased to entertain him at this ungodly hour—but then, neither would Craig Guilford. The young coyote would be groggy, he'd be tired…in other words, he'd be vulnerable, a little more willing to sign the document the bobcat had brought with him than he otherwise might have been. Of course, it might not work; coyotes, while not a straight-up nocturnal species, were frequently active at night. Still, it was worth the effort—and anyway, he'd had it up to here with that punk and his little games. With a bit of luck, Mac would be on his way back to Bunnyburrow tomorrow, with the Guilford kid in tow.

"And you better keep your mouth shut, boy." the bobcat growled at the absent young coyote.

When he got to the Precinct-1 Youth Jail he found the cells dark and the walkways only dimly lit; it was well past the hour of lights out. The only sounds to be heard were the nearly silent footfalls of the correctional officers, patrolling the block. At the bobcat's approach, one of them, a cow moose named Beth Nysander stopped her pacing and planted herself in front of him in a 'who-goes-there' stance. But then recognizing the deputy, she immediately stepped aside, albeit not without giving him a curious look.

He found the rest of the officers gathered in the Lieutenant's office, clustered around a workstation with grins on their faces…except for one of them, a jaguar, who looked as if he'd much rather be out walking the cellblock right about now.

Opening the door, Mac saw a gnu-goat point at the screen and nearly break into a giggling fit. "Woo-hoo, look at that; bet you wish that was you, Jorge." He was speaking to the jaguar, who replied by giving him the 'talk to the paw' gesture.

"Yeah, yeah…whatever floats your boat, Sammy. I'm perfectly happy with what I got, muchas gracias."

"Excuse me?" Mac rapped on the door frame as he entered the office, and at once every eye in the room was regarding him quizzically.

Every eye, that is, except for the pair belonging to the Lieutenant in charge of the night-watch, a panda-bear named Hsing Hsing Loy. While he didn't recognize the bobcat, he had known that a Burrow County Sheriff's deputy was on the way up—and this feline was clearly a member of that fraternity.

"Evening…ah, Deputy Cannon, is it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"'Kay," the panda shifted his bulk for a second, "Kinda late for an interview, isn't it." He pointed to the clock on the wall behind him.

The time was exactly one minute to midnight.

In the server room, located in a basement section of the precinct's main building, a display-screen had just come alive. There wasn't much to look at; only plain white text over a dark-blue background.

ZPD - lectrcl-sys

lghtng

ZPD – emergency sys

fr-alm
fr-sprsn
mrgnc drs
accdrs

As each line appeared, it flashed, as though someone were clicking on it.

ZPD comm-sys

pa-sys

ZPD dtntn cntr sys

Mn

Jv

Comm-sys

pa

lectrcl-sys

cldrs
accdrs
offdrs

It was now approximately 58 seconds to midnight.

Mac Cannon, of course, knew none of this; only that he wanted to get this done and get back to his hotel.

"That's the general idea," he said, "I want to try and catch that Guilford kid while his guard is down."

At the mention of the young coyote's name, Lieutenant Hsing's muzzle broke out in a crinkled smile, and Jorge Reyes face lit up like a neon billboard. "Ohhhh, please tell me you're planning to take that little schizo off our paws." The giant panda was almost begging.

"That's the plan," Mac answered, patting his pocket, "If I can get him to sign off on agreeing to testify against his dad, he'll be out of here by evening chow tomorrow."

"Oh, wonderful," Hsing was practically beaming—before reality seemed to come down on his head, "Mmmm, what about his dad, though?" He was perfectly aware that Craig Guilford was being held here in Zootopia to keep him at a minimum safe distance from his father.

Mac assumed the expression of a bobcat preparing to pounce on something hapless. "They moved him to Viomax three days ago. He tried to go after one of our deputies with a shiv and that was it as far as Sheriff Sauer was concerned."

At this news every face in the office hardened, and someone snarled, "Darn right!"

Then Lieutenant Hsing turned to speak to Officer Reyes.

"Jorge, you want to go get that kid?"

"Uhhh, can you hold off for about five minutes?" Mac was raising a paw. "This time, when you bring him down to the interview room, I want that punk-coyote to find ME waiting for him."

"Hey, no problem," the jaguar smiled, now in a very congenial mood thanks to the news the deputy had just delivered.

"Thanks," Mac said, offering a thumbs-up and then exiting the office. He was about a third of the way down the cellblock tier when the clock struck midnight.

Monday 24:00 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1 Lobby, Zootopia

Bob Sparks was just about to glance at his watch again when all the lights in the precinct went out.

For several seconds afterwards, his world was nothing but stygian darkness, punctuated by the whoops and catcalls of the crowd of young mammals out front. They knew what had happened; a blackout like this one was pretty hard to miss.

Their hoots of derision were quickly muted when the emergency lights came on, the crisscross spot-beams giving the Precinct-1 foyer the eerie appearance of a mystic cavern.

And then more lights came on, tiny LEDs embedded in red plastic brackets, set at regular intervals along the walls. At the same time the lobby was filled with high staccato chirring, like the noise of an immense cricket.

Near the center of the enclosure, Sergeant Nina Sherman, a hippo, had been on her way back from dropping off a duffle bag full of burglary tools in the property room. Now, barely audible, she thought she heard someone calling to her.

"Hey…HEY!"

Turning around she saw Officer Tad Howell—who hadn't been speaking to her, but as long as he had the hippo's attention…

"What the heck is THAT?" the red wolf all but shouted, pointing a finger at the blinking lights on the wall. Nina eyed him peculiarly for a moment, before remembering he was more or less a rookie.

"That's the fire alarm," she answered back, shouting through cupped hooves.

"What, there's a fire?" Howell's voice had risen almost to a…well, almost to a howl.

Nina started to answer but then hesitated. She'd been about to say it was a false alarm; if it had been for real, there would have been at least one radio call about it. Instead, every two-way within earshot was silent. Only…was that the case? Well, there was one quick way to find out—and he was standing right in front of her.

"You tell me; you got the nose," she told the wolf.

Howell raised his muzzle and sniffed, and then lowered it with a shrug, "Nothing."

Okayyy, so it was a false alarm…but dangit, that noise was like a drill in her skull.

"Come on," she said, waving a meaty arm, and led Howell in the direction of the reception desk, where several other officers were already clustered. At least one of them must have had the same idea as her, judging by what Sparks was telling the group.

"I'm sorry, no…If I shut that alarm off and there IS a fire…"

"There's no fire!" Nina quickly broke in, pushing her way through the others, "Howell, do that thing again."

The red wolf obligingly scented the air a second time, "Still nothing."

"Right," the hippo nodded and turned back to Sparks, "And where there's no smoke, there's no fire. So shut that stupid thing off before we all go deaf."

The donkey's ear began to semaphore. "I…don't know if I have authority to…"

"I'll take full responsibility; Turn! It! OFF!" Nina was almost bellowing.

Sparks turned to his keyboard and began to type, muttering under his breath, "All right, now how do I…Oh my Gaw-HAW!"

The sentence ended in a bray of alarm; the donkey jumping back from his workstation as though he'd received an electrical shock.

He tried again…

…And again

…And then a fourth time

And then he was gaping wide-eyed at the computer screen.

Nina Sherman was having none of THAT.

"Wha….What's going on?" She demanded, hooves on hips, "I said turn that thing OFF!"

"I…CAN'T!" Bob cried, swiveling his display screen to face her…And then she was the one staring wide-eyed—at a pair of words flashing in big, bold, blood-red text.

ACCESS DENIED - ACCESS DENIED - ACCESS DENIED

"I'm locked out!" the wild ass brayed, saying nothing that the hippo-sergeant didn't already know.

Nina may have known it, but that didn't mean she was going to accept it.

"What do you mean, you're locked…HUA-AWWW-AWWWW!"

All over the Precinct-1 Lobby mammals were yelping, howling, roaring, bellowing, and otherwise expressing their dismay…at the same time, throwing their arms around their heads, in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the cascading water.

The fire-sprinkler system had just activated, dousing the animals on the floor below in an artificial cloudburst.

Nina Sherman, being a semi-aquatic species, wasn't as bothered by the downpour as most of others; what bothered her was the chorus of raucous laughter, coming from beyond the precinct's front door. When she looked, she saw a field of mocking fingers, waving above the heads of the officers standing guard duty out front.

But wait…what was that pounding noise?

Adjusting her gaze a click to the right, Nina saw officers Barrow and Krumpansky hammering on the precinct's front door. She realized at once what had happened; Bob Sparks wasn't the only animal here, who had just been locked out.

A sour, burning sensation began to fill her stomach…just as the donkey's display screen hissed, flashed, and went dark in a puff of smoke.

Over in the youth jail, things were even more chaotic, the officers on patrol dashing pell-mell for the cover of the Lieutenant's office, regaled every step of the way by the hoots and jeers of the young offenders, all safe and dry in their cells. The chirping of the alarms and the officers' cries of dismay had brought them completely awake.

In the girl's section things were quieter; there were no officers to troll here. Nonetheless, the kids here were also wide-awake—including a young, white-furred bunny named Erin Janelle Hopps. Hopping up and trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on outside her cell-door window she could see nothing besides falling water and flashing lights. She couldn't miss hearing the alarm though…and thank God for the muffling thickness of that door—or else it would have felt as though she was having her eardrums extracted with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

Mac Cannon didn't make it to the Lieutenant's office—but then he hadn't needed to. As luck would have it, he'd been passing by an empty cell when the sprinklers started in, and had ducked hurriedly inside and out of the cascade.

For perhaps five more minutes, the deluge and the chirruping continued.

And then it stopped—suddenly, abruptly and completely. In one second there was noise and a downpour, in the next, only silence and only a few lingering droplets.

Inside the Lieutenant's office nobody moved, afraid that the whole thing might be only a gigantic hustle—that the instant they ventured outside the door, the sprinklers would go off again, "Whoooops…suckers!"

"Wow, good thing this didn't happen during evening chow," a rhino named Stephen Hooks offered, drawing exactly zero responses from the others.

Eventually someone had to 'test the waters,' so to speak, and since Jorge Reyes had been about to go get the Guilford kid anyway…

"And besides, you're a rainforest species aren't you?" another officer pointed out.

Yes, he was…but rain in his home turf fell mainly as a warm shower. The downpour outside, on the other paw, had been only a few degrees shy of an ice-bucket challenge.

However Jorge wasn't about to argue; it was getting cramped in here anyway, what with so many bodies in such a relatively small space; the Lieutenant's office wasn't exactly built to handle a crowd. He reached for the door handle and pulled.

Nothing happened.

He pulled again; it still refused to budge. He made a third attempt; again no result.

"What's the matter; door stuck?"

Jorge gave it a fourth try, and then stepped back, turning a bewildered face on the other correctional officers.

"It's…not stuck; I-I think it's locked."

"All right, hang on," Lieutenant Hsing grumbled, plopping himself in his desk chair and reaching for his workstation keyboard. He never got around to typing any instructions. The instant the screen lit up, his arms were hanging limply at his side and he was staring in slack-jawed befuddlement.

On the display in front of him, big, bold, bright-red words were flashing. Not 'Access Denied', but a somewhat longer message.

Cryin' Won't Help Ya
Preyin' Won't Do You No Good

"Wha…What the heck is THAT?" someone shouted from over the panda's shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie.

"I-It's from a song I think..." Beth Nysander ventured. "But I can't remember…"

"Madre de Dios, LOOK!"

Everyone looked…and immediately wanted to scream along with Jorge. Outside the office window, the cell doors were sliding open.

…ALL of them, every single one.

And, at the same time, a song began to play over the PA system, blasting out of the speakers at super boom-box pitch

The recording was old and scratchy, obviously taken from a vinyl LP, a classic rock tune that probably most of the kids in here had probably never even heard before.

But if they didn't know the song, they could hardly miss the meaning of the lyrics.

"Tonight, there's gonna be a jailbreak
Somewhere in this town

See, me 'n the boys, we don't like it
So we're gettin' up and goin' down…"

It took all of half a minute for the music to have the desired effect.

Like racers, bolting from the starting gate, a wave of kids came rushing out of their cells, raising the roof with a chorus of impromptu war cries. It wasn't all of them by any stretch of the imagination…but it was also anything but a pawful.

Then Jorge saw a roll of toilet paper go flying across the cell block, unfurling itself in a long, flat arc. That was all the prompting the others needed, and within moments a torrent of objects was raining down from the terraces and onto the floor below, blankets, mattresses, all sorts of fursonal effects…and ream upon ream of toilet paper. It looked almost like a bad parody of ticker-tape parade—especially with all the miniscule objects being thrown down from the rodent-species cells on the jail's top tier.

But then he saw another roll of toilet paper go flying; only this one was trailing a ribbon of fire as it unspooled. He wondered for a second where the heck those kids had gotten the matches and/or a lighter—and then realized it was a silly question. As any correctional officer will tell you, some contraband always manages to get by them.

Once again the other kids took it as a prompt. Soon more rolls of burning TP were trailing black smoke and fire across the cell block.

A mass of white squished against the window of the Lieutenant's office…and another and another, and then what looked like a zillion more. It was almost like riding through a carwash.

However this wasn't soap-suds, it was wads of soaked toilet paper… no wait, there were wadded up magazine pages too…all of it accompanied by a flood-tide of insults and abuse from outside.

"Eat this, jerks!"

"How ya like it, coppers?"

"ACAJ! ACAJ! ACAJ! ACAJ!"

The first one to realize what was going on was Beth Nysander. "Oh my Gaw… they're trying to blind us!"

They weren't just trying, they were succeeding; in less than three minutes every window of the Lieutenant's office had been transformed into a Jackson Bullock painting.

And that, strangely enough, was what finally inspired Lieutenant Hsing to settle down and take charge.

He slid open his desk drawer, rummaging around while muttering under his breath. "Dangit, I was sure I had some…all right…"

Pulling out a roll of duct tape, he tore off a strip and slapped it over the lens of the work station webcam before tossing it back to Beth Nysander.

"Get the overhead." He told her.

The cow moose had to stand on tiptoes to reach the CCTV camera lens, but she managed it just the same. While this was going on, Lieutenant Hsing unplugged his workstation's microphone jack.

Then he swiveled in his chair and stood up.

"All right, start passing that tape around; if you're wearing a body-cam, get the lens covered."

"Uhhh, mine's turned off," someone started to say.

"Get it done!' the panda snapped, in a voice that brooked no argument, and then pointed at the open desk drawer. "Okay, all portables off, and all cell-phones in here.

This time there was no objection; the news about Lt. Tufts's phone being hacked had long since made the rounds in Precinct-1. When the officers' phones had all been collected and put in the drawer, Lieutenant Hsing reached up and turned on the small, desktop radio he almost never listened to, fiddling with the station select until it was tuned to a religious broadcast station. Dropping the radio into the open desk drawer, he cranked the volume, just before sliding it shut again.

"There," he growled, nodding at the mortared-over windows of his office. "Maybe we're flying blind, but now so are you." He fished in another drawer, pulled out a set of keys, and then lumbered quickly to a door at the back of his office.

Inside were racks of body armor, helmets, and riot shields—along with gas-masks and a variety of non-lethal weapons.

"Everyone…get suited up!"

Once again there were no objections from his officers.

Monday—00:49 Hours, Undisclosed Location, Zootopia.

The steam-whistle shriek of the emergency alarm yanked Conor Lewis from his bed like a giant, invisible paw. He took two steps and immediately stumbled, not sure if he was awake, or even where he was. He had taken two painkillers before hitting the sack, and the air around him seemed to have turned to cotton. And that wasn't even mentioning his injuries; his bum leg might not be hurting too much right now, but it seemed to have declared independence from his brain.

No one can stay woozy for long with that kind of noise in the air. And so, after another couple of minutes, the fugitive young fox's mind at last began to sharpen. Right away, he became aware of the fact that it wasn't the perimeter alarm he was hearing; his refuge was still secure. No, the noise was coming from somewhere inside of the Furrison Hotel, the secondary Furaday cage that housed his main computer console, affectionately known as The Beast. Tonight was the first he'd heard this particular alarm since moving in here; and what the heck, now…?

Had a part of him not wanted to know the reason for the emergency—and if it hadn't been for the Purrcocet he'd taken—Conor might have at least had an inkling as to what was going on. Before retiring for the night, he had instructed the Beast to keep an eye on the ZPD mainframe, and ping him in the event of an emergency—like, say, a SWAT team being dispatched to his location. Only this wasn't a ping, it was a stinking doomsday siren. What the heck could have triggered it, and more importantly, how the heck did he shut it down? Oh wait, right…he had set The Beast on voice control before turning in.

"Shut down alarm," he shouted—or tried to; it came out as a gargling sound. He cleared his throat and tried again. "SHUT DOWN ALARM!"

Okay, this time his voice worked, but the command didn't; the alarm continued to shrill. Catch 22, it was shrieking so loudly that it was drowning out his attempt to get it to stop. He was going to have to do this the hard way

Clutching his head as if trying to hold it in place, Conor staggered in the direction of the Furrison. All but flinging open the door, he snatched the headset from its rack and shouted into the microphone, "Shut! Down! Alarm!"

That did it; the noise ceased immediately. But why the heck had it gone off in the first place? Only one way to find out…

Slowly, painfully, the fugitive young silver fox hauled himself into the console's zero-gravity chair and began to tilt it backwards. At once he felt his pain beginning to ease…but after a couple of more seconds, he wouldn't have noticed anyway. Now, he knew why the alarm had gone off—and it was a thousand times more terrible than his worst-case nightmare.

"Oh, my God…oh no, No, NO!" Conor's fox scream was even louder than the noise The Beast had been making. "Oh Jeez…Oh God, my buds are in there; ERIN'S in there. Ohhhhh please, guys…stay in your cells, don't go out on the walkways, PLEASE!" He looked around the Furaday cage, helplessly wringing his paws. "What do I do? What do I do? Think, fox, THINK!"

He didn't have the slightest idea; even with a clear head, this would have been way above his skillset. He began to type rapidly, even though he knew it was no use. Trying to hold back a cyberattack at this stage of the game is like trying to plug a dike with your finger when the walls have already started to collapse.

And now…oh, no…the malware had spotted his attempted intervention, and it was coming after him.

He screamed his fail-safe word,"Goomagamma!" and the connection was instantly broken. Breathless moments followed as the young fox did a systems sweep. No, the bug hadn't managed to get inside his database. Probably, it hadn't been able to trace him—but only probably.

Ohhh, foxtrot, what was he supposed to do? He could get back inside the ZPD database another way…but then what? He couldn't do this, not on his own. He needed help—and the only animal he could turn to had already turned their back on him.

He moved the cursor and clicked; move it again and double-clicked and then began typing in plain text, too agitated to use shortpaw

Gryblaxdlr7#: "Guild if you're there, please respond. The ZPD's under cyberattack and I don't know what to do. K never taught me this part."

Nothing…the space beneath his message remained a blank void.

Gryblaxdlr7#: "Guild, HELP ME!"

A second passed, and then another, and another.

And then…

SilnZisGuildN&786#$: "STUPID fox-kid! U btr nt B lyn 2 me."

Conor wanted to respond, but checked himself. The ball was in Guild's court now and there was nothing to do but wait for the return-serve.

Finally, after what seemed like ages...

SilnZisGuildN&786#$: "K, U inside ZPD-DB nw?"

Gryblaxdlr7#: "No, hd 2 bl But cn gt inside agn."

True enough…although the fugitive young fox wasn't about to mention why he'd decided to vacate the premises that first time.

SilnZisGuildN&786#$: "K, lstn. Hrs wht U need 2 do…"

Conor studied the instructions for a few seconds and then reeled back so hard, the zero-grav chair nearly performed a somersault.

Gryblaxdlr7#: "U wnt me 2 WHAT?"

Monday—01:02 Hours, ZPD Precinct 1 Youth Detention Facility, Zootopia.

None of Conor's friends could hear his thoughts…but they were heeding his advice nonetheless, staying inside their cells instead of joining the party, out on the balconies and the floor below. Erin Hopps had even crawled under her bunk-bed, just to play it doubly safe

Max March was not a friend of his…although that had nothing to do with why he'd chosen to leave his cell. Simply put, he had allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He wouldn't join the riot, but he just had to see what the heck was going out there. Besides, maybe he'd get a chance to catch up with Zack and finally explain things. It wasn't the wisest move, but it wasn't entirely stupid, either. At least out here, or so the muscular young rabbit-buck reasoned, he'd have some freedom of movement. If, on the other paw, he got jumped inside of his cell, he'd be trapped with nowhere to run.

Country bunny or not, Max at least had enough savvy to try and blend in a little. Walking along the balcony of the youth-jail's third tier, he made sure to return every high five he was offered. He even managed to force a whoop when a serval cat and a young wild boar pitched a burning mattress over the balcony railing. (It snuffed out immediately upon contact with the soaked floor below.)

After several more minutes however, he was beginning to feel frustrated; there wasn't any sign of Zack anywhere. It was no surprise, really; knowing him, he was probably hunkering down in his cell. Fine, great…but which cell was HIS? Max could have asked earlier—if he and his cousin had been on speaking terms, but since they weren't….

Or…were they? Zack had always been quick to forgive in the past…so maybe the smaller bunny was also out looking for him.

With that in mind, Max halted and turned a fast 180, looking back in the direction of his cell. What he saw made his heart jump into his windpipe. Another kid was just then exiting the cubicle; not Zack or the sand-cat he'd been hanging with earlier, but another, equally familiar mammal.

Craig Guilford!

Max's first thought was that he'd been soooo right not to stay put. His second thought was not a thought, but a visceral reaction; he ducked down fast and began to move. He was fairly certain Craig hadn't seen him but if he had, this was the next worst thing to being caught inside his cell. In an open field, an athletic young rabbit like him would have a decent shot at escaping a lone coyote…but here on the walkway, there was no room to dodge, especially with all these other kids crowding the scenery.

Dangit, he had to get out of sight, but where? Visually this place was even more wide open than that stupid amphitheater. It had probably been built that way–to make sure the kids being held here couldn't pull any fast ones without being spotted. But wait, look there…the hallway leading to the girl's section; there's your bolt hole Max, get going! He dropped to all fours and put it in overdrive. But in his obsession with making it to safety, he failed to notice something—and forgot something else.

With all his attention focused on the hallway ahead, Max shot right by one of the cells, without even catching a glimpse of the occupants as he passed. Nor did he hear one of them say to the other, "Hey, isn't that your cousin?"

The thing that he forgot was…coyotes, like all canines, don't need to see their prey in order to track it.

As he swung around the corner, Max was praying hard that the entrance to the girl's jail wouldn't be locked. The bad news was that there were not one, but two gateways between him and his goal, separated from each other by a good six feet, like the doors of an airlock.

The good news was that both of them were not only open, they were wide open.

It was only after he had cleared the second one that he straightened up and began to relax.

…for about three seconds, until he realized that everyone was staring at him—and not with friendly expressions. It was as if he had violated the confines of a sacred temple, which only females of the species were permitted to enter.

But it was a little too late to turn back now. And so, whistling an airless tune, Max strolled along the walkway with his paws jammed into his pockets, looking in every direction except the mammals glaring at him. Ohhhh brother, if anyone had ever told him that he'd someday feel skittish at being stared at by a bevy of girls…! It was almost funny—almost.

But then he heard a familiar voice coming from somewhere behind him.

"Max…? Max, what the heck are you doing here?"

The young buck rabbit almost bolted down the walkway—before his brain caught up with the identity of the speaker; it was Erin Hopps.

He turned quickly in her direction.

"Hiding," he answered, speaking in furtive murmur, "Craig Guilford's looking for me,"

That was all that explanation the young doe bunny needed to hear. She gestured swiftly towards her cell. "In here, quick!" and ducked hurriedly back inside without waiting for a response.

Max instantly obeyed and found her waiting with a thumping foot.

"Okay, hurry up and get your shirt off."

The young buck-rabbit's eyes got big as jar lids. "Wha…? Why…?"

Erin's ears went back against her scalp and her paw shot out as if spring-loaded. "You dumb bunny; coyotes hunt by scent, remember? Now shut up and give me that shirt!"

He nearly tore the thing in half, getting it off.

The young doe-bunny was thinking fast as she pulled it on over her head. For the most part her thoughts revolved around the idea, "What the fresh heck am I doing?"

She shook it off and spoke to Max again. "'Kay...get some water from the toilet and start splashing it on the floor."

This time he didn't need an explanation and hurried to obey.

"All right, good," she told him, paws on hips, "That should take care of your scent. 'Kay, now get under the bed and stay there 'til I get back." Once again, she turned away without waiting for a response.

Max's nose began to twitch. "Wha…? Erin, wh-where are you going?"

"To go find Dana," she answered, simply.

"Who?" he asked, even more confused.

She sighed and waved a paw.

"Never mind, just stay there," And then she was out the door like a shot.

Erin was three steps down the walkway when it occurred to her that she'd been acting entirely out of character just now. While she might have possessed at least a few good qualities, that list most definitely didn't include the words, 'strong' and 'decisive;' Look what Conor had needed to do in order to get her out on that amphitheater stage.

Conor…now there was the definition of…. "No, don't think about HIM."

Obeying her inner voice's command, the young, white-furred bunny immediately began to wish that she'd ignored it—because the next thing to cross her mind was the realization that by helping Max she was putting herself in jeopardy with Craig Guilford. And for WHAT, for a stuck-up jock that she totally couldn't stand? For the rabbit who'd snitched out Dana, Jason, and Saad…and by extension, her?

Oh yes, Erin knew what Max had done; she'd been aware from the get go that someone had informed on those three. In so many words, that squirrel-jerk, Lieutenant What's-His-Name, had all but admitted it. Furthermore, the bunny taking refuge in her cell right now had been busted for digging a tunnel under the stage. There was only one reason why he would have done that. And in that context, there could only be one reason why he was being released into the custody of his parents tomorrow—before the courts opened.

She had picked up that little tidbit from her mother, during their visit earlier in the day. "They wouldn't let him out without letting you out too, dear." Mom had told her. And while the young doe bunny had seriously doubted the logic of that assumption, it had nonetheless dropped a very large piece of a puzzle into place. And after having been face to face with Mr. Full-of-Himself just now she was all but certain that her theory was correct; Max might have never snitched on Craig Guilford, but a snitch he was, just the same.

For a second she slowed the pace…and then her face stiffened and she picked it up again. As if she would leave anyone to the tender mercies of that psycho-coyote.

Perhaps it was wrong to involve Dana; Craig Guilford might have been her species, but he definitely wasn't her problem.

Well, maybe so…but judging by what Erin had heard so far, her newfound friend would likely consider it a badge of honor to be asked to take on the jerk who had so sullied the names of all coyotes everywhere. On the other paw though, Dana might not be quite so eager to come to the defense of the rabbit who'd gotten her arrested—which was why the young, white-furred bunny intended to keep that little factoid to herself.

"March!" A ragged canine voice snarled out from somewhere behind her.

Erin spun on her heel, hoping to God that when he saw it was her and not Max, it would momentarily confuse the vengeful young coyote.

It did…but she was barely able to keep herself from turning and fleeing for her life. This wasn't the Craig Guilford she remembered from back in Bunnyburrow, it was like some sort of crazed-zombie variant of the young coyote; wild, spiky, unkempt fur, and even wilder eyes. She would not have been surprised to hear him howl, "Heeeeeeere's JOHNNY!"

Whoa, no wonder Max March was so scared of him. But now, hey…he had walked right by her cell without noticing…

Her thoughts were cut off as Max burst out onto the walkway in a fit of panic, bolting hell-bent-for-leather in the direction of the exit.

She let out a silent scream, "No, dumb bunny, NO!"

He might almost have made it—if he hadn't then nearly knocked down a muskrat-girl in his haste to get away.

"What the heck's your PROBLEM, bunny-boy?" she screamed, and Craig knew instantly who she'd been speaking to; wheeling around in a furious about-face, he shot off in pursuit of the terrified young rabbit.

"NO!" Erin cried again, this time out loud…and then, without thinking, she went flying after them.