At long last, we are back for another round. This may be the last chapter I can do for a while, since as some of you will know already I've enlisted in the Army National Guard and won't have use of my laptop while in basic training. I'll get in (and hopefully out) what I can in the couple of months before I head out, and while I'm at training I'll do what I can with notebooks and phone documents. I don't know how well I'll manage digitizing and uploading my documents, but we'll just see what happens.

Anyway, my thanks to everyone for the continued interest, and I will do my best to post what I can while I'm away.

"They're all crazy, except you and me. Sometimes I have me doubts about you."

Martin, Dracula (1931)

To say the night of the concert was hectic for the ZPD would be a serious understatement. While Zootopia's mass transit system spread out the added load on crowd control, entrances to the Nocturnal District were choked to the point that police help had to be called in on several points to prevent disorder. Between that, the prerequisite assistance at the concert itself, and the additional invites Olivia Poisson had sent out, it was enough to have Chief Bogo reaching for the aspirin bottle… several times.

At a small thrift shop in Savannha Central, Judy wasn't enjoying herself much either. She knew enough about city fashions to guess what would blend in best at an event like this, but on her budget where she could shop was limited and the selection there was even more so. She was in the process of trying a violet dress which, even after a dozen checks in the mirror to assure it wasn't, still felt practically see-through and about ready to fall apart if she sneezed. It had a deep neckline and a slit up the side which, though it left her legs free enough if she had to run, was too showy for her taste. The last thing she needed on a night like this was guys eyeballing her or following her around.

She stepped out of the dressing room hoping Nick would say nothing as she looked for a good sash she could wear to conceal the slit. Naturally, Nick did say something.

"If you wanna beat the bucks off in that thing, I'll ask Finnick if you can borrow his baseball bat."

Words failed her, but the look she shot him gave a pretty strong 'not funny' message. Naturally that did nothing to cow him, though he said no more as she fished through the racks. She found a nice teal scarf which would do the job and, as an added bonus, make a good hiding place for her holster. The idea of firing off her Chupacabra at a live target still turned her stomach, but Chief Bogo had been adamant. The elephant in the theater had been a stroke of luck, and most cops did well to get one. If willful violence arose tonight, the ZPD's task was to shut it down with minimal civilian hurt, no matter what it cost to cops or the terrorists.

Grabbing a tank top that matched the scarf, she returned to the dressing room and emerged a minute later. The look still became her, but now her thighs were hidden and the top, worn under the dress, made her neckline less showy. It even managed to look like part of the design.

"How do I look?" she asked Nick, turning this way and that.

He eyed her appraisingly, raising an eyebrow and putting a paw to his chin. After keeping her in suspense a moment, he dropped his paws to a position behind his back and adopted a smug grin. "Bet you drove the young bucks wild at your prom," he replied cheerfully.

She shook her head and plucked at the dress. "If I'd worn something like this, my mom wouldn't have let me go to the prom," she replied.

Underneath his cheerful banter, Nick couldn't deny a certain amount of misgiving. He was thinking about seeing Taelia that night, and how she might look in a similar getup. The fantasy would have been more fun, perhaps, if he could picture any look on her face but the look of betrayal he'd seen last. He could only hope that wouldn't be the last expression he saw her wear at all.

Benjamin Clawhauser checked his breath for the dozenth time, even though by now the minty scent of breath mints was all but overpowering. Despite this being a 'casual' outing, he had consumed an entire pack of the candies, and the chest pocket of his dress uniform bulged distinctly with the shape of a second just in case. The uniform, less worn and more decorative than his usual working blues, was wrinkled and creased from being tucked away a long while, but his own expansive figure mostly disguised that. It was a shame that he'd discovered this shortcut after collapsing his ironing board five times, jamming his fingers in four of those collapses, and burning one imprint of his clothes iron into his apartment floor. Those plus the two packs of breath mints and three innocent flowers destroyed trying to tuck a carnation in his buttonhole could, in the wrong paws, have made the start of a terrible parody song; 'Twelve Dating Omens,' or something like that.

It was a good thing that these minor disasters had occurred in the privacy of his own apartment, for just as he was out in the hall turning toward Callie's door he ran smack into just such a party.

"Oh!" he yelped, pulling back (and nearly falling) away from his minor collision with Dave Hoofman, a mouthy moose if ever there was one. Dave was the undisputed top gossip of the floor, and with one glance at his expression it was clear he had something on the cheetah.

"Benji!" he exclaimed when he saw who had hit him. "Fancy catching you! I heard you'd been holding out on us, man!"

Ben stumbled, mentally this time, as he tried to fathom Dave's meaning. "Holding out?" he asked innocently.

Dave grinned and lightly punched him in the shoulder. "You know what I mean, you sly devil. Not telling us you had a girlfriend – and a hot one, too. Some of us were starting to wonder."

'O. M. Goodness,' thought Ben, and not in an awed way this time. This was not good. After how explicit Callie had been that this was strictly a platonic outing, who could guess how she would take this new wrinkle?

True to form, Dave pressed on relentlessly. "So, what's she like?" he asked.

Ben gulped, unwittingly backing away. "Um, she's… nice," he offered weakly, tapping his fingertips together uneasily.

So wrapped up was the moose in his interrogation that he never noticed the sound of a door opening behind him, nor of a fluid feline femme stepping out and regarding the exchange with pricked ears and lifted eyebrows.

'Oh no, oh no, oh no,' thought Ben, trying not to look her way. "She's smart, and she recycles, I think… and she's very athletic."

"Ohh, athletic, huh?" asked Dave, clearly taking that word in all the wrong ways. "So how long were you gonna-?"

The question died on his lips as Callie, rolling her eyes, delt him a whack with the heel of her paw just where his neck met his shoulders. Like an ill-fated Junga tower, Dave fell into a faint, only saved from total collapse as Callie caught him by the back of the neck.

Ben gaped. "What did you…?"

"Nothing ten minutes and an aspirin won't fix," she promised, lowering Dave to the floor. "I'm hurt that you didn't tell him I studied pressure points."

'How could I tell him that?' thought Ben. It seemed Callie had made a hobby of surprising him lately.

Seeing his helpless look, she cracked a smile. "I'm joking, Ben. Guess I'm out of practice. Now where's his apartment? I don't want to leave him in the hall."

It took only a couple of minutes to drag Dave to his own apartment, which was happily unlocked, and deposit him inside. Ben could see the moose stirring like a hungover walrus as they shut the door, but then turned his attention to Callie as they headed for the elevator. She wore a black knee-length dress, matching leggings in a style oddly reminiscent of Gazelle's stage attire, and a black jacket which might or might not have been real gator leather. The jacket almost made her look punkish, but not quite.

"You, uh… look nice," he offered uncertainly. The truth was, he had next to no idea what to do here. He often joined fellow officers for the odd round of coffee or birthday party, but he hadn't done anything special with a member of the opposite sex since an on-again, off-again relationship in high school which had largely been jumbled by his own verbal fumblings. What were the rules for an un-date?

Callie seemed to take the compliment pretty calmly, which he guessed was a good sign. "Thanks," she said, smiling less in a bashful woman-on-a-date way and more like someone who's just dusted off an old skill and found it 'like riding a bicycle,' as the saying goes.

Apparently she noticed the difference in their demeanors, for her smile dropped a little into something like a sympathetic manner. "Listen, this night's going to be nothing but awkward if you keep being so nervous. Just talk to me like you would to anyone."

"Oh." Ben brightened at this. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was talking to anyone. "Okay, so how did you learn that paw thing? That was awesome!"

At once, Callie's mood clouded over. "I'd rather talk about something else," she replied, rubbing a paw along her arm.

Ben's smiled dropped. 'What'd I say now?' he wondered.

In the master bedroom of Lionheart Manor, Leodore finished buttoning up his starched white dress shirt. Habitually reaching for a vase on the vanity, he paused and then sighed as his paw approached empty air.

"Sweetheart," he asked, "where do we keep the fake carnations?"

Across the room, his wife sighed and went to her own vanity. Reaching into the top drawer, she pulled out a brooch adorned with a passable silk flower and tossed it to him. It was typically a feminine accessory, but on a male's shirt it would pass with ease as the usual buttonhole botanical.

The former mayor fumbled the catch but managed to grab it, then glanced wearily at his wife. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans that stopped just after the knees; about as casual as one could get. He had tried to sway her on the subject of this unspoken final word, but she was evidently holding her ground.

"Irene, I really wish you would come with me and Scott," he pressed one more time. "The counselor said family activities would be good for us."

She looked away and put her ears back, remembering older, happier days back when they had met in college, and later when they were newlyweds. Back before her husband's political career had hit full swing, he used to swing her all over any dance floor they could find. 'The party animals,' their friends had called them; a double-play on his day job and their night life. They had only gone to the most respectable parties, but they were definitely socialites.

'Funny how things change,' she thought dismally. "I'm really not in the mood. Why don't you stay home tonight instead?"

Now it was his turn to sigh. "I promised Scott I'd take him to a concert."

Mrs. Lionheart huffed, then paused in confusion. "When did you promise him that?"

He wiggled his claws for a moment, doing a mental calculation before dropping his arms in defeat. "I forget," he admitted, "but it was back before I…"

"Before you were arrested," she finished for him, taking a shot in the dark.

His lips formed a tight, unpleasant line. "Well, yes."

She regarded him blankly, torn between annoyance with his behavior and surprise that he remembered something that far back. "So, you make good on the promise to him, and the city sees you with your son supporting the relief fund."

Ex-mayor Lionheart bit back an angry complaint. His own wife couldn't see him trying to make up for his actions; she had to find some political angle somewhere. His paws started to curl up, but then he forced himself to calm down. He was pretty sure the marriage counselor had said something about not holding grudges, and even if one could argue she was doing it, he knew deep down he had to refrain. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and low; the voice of one who had given up on being heard and spoke only because the words would not stay in.

"I made him a promise, and I'm trying to do the best I can now because…" He stopped, long habit compelling him not to show weakness. Then, with more effort than he knew he had in him, he did something he hadn't done in a long time even with his wife: speaking from the bottom of his heart.

"… because I know I'm running out of time and I don't want to lose you two without at least trying to do something right."

She gazed at him for a long moment, saying nothing. When at last she spoke, it sounded – just for a moment – as if she were genuinely moved by his urgency. It even sounded like she might be sorrier for his predicament and impending loss than he was himself.

"If that's true, then dress as someone else to take him to the concert. Go as your father or… I don't know. But don't show up as someone everyone's going to hate."

He bit his lip. Her words drove a fresh blade into an already jagged wound, and though it seemed impossible she had yet found new and uncut nerves to make resound with pain. 'Dress as someone else.' Still, she had a point. Scott wouldn't want to go with someone so disgraced. He wouldn't even do that himself except for the fact that he was the one in a scandal.

"Maybe later we could go to a masquerade party," he suggested, half-joking and half-hoping. "You and me, a party, and no politics?"

She stared at him as if unable to believe he'd actually asked her to come. Then she shook her head. "Maybe." She was silent again, then added, "Leodore, if you're serious about doing this right then for Heaven's sake don't mess it up."

Now it was his turn to stare. Through all the counseling-turned-conflicts she'd thrown nothing his way but bitterness and anger. She'd made it very clear she didn't want anything to do with him anymore except the son they'd made together, and even there she was only half sure. Now, though… now she was actually extending him a chance.

He slipped out of the room, not the least bit sure why she was doing this. For his part, goodness knew he could see a strong case for just jumping off an overpass and being done with it. If she was offering a chance, though – not even a shot at making up for what he'd done, but to just do something right already – then he was going to seize that chance with everything he had, and God help him if he let anyone pry it away without a fight.

'I'll get this right if it kills me,' he thought, little suspecting how he might soon regret those words.

Obearon had been up most of the night looking over plans for the grand production to come. Maps of the Nocturnal District, and particularly of the Poisson Estate, had been painstakingly collected. Every bit of intelligence on security measures, both the ZPD's and those privately commissioned by the mistress of the house, sat at the mastermind's fingertips. The mansion's blueprints had been closely considered, down to the very phone lines. Not even its cybersecurity had escaped this careful planning. All had been considered, scripted, and revised to suit Obearon's intentions.

Reaching out, Obearon pressed an intercom button. "Get me Hecate on the line."

Some minutes later, the intercom chirped to life and out came the sultry, if slightly distorted, tone of a certain felonious fox. "Did you call?"

Obearon snorted at the vixen's tone. Vanya sounded, as she nearly always seemed to sound, half as if she were trying to flirt rather than talk business. "Are you prepared to carry out your part of the plan tonight?"

"I'm always prepared," came the reply. "And my sisters have been duly… persuaded as well. It's not exactly the first time we sprang someone."

"Good. Make sure you check the darts and weapon. I don't want any mischances to spoil our plans."

Vanya's mock-dismay was practically visible even through the intercom. "Why, Obearon, anyone would think you didn't trust Faust to set things up right."

Obearon snorted. "Do you trust Faust?"

The vixen snorted right back. "Don't insult me. Of course I don't."

A chuckle escaped the mastermind's lips. "Then I chose the right mind for this job. I want you and your team in position exactly on time. I won't tolerate ill-timed performances."

"Count on it," came the reply. "Any other final instructions?"

"No. You know who to retrieve and in what condition."

"Right. Ewe-liet's got to make it out of the tomb unharmed this time."

As Obearon wrapped up the call, the thought came that perhaps a less obvious codename for the hostage would have been wise. Still, as long as Vanya and her cohorts played their parts well, everyone important would be safely on their way out of the country long before any undesirables knew the truth. He might even let the vixens live to serve him further, if they proved reliable. If not… well, that was what made them such good players: thoroughly expendable.

Stay tuned!

This chapter was largely made up of scenes I'd pre-written some time ago as the inspiration seized me, though it took some doing before I was satisfied with the results. I actually rewrote the scene with Ben and Callie completely over three times, though the last of all bore the most resemblance to what I first cooked up. The scene with the Lionhearts, on the other hand, saw virtually no change except one or two phrases. I must add a special thanks to Euphonemes for inspiring the scene with Judy in the thrift shop. After sharing together the notion that it was hard to picture a tough bunny like Judy wearing a dress designed for looks, and something I no longer remember except that it involved a prom joke, I had to present her feeling out of place in such a getup. Funnily enough I wrote it long before I met my fiancé, who hates wearing dresses of any kind. Go figure.

Easter Egg:

A pickup line from a Disney sequel

I don't think I'd feel right listing these as Easter Eggs, but I threw in some behind the scenes references with Lionheart's family. Irene Lionheart is a nod to Irene Mecchi, one of the screenwriters who created the original Simba. Her and Leodore's son Scott is a nod to the actor behind Simba (as a cub) on Broadway, Scott Irby-Ranniar. Dave's name is also a behind the scenes reference, but for reasons you might figure out when you decipher the Easter Egg I'll just call it a bonus Easter Egg.

Guest Comments:

Guest: Indeed she does. Let's just hope that's enough to pull through what lies ahead.