The Fire Triangle, A Zootopia Fanfiction -- Part One: Fuel - 88

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

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The Fire Triangle—A Zootopia Fanfiction

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Part One:

Fuel

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Chapter 10 –When A Fox Goes Rabbit

(Continued...Pt. 3)

"Dangit, what TIME is it? They must have hit the shift-change by now!"

Conor Lewis was lying on his bunk in Total-Sep, apparently resting...and in the physical sense, he was; but at the same time, his brain seemed to be trying for a new land-speed record, running full tilt, with no way to down-shift. If foxes were capable of sweating, he'd be soaked like a car-wash sponge right now.

Did he still have time...or had the window already closed?

He began to push himself out of bed and onto the floor—and then pulled up short; what was the point? On his feet or on his back, it made no difference; he had no more distractions left in the bag. Since being put in Total Separation, he'd had three long conversations with himself, mentally reviewed the lyrics of every song he knew, and done all the push-ups and sit-ups that he'd dared. (Any more of either and he'd be running the risk of muscle cramps later on.) All the jacks had been jumped, all the knees deeply bent; he had pounded down his dinner without even knowing what it was, even though he hadn't been particularly hungry. (That one meal might have to sustain him for an extended period of time.)

Nothing for him to do now, but...nothing; just wait here, stretched out on his bunk while the seconds dragged by like winter molasses. How long ago had they brought him his dinner? They always did that about a half hour before the shift change, but dangit, how long ago had that been...minutes...hours...yesterday? No point in asking his stomach for an update; in the young fox's current state of mind, his dinner wouldn't settle until sometime next week. Agggg, grrr...with every passing moment, he became more and more convinced that he'd missed the bus. So, now what the heck was he supposed to...?

Without warning, something clicked and the door to his cell slid open, revealing a pair of guards, a caribou and...was that leopard or a jaguar? Conor couldn't tell, but then he wasn't really looking; what caught his attention was the look of disgust on both their faces—YES!

Forcing himself not to whoop; the young fox had to work even harder to appear genuinely puzzled at their appearance...especially since the caribou was holding a document in his paw—half crushed; double yes! He wouldn't be doing that, if it were only an order to move the silver-fox kid in Total Sep back into general population.

"Um...what?" he asked blinking nervously at the pair of officers.

"Alright Lewis, let's go, bag and baggage." The caribou spoke as if trying not to spit.

Conor tilted his head sideways, "Bag and what" he said. (He was actually quite familiar with the term.)

"You bein' released muchacho," the jaguar snarled, (yep, jaguar) "so snap it up, huh?"

Now, Conor did allow himself a whoop; heaving himself off the bunk and throwing a fist in the air, "Whoo-hoo, made BAIL, Eee-yes!"

But the two officers only looked even more disgruntled.

"No kid, you didn't make bail," the caribou said, giving Conor the look that, back in Granite Point, had been the prelude to what the guards there liked to refer to as 'thump therapy'. "You're taking a walk," he went on, holding up the document and reading from it, paraphrasing as he went.

"By order of the Supreme Court of the City of Zootopia, the following charges against the defendant Conor Severus Lewis are hereby dismissed, due to lack of sufficient evidence; felony assault of a police officer, failure to obey...etc." He stopped reading and let out a short growl. "You don't need to hear the rest; it's all of 'em."

"They dropped all the charges?" Conor was staring wide-eyed at the two correctional officers...and this time his surprise wasn't feigned. Holy foxtrot, how the heck had he DONE it?

"Yeah that's right," his companion snorted, nodding to the jaguar, who flipped over the top page of the document, revealing a second sheet of a slightly different color, attached to the first by a pair of staples. The caribou studied it for a second and then looked at Conor.

"Seems your fellow fox, Nick Wilde filed a deposition with the Supremes this afternoon." (He spewed out the word 'fox' like bitters.) "Says he can't say for certain that you bit him on purpose. Put it together with that lawyer of yours, and that moron judge deciding to put a kid in V-3 restraint, and it was all over but the..."

"...and saving the life of Officer Judy Hopps," the young silver fox interjected bitterly. Up until now, he'd kept the subject to himself, but foxin'-A! If the ZPD wasn't going to thank him for what he'd done, they could at least remember it. (He was willing to bet that it was mentioned on the document the jaguar was holding.)

The two officers regarded each other for a second, and then the caribou cleared his throat and went on as if there had been no interruption.

"Orders are, you're to be released immediately, pending processing."

Now it was Conor who looked disgusted. 'Processing' always took as much time as the hacks felt like taking...and since he wasn't about to win any popularity contests with the Zootopia Youth Jail correctional officers, it was pretty much a slam dunk that he wouldn't be getting out of here anytime in the next five minutes.

"But hey, what the heck, I AM getting out," the young fox reminded himself...and his angst evaporated instantly. Dropping to his knees he raised a fist...eyes closed and voice trembling.

"Thank you Mr. Rodenberg!" (The guards wouldn't like this but the heck with 'em!)

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the jaguar growled impatiently, "Now get up an' get moving, kid."

Conor was sorely tempted to respond with something flippant, but wisely kept his thoughts to himself; he could push these two only just so far.

That decision lasted until they brought him to the first stop on the itinerary, the changing room outside the showers, where they gave him a towel, and spun him in the direction of the entrance. "Okay, go get clean, and make it quick." Conor balked at the order immediately; this was a complete waste of time.

"Aw come on already, I'm clean enough; I practically hadda have a makeover before I went to court this morning,"

True it was, but the guards were having none of it..

"Rules are rules, kid." The jaguar informed him, tartly, "Nobody gets outta here until they get showered first."

"Unless you want to go back to your cell and think about it," the caribou said with a taunting sneer.

"Okay, Oh-kayyyy!" Conor turned towards the shower room entrance—and as he did, he caught sight of name-tag stitched to the caribou's uniform-shirt, 'Hermann.' Ahhh, sorry and all that, but this was just too much to for a snarky, young, silver fox to resist. He stopped suddenly, raised an eyebrow at him, and poked a thumb in the direction of the doorway.

"Yeah, riiiiight—showers; that's really the way to the gas chamber, isn't it, Herr Goreing?"

"Get in there, smartmouth!" the jaguar snarled, getting quickly between him and the other officer.

Conor quickly found that he had the shower room to himself. That was good, and he gave himself an extra-long lathering. (While he hadn't lied about that makeover, his agitation just now had managed to undo most of it.) Even so, he wasn't lingering only to treat himself; a double-cleansing was the only way to get clean in this place; the foamy stuff that passed for soap in here was the lamest joke, ever.

When he finished up and left the shower room, Conor found his street clothes—most of them, anyway—waiting on the bench in the changing room, not folded or stacked but thrown in a haphazard pile. He was genuinely surprised; as much as the guards seemed to dislike him, this brand of casual harassment wasn't their style.

So, why...? Yeah, riiight.

Conor went to the pile, extracted his pants and flapped them out, at the same time inhaling deeply. At once, the young fox's nose told him everything he needed to know.

He began to get dressed, standing with his back to the wall and facing the door as he did so. He noticed at once that his belt had not yet been returned. While that was probably only SOP, it was also very much not good; if words failed him, he might very well need a weapon in the next few minutes.

The last item of clothing he grabbed was his shirt...and just his luck; it was a pullover, not a button-down. Rolling it up halfway, the young fox slipped his paws through the sleeve-holes and pulled it over his head.

...and then quickly shucked it off again, letting it fall onto the floor behind him.

Craig Guilford was standing in the doorway—and his expression was anything but congenial.

Conor dropped his paws to his sides and turned partially sideways, the way Kieran had taught him, eyeing the young coyote warily—and addressing him insouciantly.

"Real smart move there, super-genius, going through my stuff; I smelled your grubby paws all over 'em the minute I came in here." He allowed himself a derisive smirk, "So, what's the skinny, Vinny? Did the hacks look the other way for ya, or did you manage to give 'em the slip somehow?"

Caught off guard, Craig had no immediate answer. When he did, he pretended not to have heard a thing that the young silver fox had said.

"Hey, you know what else I heard, shifty?" he snarled, tapping himself in the chest for emphasis, "I heard that before you bit Nick Wilde, you saved the life of that bunny-cop Hopps, the same little snotface who busted ME!"

He began to move in Conor's direction. The young fox stifled a groan and if he could, he would have fox-screamed. The guards were treating him as if that beau geste had never happened, but THIS jerk remembered it just fine! Aggggh, grrrr, he aughta LET Craig kick his tail!

Taking a short breath, Conor mustered up the fullness of his contempt for the young coyote and defiantly folded his arms.

"Oh yeah?" he shot back, "well you know what I heard, babe? I heard they REALLY like to hurt snitches in here."

Craig stopped in mid-stride.

And Conor charged swiftly into the gap.

"Especially a guy that'd—ah, I dunno—sell out his own dad to save himself."

Now the young coyote's foot began to move in the opposite direction...and Conor moved in for the clincher, narrowing his eyes and allowing one of his fangs to show.

"Boy howdy, I wouldn't wanna be in that guy's pelt if the word got around, would you?"

The effect wasn't quite what he had anticipated; Craig stopped abruptly and drew himself up to his full height, revealing BOTH of his fangs.

"No-good fox-jerk, if you say one word...to anyone..."

Conor waved a breezy paw.

"Who, me? Nah, I wouldn't do a thing like that," he said, the picture of vulpine innocence—one that morphed instantly into a study etched in revulsion. "But someone else might, if anything bad were to happen to me." He leaned forward with his paws on his hips, putting all of his teeth on display, "I hadda hear it from somebody....and that somebody doesn't like you much anyway, you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Craig began to tremble all over, whether from fear or anger, the young fox couldn't tell.

"You dirty, sneaking little..."

Conor cut him off again.

"You got ten seconds to get outta my face, fool—and you already used up half of 'em. 5...4...3..."

Craig was gone by the count of 2. Conor picked his shirt from the floor, but only held it in his paws for a minute—waiting until he was certain that the young coyote hadn't doubled back on him. Only then did he pull it back on, and allow himself a sigh of relief.

It had all been a colossal bluff; there'd been no one else to spread the word if the rogue coyote had taken Conor out. The knowledge that Craig Guilford had flipped began and ended with him, (and Mr. Rodenberg, bless that grey rat's scaly, pink tail.)

His original plan had been to write a note to Shem, instructing the young hyena not to open it unless Craig Guilford made a move on him. Good thought, except that Conor had found himself put inV-3 restraint; how the heck was he supposed to get a message to anybody when no one except a correctional officer was allowed within a hundred feet of his cell?

No, the young fox's only hope had been that his nemesis wouldn't be smart enough to figure that out—or that at least decide it wasn't worth the risk. Craig Guilford might be a newcomer to the Precinct-1 Youth Jail, but he was no stranger to juvie; according to Mr. Rodenberg, he'd served at least two stretches in the Burrow County Juvenile pen ...and Conor's homily about 'hurting snitches' applied every bit as much there as it did here. In all jails, everywhere, the attitude towards informers is the same; the only good one is a dead one. Even a dimbulb like Craig had to know that much.

And speaking of yote-boy, just then, Conor heard one of the guards raising his voice, the jaguar, to be precise. "Hey you, where'd you come from, huh? Was you in the shower-room jus' now? GET OVER HERE!"

Well...that answered that question, anyway; the officers hadn't been in on it. Still, it didn't say much for their competency if the likes of Craig Guilford had been able to escape their notice.

Craig...

Ohhh, Conor had SO wanted to throw it right back in that yahoo coyote's face.

"Hey guess what, babe? Remember that call to your dad, the one that sent him and your uncle into the Carrot Days Dance right over that fireworks show? That was ME on the phone, hotshot...pretending to be you, and your dumb-yote pop fell for it like a load of..."

Yes, he'd been tempted....and he would have been more than justified if he'd given in to the impulse. Trying to sabotage another prisoner's release wasn't quite as bad as informing on him—but it was still an offense that demanded retribution.

Unfortunately, there could be no such thing as trying to lay payback on that backstabbing coyote. If Conor even so much as looked crossways Craig Guilford, the Mammal's star witness against Jerry Guilford, he'd find himself back in Total Sep so fast he wouldn't know how he got there. Oh, he could let the word out that the coyote was a snitch—except what would happen to him next would be a fate the young silver fox wouldn't wish on anybody, not even the lowlife who'd just tried to wreck his release. He had seen what they did to snitches in juvie, more times than he cared to think about; (Crazy Wez had held a special loathing for informers and had dealt with them in singularly ruthless fashion.)

And besides that, if Craig was taken out, it would blow a hole the size of a meteor crater in the case against his dad; the dirt bag who'd tried to spray-bomb the Carrot Days Festival with defoliant. Conor Lewis was the LAST fox who wanted to see that happen, (or next to last anyway; Nick Wilde.)

And besides THAT, the young fox reminded himself yet again, he was getting out of here; at the end of the day that was the only thing that mattered; who cared about Craig What'sisname anyway?

When Conor exited the changing room, he found that the caribou had been replaced by a different officer, this one a hippo, sporting sergeant's stripes on his sleeve.

"Come on, let's go," the big mammal said, only slightly less miffed than his predecessor—a fact that was beginning to grate on the young fox's nerves. Kee-ripes, these hacks were all beginning to sound like a guy who'd just reeled in a lunker trout, and then been told by a game warden that he'd have to throw it back.

"Yeah? Well, tough tail guys; get your trophy somewhere else," he snarled inwardly.

What followed next was an excursion into the bureaucratic jungle by way of the Lieutenant's office ; paperwork, paperwork, and MORE paperwork, endless affidavits and documents to review and to sign—all of which the correctional officers insisted on explaining to Conor in detail before they would allow him to put pen to paper. Although highly irritated by all this rigmarole, the young fox didn't hold it against the guards; this wasn't harassment, they were only trying to cover their backsides, a necessary evil when you were dealing with someone represented by Mr. Vernon J. Rodenberg . It would be just like that grey rat to file a gazillion dollar lawsuit against the city for putting his client, (only 14,) in V-3 restraint—or so the city jail admins reasoned—and they wanted to make it crystal clear that it hadn't been THEIR idea.

And so Conor was obliged to sign his name, again, and again, and again. Occasionally, he was also required to surrender a thumb-pad print.

The first document read, 'I hereby acknowledge that while held in this facility I was not subject to abuse of either a verbal or physical nature.'

Conor signed his name readily. Though the guards in here might be acting a bit short with him at the moment, compared to the hacks at Granite Point, these guys were sweet angels of mercy.

More documents swiftly followed

'I acknowledge by this signature that the medical facilities in the Zootopia City Jail were adequate to my needs.'

"Needs, what needs?" the young fox frowned, "I never had to see the dang jail-doc."

Once again, however Conor promptly affixed his name. He'd once served time in a facility where the standard of medical care had been ten degrees below SUB-standard, (and he had the scars to prove it.)

Some of the documents he was asked to sign required him to answer a question.

'Do you feel you are suffering any lingering trauma from your time in Total Separation?'

[] Yes

[] No

"What, are you kidding me?" Conor wanted to laugh. "I was in there for less than a stinkin' day."

He checked 'no' and signed his name.

The next question wasn't so easy.

"Do you feel you were provided with adequate security during you incarceration?"

[] Yes

[] No

Conor wanted to answer that one with a honkin', huge 'HECK, no!' The officers minding him earlier had somehow managed to let Craig Guilford slip past them; how secure was that?

He checked 'yes' anyway and signed, once again reminding himself that the important thing here was that he was being released—and if that was what he wanted, then he'd better stay out of his own way.

The next stop was Processing...or rather the holding cell attached to it. Conor would have to get there by way of the Commons area and he was none too thrilled with the idea. Admin had still not seen fit to return his belt, and the prospect of being paraded in front of the other kids while having to hold up his trousers with his paw was not a pleasant one. He expected to be razzed from one end of the commons to the other.

It didn't happen; instead when the officers led the young fox through the area, a hush fell over everything; all conversation ceased and a few of the kids who'd been sitting got up and stood silently at attention. Now, what the fox was this stuff?

The answer came when Conor caught sight of a familiar face, the same young deer buck who'd applauded him in court—and now he understood; the word was out about what had happened there and how the young silver-fox had handled it.

Nodding briefly to the deer, Conor pantomimed clapping his paws, and shook his head. The young buck nodded back and made a sideways brushing motion with his hoof. He had gotten the message; 'don't clap now, you'll get The Hole.' It was just a shame, the young fox reflected, that they couldn't have met before they'd both been sent here, he'd have liked to get to know this dude.

Conor would always think of the next part of the release process as the worst. The guards unceremoniously dumped him on a bench in the holding cell next to Processing, and left him there with the hippo posted outside the door. Until they were done with whatever they were doing, (more paperwork, the young fox presumed,) he'd have nothing to do but suck it up and wait. The only good thing was, at least he finally knew the time; there was a wall clock in Processing, visible through the holding-cell window. Almost 7:30...so he'd been right; they had come for him later than he'd expected; why was that?

"Well, better late than never," the young fox chided himself. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and leaned back against the wall, letting his paws fall into his lap. Now that it was finally happening, he could afford to relax a little.

Actually...more than a little; the next thing he was aware of was a loud click and a rush of air, followed by a familiar voice, "Awright kid, les' go." It was the jaguar again, but Conor barely noticed. When he sat up and pushed back his cap again, he found himself looking once more at the clock in the next room.

It now showed nearly 8:45. Crike, he'd been in here that long?

Wellll, it wasn't as if he'd had anything better to do than snag some Z's.

"I'll be taking you downstairs to the property room next," the big cat said, "where your watch, cell-phone and other fursonal effects will be returned to you," He sounded as if he was reciting the words off a chalkboard.

As with every other police department, the ZPD kept its property room open 24/7. (Evidence doesn't only come in during working hours.)

It was pretty much your standard-issue set-up, a wire-mesh barrier backed by a titanium screen, (to discourage any rodents who might have pilferage, on their minds.) plus three bank-teller windows of varying size, and an electrically operated door of the same basket-weave construction as the walls. Everything was painted in midnight green.

Had Nick and/or Judy been here, they would have been surprised to see who was running the show—or maybe they wouldn't have; Benjamin Clawhauser never could say no when asked to fill in for another officer on sick-call.

"Weh, heffo fere..." he said, and then took a quick slug of pop to wash down the cupcake he'd been eating, "Oops, sorry; hi there kid, what's going on with you tonight?' He might have been a teacher, addressing a favorite pupil.

It was the jaguar who answered him...in a voice like chilled vinegar.

"Suspect Conor Severus Lewis," he said, passing a folder to the plus size cheetah, "he's being released, all charges dropped. Here's his list of fursonal effects."

"Oh, congratulations!" Clawhauser offered Conor a thumbs-up. (That got him an even nastier look from the jaguar; he didn't seem to notice.)

Conor found the obese cheetah's attitude amusing, (mostly because it seemed to bug the heck out of the guard escorting him.) Whoa, give this fat-cat some helium and he'd be a drop-dead perfect Curly Howler.

It was then that Benjamin Clawhauser proceeded to demonstrate why the ZPD could always count on him in pinch. He might not have known how to talk to an (obviously guilty) prisoner about to be put back on the street...but he seemed to know the property room like the back of his paw, even though it wasn't his regular turf. It took him all of five minutes to retrieve the file-box containing Conor's belongings, (no small task in an enclosure roughly the size of an auto-parts distribution warehouse.)

Leaving the box on the counter next to the largest of the three windows, he disappeared again for a moment, and returned shortly with the young fox's bicycle.

It was only then that Conor began to appreciate the advantage of his situation. Had he been getting out on bail or riding a writ of habeas corpus, he wouldn't be getting his bike back—OR his laptop or cellphone. But nope...he was getting out on a dismissal of all charges, and no charges, no need to retain any evidence.

Setting Conor's bike against a support column for the moment, Clawhauser returned to the 'teller's window and plopped his ample behind onto a stool behind it.

"Now," he said, flipping the lid off the file box containing Conor's other belongings, "let's see what we have here." He attached the file the jaguar had given him to a clipboard, consulted it briefly, and then wriggled his fingers as though preparing to tuck into a particularly succulent doughnut. Only then did he reach inside the file-box.

The first item he drew out was....

"One Catsio G-Shock wristwatch, in working condition," he said, checking the item off his list.

He passed it through the window to Conor who wrapped it around his wrist and gave it a quick look.

At once, his ears shot upwards. What the heck, it was almost TEN now? At this rate he wouldn't be getting out of here until after sunrise.

Clawhauser, meanwhile had already moved on to the next item.

"One sunglass case, containing..." he extracted the contents and gave them a quick inspection, "One pair of Meowi Jim wraparound sunglasses with mirrored lenses."

At this, the jaguar gave Conor a sharp look, and the young silver-fox knew why almost immediately; Meaowi Jims didn't come cheap...a little too 'not cheap" for a 14-year-old kid to be wearing.

He just took them and said nothing, slipping them quietly into one of his pants' cargo-pockets. (What the heck else was he going to do with them? It was NIGHT outside.)

The next item on the agenda was "One prepaid Motoroara smart phone." Clawhauser took it from the file box but didn't check it against the list, not right away at least; instead, he turned it over in his paws with a curious look on his face. A quick, sidelong glance at the jaguar showed that he too was eyeing the cell-phone inquisitively.

Once again, Conor didn't have to be a mind reader to discern their thoughts. It was a disposable cell-phone, so why hadn't this supposedly street-smart kid destroyed it when he'd had the chance?

After a short, pungent moment, the obese cheetah checked the phone off his list and passed it through the window.

When Clawhauser came to the next item in the file-box, Conor felt himself tense up slightly, crossing his fingers in his pocket and hoping the plus sized cheetah—and especially the jaguar—wouldn't catch it.

"One ballpoint pen," Clawhauser checked it off the list and pushed it through the window. Conor reached for it quickly and put it into his pocket... making sure to stand so that the jaguar couldn't see. The pen, which looked like an ordinary writing instrument, would have been quite familiar to both officers without its latex-rubber coating—a Gerbiler Impromptu Tactical Pen with a hardened titanium barrel. A favorite of law-enforcement officers, it was equally suitable for writing citations or punching through a car windshield. In the right paws, it was also an effective self-defense tool...and Conor had learned how to use one from a master of close combat, Danny 'The Danaconda' Tipperin.

Conor's belt came next, (finally!) and then the rest of his belongings followed in desultory fashion. He showed barely any interest until Clawhauser came to the next- to-the-last item on the list.

"One military grade, laptop computer, of unknown make and model;" When Clawhauser slid it through the window, Conor had to force himself not to snatch at it like a drowning fox going for a life-ring. (In a sense, that was exactly what he was doing.)

The last item to be returned was his bike.

"One Bolt Bicycles Dodger," Clawhauser wheeled it through a side door and presented it with a flourish worthy of a game-show host. Conor thanked him, trying not to sound irritated; by now the plus-size cheetah's bubbly manner was beginning to ruffle his fur as well. When the big cat offered him the clipboard and told him to 'sign here, and print here,' the young fox was so eager to get moving that he almost went for his tactical pen; (he caught himself at the last second.)

"Okay les' go," the jaguar told him again, and then pointed at the young fox's ride. "And no getting on that bike zorillo, you walk it out of here, okay?"

Conor rolled his eyes in a 'Well, DUH' gesture. As if he'd be such an idiot.

"Okay, where we headed next?" he said.

"Front reception, and then you're free to go." the big cat answered, not looking at him.

Conor should have been elated—yes, almost out of here!—but instead his flags were going up; the guard had said that while trying not to look smug, there was something he was keeping to himself, something that he knew his young charge wasn't going to like, a snag this wise-mouth fox-kid hadn't foreseen.

And there was nothing that fox-kid could do but keep walking and wait for the other paw to drop.

At the front reception desk, he was obliged to sign his name again and also provide another thumb-pad print. He would have dearly liked to ask if they wanted a blood-sample too, but wisely elected to keep his fox-trap shut. And then three magic words from the Asiatic wild ass behind the reception counter brought him swiftly back to reality.

"Okay, you're done." He said, nodding in the direction of the Precinct's front door. Conor hesitated, this was much too easy; now he was all but certain that the jag was holding out on him; the ZPD had one more card up its sleeve...and there was only one way to know for certain.

"Right, see you guys." Conor hefted his backpack over his shoulders and took hold of his bike's handlebars, wheeling his ride in the direction of the front entrance. He had managed about five steps, when the jaguar's roar halted him in his tracks.

"I knew it!" the young fox snarled inwardly, and then turned back around, trying his best to appear naïve, rather than cynical. "Uh, okay...what?"

The big cat folded his arms and regarded him with a toothy smirk, "Jus' where you think you going, Junior?"

"Outta here," Conor poked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the exit, "Charges dropped, so I'm free to go, right?"

An even bigger smile creased the jaguar's muzzle, and he slowly shook his head.

"Not quite, kid; you are un-der-AGE," he said, enunciating every syllable of the last two words, just to make certain that the young fox got the message. "That means you can only be released into the custody of a parent or legal guardian. Soon as they show up, THEN you can go."

Conor wanted to fox-scream his head off. Blankety-blank overgrown ocelot! He'd known all along that the kid in his charge didn't HAVE any parents...and probably so did every other correctional officer in the Zootopia City Youth Jail. Aggggh, grrrr...they'd been playing him from the moment he'd been taken from his cell.

But hang on...he did have a legal guardian, that yellow mongoose, Tom Rooter, or whatever his name was...maybe! Mr. Rodenberg had filed a petition for legal guardianship in his PI's name, but had Zootopia Social Services, or whoever, accepted it? And even if they had, what good would it do?

"All right, calm the heck down." He told himself, and then unslung his backpack again. "Okay, lemme call my lawyer," he said, hoping like heck that for once he would get voice mail. He did, but hit the disconnect button before speaking, "Mr. Rodenberg, this is Conor Lewis; I'm in the Precinct One lobby. They're ready to cut me loose, but I can't leave unless a parent or legal guardian comes to collect me. Can you call Mr. Ruiter (Ruiter, that was it,) and let him know the situation? I don't have his number. Thanks."

He disconnected and nodded towards one of the benches parked along the wall.

"Mind if I sit down while I wait?" he said. He knew he had bought himself a short reprieve at best, but in his experience, two or three minutes could be the difference between sweet success and epic fail.

"Excuse me," a voice interrupted, cutting off his train of thought. It was the donkey behind the reception counter, "Ruiter, did you say; Ton Ruiter?"

"Yeah, that's right," Conor told him, (Okay it was Ton, not Tom.) "what up?"

The donkey began to rummage through the papers on his desk, muttering to no one in particular. "Mmm, where is that thing? I know I didn't...I could have sworn I printed it...Oh, here we are."

He held up a document at arm's length and squinted, as if trying to locate a hidden treasure-map.

The jaguar let out a quick, frustrated snarl, "Dangit Sparks, when you going to accept it, huh? Those contacts just don't work no more; you needa get some bifocals, burro."

"I'm still good," the wild ass answered in a flat, nasal tone, "Anyway it says here that Mr. Ruiter has already been notified of Mr. Lewis' pending release by the clerk of the Zootopia Supreme Court." He squinted again, this time looking slightly embarrassed. "Oh, and uhhhh, it also says we're supposed to notify Mr. Ruiter as soon as his ward Conor Lewis completes his processing and is ready to..."

He was interrupted by another snarl from the big cat, this one for the benefit of the fox kid standing next to him.

"There, you see what I mean, zorillo?' he said, waving a paw at the reception desk. "He wouldn't a' missed that part a' the memo if he'd had some bifocals on."

"I said I'm okay," Sparks brayed back, ears laid tightly against his neck.

That was it as far as Conor Lewis was concerned

"Willya make the stinkin' call already, Eeyore!"

Not the most tactful way to put it, but by now the young fox was so exasperated, he didn't care what kind of trouble that might buy him. Crike, it was open-mike night at The Comedy Bar in here!

The wild ass immediately turned on him.

"Hey, you little..."

"Make the call, Sparks," the jaguar cut him off with a weary groan...and was it Conor's imagination or was he actually smiling just a little.

Sparks gave each of them another unpleasant look, but then did as he was told.

For a moment it looked as if the call had gone to voice mail. It took forever for the donkey to begin speaking, and when he did, his voice was a flat recitation.

"Good evening sir, this is the ZPD calling for Mr. Ton Ruiter..." But then he stopped and listened for a few seconds. When he spoke again, it was obvious that there was someone else on the other end of the call. "Sir you'll have to speak up; I can barely...No, I'm afraid...can you hear me all right? All right, Mr. Ruiter, I'm calling to inform you that Conor Lewis has finished processing and is ready to be released into your custody. What's that...? I can't hear....yes, you can text me." He fell silent, studying the display screen on his desk for a moment, and then let out a snuffling breath.

"Yes sir, I know it's late...these things take time, sir."

He looked at the screen again.

"He'll be waiting for you in the front lobby of ZPD Precinct One. Do you know where that is, sir? All right, check in at the front desk when you arrive." Another glance at the screen; "Yes sir, about half an hour. Yes sir, good-bye."

He disconnected and looked at Conor with dull disinterest. He'd apparently forgotten all about that 'Eeyore' crack already. "He says he'll be here in about half an hour."

"Thanks, I heard," the young fox answered cordially—backing off while the backing was good.

Conor spent the next few minutes seated on one of the benches with his paws in his lap and his mind whirling. The events of the last half hour were something he could never have anticipated, much less planned for. Mmmm no, not quite, he had to admit; the part about how he could only be released into the custody of a parent or legal guardian; he should have seen that one coming, (dumb fox!)

But what about the rest of it; what the heck was going on here? Conor finally decided, (once again,) that there was no point in dwelling on it; he'd find out anyway, in about another half-hour.

Not quite; 30 minutes later, he was still cooling his heels....and beginning to feel antsy.

Another 10 minutes passed...and then another 10; he wanted to jump up and pace the floor, but knew the jaguar would only make him sit down again.

And then, 5 minutes later, a diminutive figure pushed his way through the front door of Precinct 1.

Conor Lewis was instantly alert. The newcomer had sand-yellow fur and the long, slender torso of a weasel...or a mongoose. Then something teased at the inside of his sinuses. He sniffed, and his face became the mask of a sphinx.

He was finally beginning to understand what was happening here.

"Here he is," the jaguar called, speaking to the wild ass behind the desk. Sparks put away his magazine and leaned over the counter.

"Allo," the mongoose told him in a thick cheery accent. "Ruiter for Conor Lewis?"

"Yes sir, can I see some ID first?" Sparks asked him.

"Mais oui, but of course." the little mongoose responded. He pulled out his cell phone and offered it to the donkey. Sparks took it with his ears laid back, muttering something under his breath. Conor could easily imagine what it was, something on the order of 'Whatever happened to good, old hard-copy ID? (That...and he was trying to read the display screen of a mongoose-size smart phone with a pair of failing eyes.)

Sparks studied the cell closely for moment and then returned it to the mongoose. "He's over there," he said, nodding in Conor's direction.. The mongoose thanked him and then headed straight over to where the young fox was sitting, dispensing with any greetings upon his arrival and shedding his jovial manner like a worn-out overcoat

"You are ready? We need to go right now."

"Yep, good to go," Conor slipped off the bench, and started putting on his backpack...but then he remembered—his bike. Would there be room for it inside whatever vehicle the mongoose had brought with him?

"Uhhh, what about my...?"

"I have a roof rack; come on, let's go." the mongoose told him testily. "This is much later than I expected, eh?"

"Okay...okay," the young fox raised his paws as if in surrender and followed the meerkat out through the front door of Precinct-1's and disappeared into the night.

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Zootopia, Rainforest District, 02:47, Tuesday

The attack on Interspecies Recycling Systems had been carried out with the utmost stealth and precision; this one was about as subtle as a swarm of ticked off hornets—and every bit as devastating.

They came crashing through the front gate in two 'boilers'—gangland slang for a hot car. The first vehicle, a tanker truck loaded with liquid asphalt, literally brushed aside the front gate as it came crashing through, taking down the sign over the entrance as well. Three seconds later, it plowed through the facility's big front, roll-up door punching through it as easily as if it were a layer of tinfoil. Behind the tanker came a second vehicle, a transport van glommed from an airport parking service. It slewed to a halt just outside the destroyed entranceway, and at once the doors flew open, disgorging a flood of compact, muscular figures. While the others stood at the ready, the team leader and one other mammal charged headlong through the front door with weapons drawn. Directly inside, the lead animal dropped down to one knee and took aim. A red dot appeared just above the lens of a CCTV security camera, and a split second later it was reduced to shards of glass and metal, to the accompaniment of a noise like an overclocked typewriter.. Within the next two and-a-half-minutes, every other security camera in the building had been given the same treatment.

When the last camera was gone, the mammal in charge thumbed a portable air-horn and the rest of the crew came charging through the ruined doorway. He checked his smartwatch and raised his muzzle, together with his voice.

"We have ten minutes before the ZFD can get here, twelve minutes until the ZPD shows; I want us finished up in seven—MOVE!

The others fanned out in teams of three, one carrying a crowbar, and the other two hauling PVC buckets of gasoline cut with Styrofoam peanuts, (what's known in the anarchist's trade as 'poor-mammals napalm.')

As with many structures in the rainforest district, this one was built with a humpbacked roof, roughly analogous to an enormous turtle-shell. Inside the structure, backed up against the perimeter wall, were fourteen vehicles of varying sizes, but roughly the same profile, long, low, and stretched out, with passenger compartments nearly the size of a roller-rink.

These were the team's primary target and they moved in with brutal efficiency, smashing windows, windshields, and moonroofs, ripping open hoods and cargo compartments, and dousing everything with the contents of the buckets, paying particular attention to each vehicle's engine block.

All the while the mammal in charge kept a close eye on his watch; at the same time listening intently to his headset, waiting for word that either the ZPD or the ZFD was on the move.

In mere moments the interior of the garage had become redolent with the smell of gasoline. None of the team members were bothered by this; they had come equipped with goggles for their eyes, and filter masks for their mouths and noses.

And then the leader abruptly clasped a dirty-white paw to his headset. He listened intently for a couple of seconds and then blew the air-horn again.

At once, all activity ceased, and the leader addressed them in a ringing, stentorian voice

"ZFD is rolling, headed our location; ETA, 6 minutes. What's our status?"

"One left," a voice called out in a slightly Teutonic accent.

"Get it done!" the leader barked, and was answered by the sound of breaking glass and rending metal. Then he spoke again, this time to the animal driving the tanker-truck, saying only a single work, "Go!"

And then to the others he said, "Everyone else out, move!"

"We have three extra," another voice piped up, indicating some leftover buckets of accelerant, "Leave them as is, or dump them?"

"Dump them and then get out of here," the leader answered, and then to the truck-driver, "Wait for my signal before you open the valves."

"Yes sir," the driver replied. He punched the starter button and the asphalt truck groaned and rumbled into life.

The team leader gave it a few more seconds to make sure everyone was clear and then barked another order, "Open 'em up!"

He received no verbal response , but three seconds later, a fan of thick, black liquid began spraying from the rear of the truck. By then the driver was already out of the cab and sprinting for the exit, with the lead mammal hot on his heels. As soon as they cleared the door, the pair pulled off the overshoes they'd been wearing and pitched them back into the garage. Or rather the driver did. One of the leader's shoes impacted against the door frame and bounced off, landing midway between him and the entrance.

He made no move to retrieve it; instead, he and the driver turned and ran briskly for the stolen airport van, which stood waiting for them with open doors. When they got there, the driver jumped quickly inside, but the leader stopped and turned on his heel facing back towards the garage again and holding out a paw behind him. At once, someone greased it with a long, inch-thick cylinder, attached to a stick...a skyrocket. In a quick, fluid motion, the leader pulled out a lighter, thumbed it into life, touched it to the fuse and then flung the rocket like an old-fashioned 'potato-masher' grenade. It was about a third of the way through its arc when the powder caught, and it shot off in a smoky corkscrew, straight through the wrecked front-door of the garage. There was a brief explosion of blue and purple sparks, and then another, bigger, burst of fire—much, much louder and brighter than the first one.

By then, the van had already squealed out of the parking lot and was racing away from the scene.

When ZFD arrived, less than five minutes later, they pulled up just as the asphalt truck's tank blew...and once again there was no possibility of saving anything. (Their only compensation was that at least there were no other structures close enough to be in any danger.)

Unlike the Interspecies Recycling iore, this time there was no question about whether or not to alert the ZPD; a half-blind idiot could see that this one was a torch-job.

Most of the firefighters on the scene agreed that it had been a slapdash operation—an attack hastily thrown together on the spur of the moment.

And yet...and yet...

The arsonists had come in knowing the exact location of every security camera in the garage, and had taken them out with clockwork precision. They had known enough to carry filter-masks and eye-goggles—and had also worn overshoes to disguise their footprints, (and to keep the gasoline-mixture from getting on their feet.) They'd had someone monitoring the Police and Fire Department radio frequencies, and they'd had the ZFD's response time clocked down to the last second. Last but not least, all the traffic cams in the area had mysteriously gone off line, right before the garage was hit—and stayed that way until the arsonists were long gone.

None of this would become known to the Zootopia PD's Arson Squad for some time to come...and until then, the destruction of the garage would be seen as an impulsive act. Certainly that was the opinion of most of the firefighters working the blaze.

And then one of them, a puma, nodded quickly at the ground beside him, where the sign that had formerly graced the entrance-gate now lay.

"That's a weird name for an outfit in this part of town," He observed, speaking to the okapi who was next in line on the fire those.

The okapi looked, sniffed, and then shrugged.

"Probably a franchise," he said,

The sign read 'Tundratown Limousine Service.'

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Ironically enough, had it not been for the arson-attack in the Rainforest District, Chief Bogo might still have been en-route to the Precinct when the call came—in which case he would have sent it straight to voicemail. As a young officer, he'd investigated many a car-crash caused by cell-phone distraction. Because of that, he never talked on the phone himself while driving, (except by way of a bluefang.)

Not this time; when his cell-phone buzzed he'd already been at his desk for nearly an hour—and with good reason; two fire-bombings in less than 24 hours, and the third one in less than a week. That was more than enough to raise the specter of a serial arsonist, a breed of criminal particularly despised by law enforcement. (And also especially hard to catch; arson fires have a way of destroying evidence.) But now, studying the reports laid out before him, the big Cape buffalo felt a knot of dread tightening in his gut; the ZPD might be lucky if it was only a serial arsonist.

That was when his cell-phone rang, and he picked it up without looking at the Caller ID display.

"This is Bogo," he said, expecting it to be someone from the arson squad.

The next thing he said was, "Wha...? Who...? Swinton? What the devil are you calling me about? And aren't you supposed to be off..."

His eyes went wide and he shot up out of his chair,

"He did WHAT?"

Zootopia Attorney General Igor Sayarov was halfway out the door of his home when he heard his wife calling.

"Iggy, wait, hold up."

He turned and saw her hurrying towards him with a cell phone in her hoof. He let out a silent groan; he'd almost forgotten it—again. "Second time this week, I'm getting senile," the ibex grumbled to himself.

But that wasn't the only reason Bella had been calling him.

"It's Chief Bogo," she said, holding out the cell in his direction, "he says it's important."

Sayarov lifted an eyebrow as he took the phone; Chief Bogo...at this time of the morning?

He placed the phone against his cheek, slightly irritated at the hold-up.

"Good morning, Chief," he said, "May I assume this matter is more than just a little important?"

And then his face nearly crash-dived through the floor.

"He did WHAT?"

Sayarov's protégé, Deputy Prosecutor Rudolph Gamsbart was also in his office, in the midst of reviewing a brief he intended to file later in the day,

And then his desktop intercom crackled.

"Mr. Gamsbart, Attorney General Sayarov on line three."

"Thanks Tom," the chamois answered, frowning, and took the call on speaker-phone. What in the heck could Igor be wanting this early?

"Yes...Mr. Attorney General...?" he said, and a split second later, he was sitting bolt upright with his fists clenched.

"He did WHAT?"

Vernon J. Rodenberg, attorney at law, was in his office too, pouring himself a cup of coffee and not looking forward to the day ahead; more futzing with those insurance jerks on behalf of the Red Pig. Had Rocco Peccari not been a regular client, the grey rat would have begged off on this job; he was a criminal attorney, not an insurance lawyer. Even so, he had to admit, Peccari had been absolutely right to get ahold of him; those shmendriks from The Harfurred were just itching to deny the claim on the Interspecies Recycling fire.

Rodenberg had already told them just exactly what he thought of that idea.

"Yeah, yeah...where was all your talk about my client's 'unsavory reputation' when you agreed to underwrite his business...or when you were collecting all those nice, fat premiums? Get this through your bean-counting heads—you even try to stonewall my client on his perfectly reasonable claim and it'll be peanuts compared to what it's going to cost you in litigation...and then you'll STILL have to pay up, got that?"

His phone buzzed and his eyebrow lifted when he saw the name on the Caller ID display. Now what the heck? Rudy Gamsbart never called him directly; he always went through one of his clerks. Well, only one way to find out.

"Counselor? Yes, this is Rodenberg, why...?"

His coffee cup went tumbling to the floor where it broke into a dozen pieces.

"He did WHAT?"

The Honorable Judge George L. Schatten had just finished dropping off his youngest at day-care and was turning left onto Walnut when the radio suddenly muted and a feminine, electronic voice began to solemnly recite, "Incoming Call...Incoming Call...Incoming..."

The woodchuck let out an oath under his breath. Right in the middle of his favorite Ted Nutria solo, wouldn't you know it? And then he looked at the center console screen...and his brows shot upwards and came down hard.

"Answer call," he grumbled, and then he said. "Rodenberg! What the heck do YOU want?"

Judge Schatten's Lepus SUV screeched to a sudden halt as his foot jammed down on the brake pedal, a chorus of angry car-horns blaring in its wake.

The woodchuck didn't hear any of it.

"He did WHAT?"

Lieutenant Albert Tufts, ZPD Cybercrimes was studying his laptop screen, reading the morning news, when a popup window appeared in the upper-right corner

Ofcr. Lrdnr, ZPD CyCr;

"Bos, U there? MSGs frm AGs ofc & chf Bgo - C-rus prob."

Tufts let out a small chitter and typed.

, ZPD CyCr:

"Ys. M Hr. Btr B Gd,"

His next words weren't typed but spoken out loud...very loudly, and to no one in particular.

"He did WHAT?"

Nick Wilde had just finished his breakfast and put the dishes in the sink, (no mean feat, considering it was already stacked halfway to the ceiling,) He was just getting ready to call his mother when his cell-phone beat him to the punch and started buzzing in his paw. Grateful for any excuse to put off the thing he'd been dreading since last night, he answered without even looking to see who it was.

It turned out to be...

"Lieutenant Tufts?" he said, ears standing upright. What the...? Wasn't that Kaibab squirrel supposed to loathe him? Then, what the heck was he calling Nick at home for? "Sir, why are you...?"

His question ended in a fox scream.

"He did WHAT?"

Judy Hopps was in the middle of brushing her teeth when her cell-phone rang, and so she was unable to get to it in time. When she finally did, she saw that she had missed a call from her partner...and that he had also left her a text. 'Call me back, ASAP!'

The grey-furred bunny-doe frowned; it wasn't especially unusual for Nick to call her at this time of the morning ...only what the heck was so dang urgent?

She pressed the call-back button and waited. When he picked up, Nick dispensed with any greeting and gave her the news straight away.

Judy nearly pitched over backwards.

"He did WHAT?"

Erin Hopps was a lucky young rabbit, if she hadn't forgotten her sun-hat and gone back to her room to get it, Judy's call would have caught her in the presence of her mother and two of her siblings. (It was her turn to help out at the produce stand today.) She had just grabbed it when Bunny Raitt's voice warbled from her smart-phone, " Let's give 'em something to talk about... "

Erin pulled it out and saw Judy's name on the ID display. Oh, sweet cheeze n' crackers, NOW what...another video?

She thumbed the 'accept' button.

"Hey Jude, I can only talk for a few min..."

That was as far as the young doe-bunny got, before she was screaming even louder than Nick.

"He did WHAT?"

"He escaped, sis," Judy repeated, sounding almost as if she couldn't believe it herself, "Conor Lewis escaped from custody last night. I'm on my way to the precinct right now to meet with Nick and Chief Bogo."

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Author's note:

Okay, I admit it; I played rather shamelessly with the timeline of how a real prison release works in this one, but if I'd 'told it like it is', this episode would be 150 pages long, and probably the most boring thing I've ever written.

A 'Rabbit' – Prison slang for a habitual escape artist.

To 'Go Rabbit' – Prison slang for making an escape.