The Fire Triangle, A Zootopia Fanfiction -- Part One: Fuel - 97

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 11 –The Fire Next Time

(Pt. 5...Continued)

"For crying out loud, what's TAKING so long; did the stupid city finally decide to crack down or something? (Yeah, that would be my luck.")

Conor Lewis craned his neck and peered down the track. Nothing in sight, not yet anyway; he might as well just sit down.

Parking himself on the upturned remains of large-mammal ice-chest, he kicked back and settled in to wait.

It was relatively cool today, which was good; what wasn't so good was that the sky was roiling with lead-bottom clouds, offering the threat of rain. Conor had decidedly mixed feelings about that possibility. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was to get hit with a downpour in the middle of a supply run, especially with his larder almost empty. He was taking a risk by going out today—and it could easily go from bad to worse. If a storm hit while he was on the way out, not good, but he could handle it; he'd have to cancel the run and try again later but at least his purchases wouldn't be ruined. If the rains came while he was headed home however, THAT could end up a stinkin' calamity—all of his provisions soaked and fit only for the dumpster.

On the other paw, the threat of inclement weather would thin out the streets a little; the fewer animals he came in contact with today, the better. More to the point, it gave him an excuse to don a poncho and a broad brimmed drover's hat, thus further adding to his disguise. (He normally never wore either of those items.)

Not that the young silver fox would have been recognizable without them; his silver-black fur was now the color of charcoal ash, and his burning amber eyes had been altered to a dark, midnight brown, (courtesy of some theatrical contact lenses.)

The regular applications of deodorizer and a dab or two of musk underneath the arms had transformed his scent into that of an arctic fox as well, (he hoped!)

Just to add a bit more depth to the illusion, Conor had used duck-tape to make the holes on the brim his hat a little smaller than normal, thus permitting only the top 2/3rds of his ears to stick through. It was none too comfortable, but it made those ears appear smaller than they actually were; much closer to arctic-fox-size than before. A pair of thick-soled sandals completed the masquerade, adding perhaps half an inch to his height.

One of the nice things about being only 14 (or whatever) was that you weren't required to carry identification. Nonetheless, Conor had some, just in case, a virtual ID, fake of course, uploaded onto his cell phone. To cover the costs of his provisioning, he had a prepaid debit card in his wallet...which would lead the cops nowhere should they happen to get their paws on it. If need be, he could return the funds to his bank account and wipe it clean with the touch of a cell-phone button.

A pair of dark splotches bloomed on the gravel beside him; he hoped it wasn't a harbinger of things to come. If he was forced to abandon his mission today, (he couldn't help but think of it as a mission,) he'd have no choice but to crack into the MREs Danny Tipperin had left stashed in the loft.

A couple of nights earlier, just out of curiosity, he had tried one, a vacuum packed pizza square.

Two bites and it had gone straight into the wastebasket. Never again, the young fox had vowed...not unless he was starving. (If anyone had asked him, he would have described the experience as 'like eating a flip-flop with tomato sauce.')

He looked down the tracks again. Still no sign of anyone coming; dangit, he needed to get this show on the road.

In actuality, he had already fulfilled the first part of today's task, paying a surreptitious visit to the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts in the wee hours of the morning, (a foray that had been a scouting mission rather than a resupply run.)

Getting into the school and then making his exit had been a piece of cake. With classes let out for the summer, only a skeleton crew remained on duty...and they didn't clock in until straight-up 8:00 at the earliest. As for the security system, it had been about as difficult to penetrate as a styrofoam cooler. Conor held no illusions however. Next time was going to be a lot more difficult. Still, he'd picked up some valuable intel for when he went back.

He'd been hoping to make that scouting run for some time now, but hadn't dared—not until the heat died down a bit. The ZPD had started asking questions around ZAPA even before his escape from custody. Afterwards, they'd grilled everyone who'd known him, students and faculty alike—treating them as if they were suspects themselves, (Conor had seen the police report.) They had also thoroughly searched his room and his locker, finding nothing of value. Nor had any of the animals they'd subjected to that makeshift third degree been able to tell them anything useful.

None of this had been surprising to the fugitive young silver fox. Since Day One at the Academy, he had always kept his 'extracurricular activities' well hidden from his friends and teachers. When he'd cleared out for the summer, he'd left nothing behind in his room or his locker; not even pawprints.

His room...

Conor had never intended to live on campus, (assuming he was accepted into the Academy.) If and when he got in, he had always planned to commute to and from his classes. All that changed when he was awarded the Gazelle Scholarship, which came with free room and board...and that had come with an unexpected dividend, one he hadn't discovered until later.

The Gazelle Scholarship...

That...let's face it, she was the one thing about this whole episode capable of bringing a flush of guilt to Conor's cheeks. How disappointed she must have been when she'd learned of his arrest—especially after all she'd done for him. As the young fox himself had quickly found out after starting his classes, Gazelle was not the kind of animal to just give out a scholarship and then forget about it. If there was anyone he owed an explanation, it was her; (well-l-l, her and possibly one other animal.)

He could take at least a little comfort in the knowledge that there was one rather amusing side to the story. According to the ZPD police files when 'Tuffguy' Tufts had attempted to interview The Angel with Horns, he had found himself stymied by a phalanx of attorneys...all of them every bit as tough and tenacious as Vernon J. Rodenberg. (Ah, there was someone else who had to be mightily disappointed, Conor thought to himself.)

He shrugged and shook it off; what was done was done, and there was no going back. He needed to keep his mind sharp; stay focused on the task ahead of him; the heck with the past.

So far, that task was shaping up nicely; not one of the animals Conor had encountered since leaving the loft had recognized him...but then, he had yet to meet up with anyone he knew either. His disguise might fool a stranger or two...but supposing he bumped into Mike Daehan, or Dana, or Jason, or even—heaven forbid—Nick Wilde. He doubted ANY disguise would fool that fox, not for more than a minute.

He had a bicycle with him this morning; neither his messenger-bike, nor the one given back to him upon his 'release' from jail, (the Bolt wasn't going anywhere for a while.) No this was the ride he used whenever he needed to haul cargo; nearly long enough to pass for a tandem-bike but with cargo panniers in place of a rear seat. It also came with electric power assist and was rigged to pull a bike trailer as well.

Conor had one of those with him too; currently folded into a flat square and propped against the rear wheel of his bike.

He looked down the tracks a third time. Was that a black dot in the distance? No...YES! Finally someone was coming. Now if only there'd be enough room on board for both him and his bike and trailer.

There'd been no question of shopping for provisions in any of the usual places; that one was a no brainer. On the other paw, taking on supplies in a place where he wasn't likely to be known would entail some traveling—and that carried its own risks. The more time he spent on the street, the greater the chances were of someone recognizing him. This was doubly true when you factored in the young fox's age. At 14, he wasn't even old enough for a learner's permit, much less a full-fledged driver's license. Oh sure, he access to a car, and he could have ginned up a fake DL easily enough. Heck, he already looked a good two or three years older than his actual age, (arctic foxes tend to be smaller in size than their red-fox cousins.)

But then what? Bottom line, he didn't know HOW to drive...and he sure as heck wasn't about to risk 'learning on the job'—not while the cops were already looking for him.

That left only one other option, public transportation—and all the surveillance cameras that came with it. Yes, Conor had tweaked the ZPD's facial recognition software; even if he hadn't, the algorithm probably wouldn't recognize him now anyway.

Even so operating under the watchful eye of the police was NOT a prospect the fugitive young silver fox relished. You just never knew...

There was, however, an alternative to taking the bus or the ZTA Metro; Zootopia's UN-official light rail system, known by many different names, but most often referred to as the Pallet Express.

It ran on the tracks that had once belonged to the old Zootopia Trolley and Tram line—before that had been discarded in favor of the new Metro system.

Afterwards, the city fathers, citing budgetary constraints, had left the old rails intact. Over the years a number of proposals for what to do with them had drifted in and out of City Hall; lose the rails and turn the trolley line into a bike path, rip up the tracks, and sell off the land, refurbish the line and incorporate it into the ZTA; one rather enterprising Councilmammal had even proposed running a gas pipeline along the route. (She'd been quickly shouted down.)

And so the old trolley line system had just sat there. City Hall knew it existed of course, but what no one seemed to realize was just how extensive the old line was. It ran all the way from the Meadowlands down to Savanna Central, with numerous branches along the way. (At one point, it passed within a block of Nick's old house in Happytown. )

If the powers that be couldn't make up their minds about what to do with the old trolley tracks, they'd at least been able to make a decision about the old trolley cars—scrap 'em! (Even then, they'd missed a couple; the car where Doug the sheep had set up his illicit Nighthowler lab had been one of the few that 'got away.')

If anyone had thought that junking the trolley cars would be 'that's that' for the old light-rail system, they had reckoned without the ingenuity of Zootopia's underclass—particularly the younger members. It had taken a while; up until about five years ago the trolley line tracks had remained wholly untouched and largely forgotten...until someone had come up with the inevitable idea. No trolley-cars, nooo problem; we'll just build our own.

They were simple affairs to say the least. Nail together a couple of shipping pallets—hence the name, Pallet Express—saw a hole in the floor for the motor, mount it on a pair of old trolley axels, (easily obtained at the city dump, ) put handles on either end, stick on an engine, hook the engine to the wheels with an improvised drive-belt, and you were good to go.

Conor pricked up his ears and looked down the track again. Yep, he'd been right; at last a pallet-car was coming, he could hear the engine now. It was 6hp by the sound of it, of the kind used on small-mammal riding mowers, (the most common type of power plant on the Pallet Express.)

Resisting the temptation to reach for his binoculars, Conor shaded his eyes with a paw, trying for a better look. It appeared that the oncoming pallet-car had only one animal on board, two if you counted the operator. Good, there'd be room for both him and his bike and trailer. With a possible rainstorm coming, he was in no mood to wait...and who knew when another car might come along? There was no such thing as a schedule on the Pallet Express line.

When the pallet-car finally arrived, it turned out that the young fox's eyes had not deceived him; there were two animals on board...although neither one was a passenger They were prairie dogs, brother and sister by the look of them. Neither one was even as big as the engine powering the car, but they both seemed to know what they were doing. Besides, they were the only game in town right now.

Conor wheeled his bike forward as the car squeaked to a halt. "How much for me and my ride?" he asked.

The girl prairie-dog looked him over for a second before answering, "Two dollars for you, and two for the bike and trailer."

Conor chewed his lip for a second; the standard fare on the Pallet Express was a buck a head for small mammals, and the same price for a bicycle. Nonetheless, he nodded and quickly got up the cash. That was another unwritten rule of Zootopia's guerrilla light-rail system—no haggling; you either paid what the operator asked or you waited for the next car. And anyway if the price was high, it wasn't exactly exorbitant either.

He paid his money and climbed aboard the pallet car. There were no seats, so he plopped himself down tailor fashion with his bike across his lap. The girl prairie dog nodded to her brother, the engine revved and they were on their way.

There wasn't much to see at first; the first part of the route passed through Zootopia's the waterfront industrial zone and from there on to Happytown, not exactly the city's garden spot. It was good place to pick up passengers, though. At the very next stop, the pallet car acquired three more riders, a warthog and a pair of ground squirrels. As with Conor, the prairie dogs charged a higher than normal fare, $2 bucks and $1.00 respectively; (rodents usually rode for 50 cents.) Though he'd never let it show, the young silver fox was secretly pleased by this. So, he hadn't been charged extra because his species.

At the final stop in Happytown, yet another member of that species came on board, an older vixen in well-worn denims and a translucent rain-coat. Conor hoped she wouldn't try to strike up a conversation, but she barely glanced at him as she seated herself. And as the pallet-car pulled out again, he noticed that she was toting a collapsible shopping cart. Could she possibly be headed for the same destination as himself? Well, it didn't matter anyway, as long as she kept to herself.

That destination was a farmer's market on the east side of Old Growth City, the alpine forest section, where the district butted up against the mountain range separating it from Tundratown. It was bit further from home than Conor would have liked, but had the advantage of being a place where he absolutely wasn't known.

Also, and perhaps even more important, because of its close proximity to Tundratown the Mountainview Farmer's Market was no stranger to arctic foxes; he wouldn't stand out from the crowd in that location. There were also several stores nearby where he could pick up the other items he couldn't get at the outdoor market. When you added all that together, it would be worth the extra miles—or that was Conor's hope anyway.

One decision he'd had to make before getting on the rails was whether or not to bring his messenger bag and/or his laptop. (There was no question of bringing the 'hard-core' backpack; that would have been a serious case of overkill...as well as a risky proposition. What if a cop demanded to see the contents?)

In the end he'd decided to chuck everything except for his tactical pen and a smartphone. He would have to depend entirely on stealth and guile to see him to his destination and back again but that, in fact, was a big reason why he'd chosen to travel 'naked'. Having no other defensive tools handy would force the young silver fox to keeps his wits about him. It was Danny Tipperin who'd summed it up best.

"All the hardware in the world is no substitute for what's up here, kid" he'd said tapping the side of his head. "Never forget, this is our species' most important weapon; anything else is just an extension."

That particular nugget of wisdom had come through many a time for Conor Lewis in the intervening years.

After leaving Happytown, the pallet car rolled north along the borderline between Savanna Central and The Rainforest District. At one point they passed within 50 yards of the Peace Rock Guitar Cooperative...which might as well have been fifty miles, since it was separated from the tracks by a deep gorge.

Twice, before they got there, they met up with a pallet-car going the other way. In such instances the operators would pull to a halt and either toss a coin or draw straws. Afterwards the loser and his passengers would have to lift their car up off the tracks in order to let the winner pass. The prairie dogs lost the first toss, and won the second...which, by rights, they shouldn't have, since the other pallet-car had a much larger power plant then theirs.

Not all of makeshift trolley-cars that plied the old rails ran on 6hp engines. Some had 10, 15, even 25hp motors. Conor had heard of one once, supposedly powered by a 500cc Snowmobile engine, (though he'd always suspected that story was an urban legend.)

Leaving Fruit Valley behind, the car began to slow as the grade ascended sharply. A couple of times, it dropped to the point where it would have been quicker to walk—if such a thing were possible. Here, it was nothing but sheer cliffs above and more below. Over on the left, an occasional slow, stately movement could be seen through the trees; the Rainforest District Skytram. For a short while the two lines kept pace, until the pallet car crossed over a bridge above the final skytram station entrance.

By now, the late-morning rush was on and a small crowd of varying species was gathered on the platform below, awaiting their turn to board the skytram. As the pallet car passed overhead, one or two of them glanced briefly upwards, but most paid little or no attention. This was nothing they hadn't seen before.

There was one exception; a young tayra pointing upwards while tugging eagerly at his father's sleeve. Just before they vanished from sight, (as the pallet-car rounded a bend,) Conor saw the older tayra firmly shake his head. He sniggered quietly to himself, knowing what was coming next:

"But daaaaaaad...!"

"NO!"

After ten more minutes of uphill chugging, the makeshift trolley passed through a cleft in the rocks, descending rapidly into a different world; Old Growth City, Zootopia's temperate forest zone —known affectionately to the locals as OGC.

OGC had the unique distinction of being one of the few districts in Zootopia without an artificially controlled climate. As result the eco-scape tended to vary, depending on where in you happened to be at the time. Here, where it butted up against the Rainforest District. Old Growth City resembled a Pacific Northwest rainforest; cedar, hemlock, and giant spruce trees; logs and branches sheathed in moss, ferns and fiddleheads sprouting everywhere.

Now the pallet-car was moving rapidly, descending into Old Growth City's central valley. Here the evergreens gave way to deciduous foliage, towering oaks, spreading beech and grey-clad birch. This part of the journey had always been Conor Lewis's favorite; him and everyone else. Rather than dropping down all the way to the ground, the pallet express snaked through the district at just below tree-top level; (hardly a surprise, given the large number of arboreal species that dwelt here.)

In this part of the district, the pallet express was almost like a rollercoaster; what it lacked in thrills, it more than made up for in scenery, snaking its way around and past magnificent tree trunks as thick as the base of a water-tower. All around the rails, the forest was a bustle of activity—animals scurrying up, down and through the trees, or flying along the web of ziplines, that stretched out across the canopy. OGC moved like no other district in Zootopia—in three, rather than two dimensions—and nobody who lived here would have wanted it any other way.

And now they could see the meandering course of Old Grow City's main waterway, The Clearwater River. It was every bit as active as the treetops above; semi-aquatic mammals of all kinds plying their way along the watercourse, along with craft of what seemed like a bazillion shapes and sizes. Every square and rotunda that they passed over seemed to have some kind of activity going on.

Here, absolutely no one looked up as the pallet car passed overhead, and for good reason. The residents of Old Growth City were bound and determined to keep the Pallet Express a secret from the tourist crowd. It wasn't that they minded sharing; it was that if the out-of-towners ever did get wind of the guerilla rail line, they'd soon be riding it just for fun; (remember that tayra kid?) And then it would be only a matter of time before one of them got hurt while riding it.

...And then they'd file a lawsuit against the city, and then the city fathers would finally take it upon themselves pull up the tracks, once and for all.

No way did anyone who lived in this district want that to happen; Old Growth City had exactly one ZTA Metro station within its limits; so move on tourists, nothing to see here.

As the pallet-car rolled northeast through OGC, the topography once more began to change. With each passing block the trees became gradually less dense, shifting from deciduous to back to coniferous again. This time, however the forest was more alpine in nature; Douglas Fir, Blue Spruce, and Lodgepole Pine. That told Conor they were getting close to the section of OGC adjoining Tundratown...and also that they were nearing his destination.

And around the next curve, there it was. He couldn't see it from the tracks—there were several buildings in the way—but he could smell it easily enough; the kaleidoscopic scent of a hundred kinds of produce, plus numerous other distinctive aromas.

At the next station, really nothing more than a slab of concrete and a lean-to built from scrap-wood, the young fox disembarked and unfolded his bike trailer. Several other animals got off as well, including the vixen that had joined them in Happytown. So, she WAS on her way to the Mountainview Farmer's Market,; good, maybe she'd know where to find the entrance. (Although Conor had done his homework, he'd never actually been here.)

Following her into an alleyway between two buildings, the young fox emerged to find the market directly across the street from where he was standing. And there was the entrance, only a few yards to the left. Well, that problem was out of the way, easy-peasy. Best of all, the stores on either side of him were a Lowe's hardware and a Targoat. Perfect; he could pick up the other items he needed and shop for groceries afterwards.

Stopping first at the Lowe's he bought three tubes of superglue and some ducktape; you could never have too much ducktape. What he really needed however were some new padlocks. The ones he had at home were all of the same type as the one he'd used to secure the 'money locker'...and therefore worthless. (If he tried to use one of those things now, he might as well be hanging up a sign, 'Conor Lewis Was Here.')

From Targoat, he purchased a couple of shirts, a furbrush, paw sanitizer, some DVDs of movies he hadn't seen, two spare thumbdrives, and three rolls of dental floss, (a most versatile survival tool, although most animals didn't know it.)

After that it was on to the farmer's market.

There were three rows of different size bike racks near the entrance...all of them under the watchful of eye of a security-guard, the young fox was pleased to note , a Siberian tiger. (It came as no small relief to the young silver fox that he was a rent-a-cop, rather than regular ZPD.)

Conor left the bike secured to the rack, but not the trailer. Thanks to a pair of folding struts, it could be easily converted into a wheelbarrow.

Passing through the entrance, he made a pleasant discovery. Unlike a few other open air markets he'd been to, this one wasn't laid out haphazardly. There were different sections for different kinds of goods, and a map-board posted on prominent display. Great; it would save him a whole lot of time, a precious commodity in his current situation.

Aside from the layout, it was your typical farmer's market; stalls done up in bright, cheery colors, some sporting pennants, a few flying balloons, and many with chalkboards, proclaiming the special of the day. They ranged from booths with simple, paw-painted signs, to some that looked like products of a professional design studio. All of the animals in charge, (most of them anyway,) looked like expatriates from Bunnyburrow, overalls, dungarees, and plaid shirts with rolled-up sleeves.

Conor's first stop was the fruit section, where he purchased two flats of cherries, two of blueberries, and one of strawberries. (He would have preferred blackberries, but they weren't quite in season just yet.) To these he added a bag of apples and a smaller one of pears. A bunch of bananas rounded things out before he moved on the vegetable section. Here, his choices were somewhat more limited—foxes don't do the leafy green stuff. He ended up purchasing a bag of potatoes, a basket of tomatoes, six onions and a bunch of carrots. (Yes, foxes will do those.) Along the way, he picked up an assortment of herbs and seasoning.

His next stop would normally have been the stalls selling plant and insect-based 'meat products'. Not today. As the young silver fox had noted upon going to ground, if you truly wanted to alter your scent, the best way was to alter your diet. And so his next destination was yet another reason why he'd chosen this particular market to do his provisioning. Being close to Tundratown, it had a section devoted to fish-and seafood sellers...and that was where he went next.

Crossing into the fish market from the produce section was almost like traversing a national border. No bright colors here, everything was done up in subdued tones of white, grey, and low-contrast greens and blues. All of the aisle-ways were coated with a faint sheen of moisture, as if they'd been recently hosed down; (they probably had.) The air tasted salty and...well, fishy.

Switching to a seafood diet was actually not that daunting a prospect for the young silver fox. While fish was by no means his species' first meal of choice, they wouldn't turn up their noses at it either. And besides, this wouldn't be his first time down that road. Three years previously, he'd been running with a gang of sea-mink, semi-aquatic mammals that lived almost entirely on fish and shellfish. He'd had two choices back then; eat what they ate, or starve—and he wasn't about to starve.

Luckily for Conor, he'd picked a good time to make the switch; both halibut and salmon were in season right now; so were razor clams and spot-prawns. In no time flat, he had all the provisions necessary to last another...

Something teased at the back of his nostrils, a pungent, nearly long-forgotten scent. For an instant, he was back in Zoo York City, at Gerry McCrodon's birthday bash...or some kind of party anyway. It was the last time he'd encountered this particular smell; an aroma at once both tantalizing and repellant.

Conor almost ignored what his nose was telling him; except, dangit his mouth was actually watering. If anyone had told him this would happen four years ago...

He surrendered to the inevitable and followed his nose.

It was in the next aisle over, a double booth with a sign overhead, reading 'Bowland's – Acres of Clams'

Nice, but that wasn't why Conor was here, he had all the clams he wanted right now. No, what piqued his interest were the contents of a big, plastic tub, placed strategically between the two front tables. He couldn't smell what was inside—the scent that had brought him here had come from somewhere else in the market-stall—but then, he didn't need to; the sign above the bin said it all.

Yakina Bay Oysters – Fresh Harvest

Conor Lewis felt like shaking his head. The first time he'd eaten one of these things had been on a bet—between Denis and James McCrodon Jr. Junior had bet Denis a hundred smackers that the young silver fox couldn't eat a raw oyster and keep it down for more than five minutes. (It was only after making the wager that he'd told Conor about it.)

Denis had won that bet only because the fox kid James Jr. had tried to play for a patsy would rather have died than hurl it in front of half The Company. Afterwards, every time oysters were served at a McCrodon family gathering, Conor would eat another one in Junior's presence—just to stick it to that snot-nose punk a little deeper. Eventually, he'd even learned to like them...so much so, that he was feeling a wave of nostalgia and a growling in his stomach. "Help you, son?"

Startled from his reverie, Conor looked up to see...well, what do you know? It was another sea-mink, the first one he'd encountered since his arrival in Zootopia. Thin, but with a wiry frame, dressed in flannels and yellow coveralls; he was also slightly popeyed, as if suffering from a minor-league glandular condition. He seemed friendly enough however.

"How much for these?" the young fox asked, pointing at the tub.

"That'll be 19.99 a pound," the sea mink answered at once. He had just the slightest French lilt to his voice; Canadian, probably. Then he waved a paw over the tank. "Want to try one?"

For about of third of a second, Conor hesitated. Was he being mocked? But then he remembered; agggghhh, grrrrrrr—riiiiight! He was currently in guise of an arctic fox, a species much more at home eating shellfish than their larger, red-furred cousins.

"Sure," he said. The sea-mink fished out an oyster with a pair of tongs and passed it to him. Conor took it, inserted his thumb-claw between the shells and zipped downward, popping the top half as neatly as church-key opening a soda bottle.

"Not bad," the sea-mink said, nodding his approval.

Conor just smiled; he was really only fair to middling at this, not even close to Kieran McCrodon's skill-level. He could shuck oysters so fast it looked like a magic trick.

Or rather....he'd been able to, once upon a time.

Banishing the thought, the young fox raised the shell to his lips, tilted his head back and slurped down the contents. Hmmm, very nice; bitter-salty, with just a hint of licorice.

"I'll take a half pound of these," he said. (a full pound would be a few too many for just one adolescent fox.)

With the addition of the oysters, Conor's trailer was now filled to overflowing. No problem; he could stow the excess in his bike panniers. Now, if he could only just make it back home. (With a full load to haul, finding a pallet-car driver willing to take him was going to be a tougher proposition than before.)

Wheeling his way back to the old trolley line, the young silver fox was in a buoyant mood. Overhead, the sky was clearing rapidly, and while it still wasn't entirely free of clouds, it was obvious by now that there'd be no such thing as a rain-out today.

His gamble had paid off.

Conor was in such a euphoric state of mind, that he made a small but portentous error. Taking the alley between the wrong pair of buildings, he came face to face with reality.

When he emerged into the space behind them, he saw that the pallet-car 'station' was actually a fair distance away. No biggie, he was little ways up the tracks from. If a pallet car showed up right now he could wave it down or call out to the operator to hold up until he got there.

That was when he heard the hissing noise, coming from behind him

When he turned to look, he saw a lynx and a Dahl sheep, both with their backs facing towards him. As far as the young fox could tell, they were early to mid-teens; hunkering before a monolith-sized junction box, putting the finishing touches on some impromptu, graffiti artwork.

Conor shrugged and began to turn away; this wasn't anything he hadn't seen before and besides, it was none of his...YES, IT WAS!

He spun around in a fast double-take. What the sheep and lynx had been applying to the junction-box had only just now registered with him.

It was the V-For-Vendetta logo, with the V reworked into fox's face and with a caption reading, "He Fought the Law—And HE Won!"

As if Conor Severus Lewis wouldn't recognize this piece of artwork for what it was; he felt his jaw drop halfway to the ground.

Had he been aware of the graffiti campaign earlier, he would also have known that this piece of artwork was far more sophisticated than the crude swatches of spray paint that had started it all.

The fox in the center of the image was clearly recognizable as a silver-fox...with spiked fur, sly, narrow eyes, and a wicked smile, with his tongue protruding from the side of his muzzle. The ring surrounding him was lit up in dazzling 'hot rod' flames of red and gold, and the accompanying text was rendered in the puffy, geometric font favored by graffiti artists everywhere. The lynx was currently shading in the letters to give them a 3-D effect.

Without warning, the sheep's ear turned backwards, and he tapped his partner on the arm. The lynx glanced quickly over his shoulder and then the two of them stood up and turned around. Their faces were wary rather than hostile; nonetheless Conor was on his guard.

Then, to his immense surprise, he saw the sheep pull out a cell phone and angrily punch in a number.

"Dude, what the heck...you had ONE job." He stopped, listened for bit, and then rolled his eyes in frustration, "I don't CARE if it isn't the cops; you were supposed to text if you saw anybody coming."

At this, Conor couldn't help feeling some sympathy. Before commencing their improvised art-class these two had wisely made certain to deploy a lookout—who had dropped the ball it seemed. The sheep, whoever he was, was absolutely right to be torqued.

But then he stowed the phone and looked at the interloper.

"You want something, dude?" He asked, in the tone of a mammal with a chip on his shoulder.

The young fox swiftly raised his paws. "Peace brothers, I'm not gonna snitch, I'm just wondering what that stuff's all about." He was pointing at artwork on the junction-box.

The other two kids regarded each for a second, and when they looked back at the newcomer again, their faces were a mixture of bewilderment and contempt—mostly the latter.

"What, you don't know?" the lynx queried, mildly incredulous. "Where you been dude, livin' under a rock?"

"What Ray-Cat said," The sheep concurred, "Whoa fox, don't you have a computer at home?" He was staring as if Conor had arrived here by way of a fall off a turnip truck.

The fugitive young silver fox thought fast, and talked even faster.

"Yeah, I gotta computer," he snarled, his voice full of bitters, "But I'm not allowed to use it. My jerk step-dad grounded me and took away all my internet privileges; no lap-top, no smart phone, no game console, nothing. This is the first time I've even been allowed out of the house in the last two weeks." He waved paw at the bike-trailer, adding, "And that's only happening coz HE didn't feel like shopping today."

The reaction to this ploy was everything Conor could have hoped for; the sheep and lynx's expressions changed instantly from sardonic to sympathetic. (And why not, every kid knows that the average stepdad is a grade-a dirt-bag.)

"Awww, bummer, dude," the lynx said, reaching out to offer him four. "Anyway, I'm..."

The young fox hurriedly threw up his paws.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...don't give me your names guys. If a cop asks me about you, I wanna be able to say, 'I don't know' without having to lie about it."

"Yeah, good thought," the Dahl sheep said, giving his partner a slapstick pawlm upside the head. "Get your brain in gear, dude!"

Before an argument could start, Conor jumped in with the question that had been plaguing him ever since he got here.

"Soooo, what IS that stuff all about?" he asked, pointing once more at the junction box. He had probably hung here for too long already, but he had to know—was that artwork what he thought it was?

It took him all of ten seconds to find out. The pair of would-be Michelantelopes turned out to be only too happy to fill him in.

"There's this silver fox kid, Conor Lewis..."

The 'arctic' fox hearing the story should have found it all too recognizable—and parts of it were. The rest, however, had been seriously embellished. According to the lynx, for example, the heroic young silver fox of his tale had stolen a police car after walking out of Precinct-1

Conor was neither surprised nor dismayed by any of this; since when does a rumor NOT pick up a few more lurid details with every retelling? No, what bothered him was the discovery that the art session he'd just stumbled onto was anything but an isolated incident.

"It's a movement dude, a revolution," the sheep told him excitedly, pointing at his handiwork. "John Law thinks he can stick us with that anti-vandalism thang—so we're gonna stick it to HIM. Kids have been posting this puppy all over Zootopia—and the cops can't stop it. There hasn't been a single one of us busted yet."

Conor seriously doubted that statement...and even if it was true, it couldn't last, not with an attitude like this guy's. "Don't never assume you're smarter than the cops," Danny Tipperin had all but drilled into his head, time and time again. "That's a one-way ticket to the graybar; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

"And this is only the beginning," the lynx chimed in, putting a paw on partner's shoulder.

His statement made a certain young silver-fox sincerely wish he hadn't eaten that oyster earlier; at this moment it was two clicks away from exiting his stomach the way it had come.

Okay, he'd heard enough, and now he needed to get out of here.

As luck would have it, a graceful exit was even now coming his way; from the corner of his eye he spied what looked like a pallet car coming...heading down from the north, the direction of Tundratown and the Meadowlands; in other words, going his way.

He turned back to the sheep and lynx.

"Oops, looks like my ride's coming. Sorry guys; gotta go if I want to make it home on time." He let the tone of his voice imply what not getting home on time would entail—and the two graffiti artists grasped it at once.

"No sweat dude," the sheep said, and then nodded at the full-up bike trailer, "Need any help with that?"

Under normal circumstances, Conor would have gladly accepted the offer. These times, however, were anything but normal.

And besides that...

"Naw, I'm good," he said, and then pointed at the nearly completed artwork, "and anyway, you guys need to get that done and then get your tails outta here. The next guy who shows up might like what he sees; you follow what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, for sure." The sheep answered, looking nervously around for a second. He reached to offer a farewell high-four. "Keep it real, fox."

"You too, guys." Conor answered him and then hurried up the tracks to catch his ride—he hoped; with a full-load of provisions, the car would have to be pretty darn empty to accommodate him.

In fact, except for the operator, a hooded skunk, it was completely empty, another stroke of luck. And...strokesy number threesy, (as Nick Wilde might have said,) it had a more powerful engine than the car that had brought him here, a modified 9 hp outboard.

The bad news was that the skunk wanted $10.00 to take the young 'arctic fox' on board, plus $5.00 each for the bike and trailer. It was highway robbery by Pallet Express standards, but at this point Conor would have traded in a kidney for a ride home.

All during that ride, he became aware of just how right the sheep and lynx had been; there really was a revolution of sorts brewing. Every third of a mile it seemed, they came up another fine example of V-for-Vendetta wall-art.

"Jiminy Christmas," he marveled to himself, "how the heck did I miss all that stuff on the way up?"

By the time they crossed the gap into the Rainforest District, he had fallen into a dark, brooding silence.

Great...fannntastic; he had been turned into a...ahhh, what was the word he was looking for? Oh yeah, a cause célèbre; just what he needed when it was essential for him to maintain a low profile. Jeez-Lou-WEEZE, this could only mean trouble. If nothing else it would add some serious impetus to the ZPD's efforts to recapture the fox kid who'd busted out of Precinct-1. They would figure, not entirely without reason, that if they took down the graffiti-army's figure head, they would take down the movement as well.

Of course, it could also backfire—spectacularly. If, in attempting to recapture the fugitive, Conor Lewis, the ZPD made a martyr out of him, his name would become an instant rallying cry for every kid in Zootopia with an authority issue; (not exactly a comforting thought to the young silver fox, since in that case he'd be dead.)

Even worse, the graffiti campaign might just possibly attract the attention of Aker Security Management. Sooner or later, (if it hadn't happened already,) a client of theirs was going to find his property tagged with V-For-Vendetta artwork. And when they brought it to Aker's attention, how long would it be before a certain big-wig bunny-jerk heard about it?

...And when he did, "Sayyyy, the kid in all that artwork is a silver-fox. You don't suppose...? Have it checked out, immediately."

But the worst thing about the Junior V-for-Vendetta movement was this...

Three years previously, when Conor had first hit Zootopia, he had sworn an oath on the memory of his mother; never again would he do wrong by another mammal, (and whatever it took, he would try and make up for the wrong he'd done on behalf of The Company.)

Bottom line, he absolutely did NOT want anyone causing mayhem in his name, and then getting themselves in a jackpot because of it.

Yes—a jackpot; Conor had been to Zootopia Juvenile Court. He knew better than most, the fate that awaited any V-For-Vendetta graffiti artist hauled before Judge Predd. That woodchuck was going to be about as magnanimous as a swarm of angry hornets.

Agggghhh, grrr, it had always been his kryptonite, the thought of another kid getting in trouble because of him. If he was caught again, Conor would take his lumps without complaint ...but dangit, he did NOT want anyone else sucked into that whirlpool along with him.

This couldn't go on; it would be everything he'd fled from when he left Zoo York. He had to DO something—but what?

It wasn't until Conor made it home again, and taking the elevator back upstairs that the first, faint glimmer of an idea came to him. What was it that lynx-kid had said, (or was it the sheep?)

"Don't you have a computer, dude?"

Yes, he had a computer—he had a computer the way a great white shark has teeth.

And maybe—though he had no idea how—maybe that could be the solution to this mess.

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Author's Note:

The Pallet Express has its origins in a number of different sources.  First and foremost there's Cambodia's Bamboo Train (Google it)  Also, as mentioned in the story,  Zootopia does have an abandoned light rail line, (Doug's lab again.)  There's also a piece of concept art showing Nick paying a visit to his father's boarded up tailor's shop in Happytown.  Clearly visible in the background is an abandoned tram car.  And last but not least, the very first Disney cartoon, predating even Mickey Mouse was a short entitled Trolley Trouble, starring Oswald, The Lucky Rabbit.  (Find it on YouTube.)