Taxonomic Rank

Perspective

Nick Wilde had never had much reason to change his perspective.

In his mind, perspective was the shift of an area around him, and he'd always been good at adapting. One never changed to fit what was around them. One merely moved on when it became inconvenient and found another place to call their own. That was life; simple and clean cut, black and white, easy and neat and that was all.

Con or no con, at the end of a day of causing chaos, it was order that he found the most comfort in.

Nick Wilde had never needed to change his perspective.

And his outlook, for the most part, had never changed either. He knew who he was, what he was.

He was Nick Wilde, con artist, Zootopian resident of six years. He was a Fox, a predator, a carnivore and had a fairly decent spot nuzzled into the mid point of the food chain. His favorite color was green, his favorite tie was blue and on his twenty ninth birthday (five years ago) he'd lost his favorite watch in a game of blackjack that could have very well lost him his life instead if they'd seen him counting the cards. He was tall enough, strong enough, cocky enough and smart enough to do what he needed to just get by.

And so that was what he did. He knew who he was and he got by on it.

Nick Wilde had never needed to change his perspective.

And then he'd met Judy Hopps.

It was odd, working with someone who thrived on order and sunk into chaos to find it. To her the world was a grey ball of unknown and in the center of it seemed to be herself. She wasn't sure who she was, what she was or what she would be. Her environment changed constantly, promotions and cases sending her reeling, personality strung on by a leash, following it wherever it went. Her favorite colors changed with the weather, her favorite clothes changed with the job (she'd accidentally fallen asleep in police uniform more than once, and had claimed that it just made it easier to get up in the morning) and was an emotional rollercoaster when emotions were needed.

Her flaws were substantial (self serving and a suck up to a fault) but they balanced themselves out with the need to please and the near infuriating belief that there was good in everyone.

Judy did more than get by. She pursued, she failed, she accepted, she lost and she won. She did far more than she had to and worked on thriving, not just surviving.

She was also a Rabbit. An herbivore. And a natural enemy of all things with pointed teeth.

Especially Foxes.

Truly, it was maddening.

But it was also... something else.

There had been tension, of course. And there always would be. Arguments were common, slammed doors and crossed arms a staple of the strange partnership they'd created. She said things, he'd said more. Snippy comments made about predator and prey, accepting one's place in a crazy world that wanted to stamp you out were what had hurt her the most, and hearing them from him (after, as she'd explained, she'd heard them from the rest of the world) had stung the worst. Not that hearing about the sly, untrusting nature of Foxes had been any better coming from her.

It was around the fourth or fifth argument, storming back to his car, leaving her in her apartment most likely still glaring at the door, that he'd realized what had been so infuriating.

He cared.

Wilde had known too many animals in his life who, food chain, circle of life, kumbaya wise, were lower and higher than he was. They hadn't gotten along because they hadn't meant to get along. And that had been that. He stayed in his place, being wiley and scheming and altogether foxlike and they stayed in theirs, no doubt trying to ensnare him. And for the most part, everyone around him was happy enough to stay in the places he'd marked them with.