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
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Part Two:
Oxidizer
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Now I see I'm all alone
That's the only way to be You'll have your chance again Then you can do the work for me
Richard Thompson
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Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Part 1)
"And I'm breaking out,
Escaping now,
Feeling my faith explo-hode!"
Erin hit the last riff of Hysteria like a battering ram smashing down a castle gate, finishing up with a slap against the strings. The Mews tune had been a tempting choice to play for her audition—it had an absolutely killer bassline—but again, it was a piece that wouldn't allow her to show off the full range of her vocal skills.
Contrary to her sister Judy's impression, the young, white-furred bunny hadn't quit rehearsing for good after playing just one song. She'd gone back several times to her karaoke machine, playing for just as long as she felt like it, and then switching off again. It was a variation of the method she'd used to get ready for her performance later today. She would rehearse for as long as things were going smoothly and then, if she began to feel frustrated, she'd stop, go do something else for a while, and then come back to it later. After one particularly long and intense practice session, she hadn't returned to her bass for three whole days...but when she did, she found that her performance had improved almost exponentially. Pacing yourself; that was the ticket, learning to pace yourself. She wondered if that was what...?
"Nooo, don't think about HIM."
"Erin?"
Oops, was someone calling her? She plucked out her earbuds and yep, it was her big sister, Violet
"Erin...Errrrinnn!"
Hmmm, that sounded kind of shrill. Dangit, was her practice session bothering somebody? She'd had no such problems earlier—but then the last time she'd rehearsed it had been just after 9:00 last night—and this was 7:00 AM, the next morning.
"Aw the heck with it," the young bunny decided, "everybody ought to be up by now."
She set down her bass and called through the door. "Yeah Vi; what up?"
"Mom wants to know if you feel like eating some breakfast."
Erin's stomach responded before she could, offering up a low grumble.
"Oh yeah, I'll be right there, thanks." She turned and switched off the Karaoke machine, smiling self-assuredly. "See, I told you they'd all be up; we're a farm family...DUH!"
When she got to the living room, most of the others had already started eating. That was also standard procedure. In farm country, you didn't wait to eat breakfast; your chores were out there, waiting for you.
In the center of the table, she found a bowl filled with a Hopps breakfast staple—and something highly appropriate for Sahara Square, Jordan Valley Carrot Salad; shredded carrots in orange juice with raisins and cinnamon. Arranged in a semicircle around the bowl were platters of clover and alfalfa sprouts, and a bigger one piled with Timothy hay. The sight and smell made Erin's tummy start to grouse all over again.
Seeing her coming, Stu Junior stood up and got a chair for her, something he almost never did. Erin let him but there was something about his unexpected deference that just didn't sit quite right with her.
"Morning everyone," she said, pulling herself up to the table.
"Morning, Erin!" the others responded in chorus. It was more of a cheer than a greeting—and also a little perplexing. What the heck was up with everyone this morning?
But now...decisions, decisions; what should she have for breakfast? Nothing heavy, but she didn't want to starve herself either.
She elected to split the difference. "Ahhh, can I get some of that hay and some of those clover sprouts...and just a little of the carrot salad?"
"No alfalfa sprouts?" her sister Zoe asked, surprised; they were the younger bunny's favorite. "Are you sure sis? They're really fresh."
Erin felt her mouth twist into a wry expression. "Ahhhh, no thanks, Zoe" she said and patted her tummy. "I-I-I kind of think I need to lay off the legumes this morning."
"Ohhhh, right," the older bunny replied, nodding over a knowing expression.
Instead of passing her the platters however, three different Hopps family members got up from the table and brought them to where she was sitting—after which they insisted upon serving her. "Say 'when' Erin." her sister Violet told her.
Again, the young, white-furred bunny allowed things to run their course; but, ohhh-kay-y-y-y, now she understood what the heck was going on—and it was time to nip this in the bud. Standing up on her chair, she cleared her throat and made a spreading motion with her paws, as if parting a curtain.
"Hey, everyone...hold up for a second, 'kay?"
At once, all conversation around the table ceased and every eye in the room was upon her.
She took a small breath, holding it in for a count of two.
"Look, I know this is a big day for me, and I love you all very, very much...but please stop treating me like I'm a princess or something, 'kay? It's really kind of uncomfortable; I'd rather be just another member of the Hopps family right now...and by the way, I'm GOING to help clear the table when we're done."
The next thing she did was slap a paw against her face. "Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers, did I really just say that?"
"Yes, you did, dear," her mother replied, smiling and lacing her arms together, "and I'm going to hold you to it, too."
"D'ohhhh!"
They were about midway through the dishes, when Erin heard a noise coming from the front of the hamada, something like an especially loud wind-chime. "What the heck...?" she wondered, feeling her nose twitch, and then realized it was the front doorbell. Okay-y-y, but now who could that be at this time of the morning? It wasn't Judy; she was supposed to meet the family later at...
"Never mind, dumb bunny; here's your chance to ditch the KP duties for a while."
"I got it," she said, tossing aside her drying towel.
Too late...and too slow on the draw; her mother was already striding past her, pointing with a finger as she went, "No, I'll get it. You just keep to your work, Erin."
"Ahhhgggg." The young, white-furred bunny would have face pawlmed herself a second time, except—had mom been trying to keep a straight face just now?
Before she was able to decide one way or the other, Bonnie called to her from the front of the house, "Erin, dear? It's for you."
This time, she didn't toss the towel aside, she dropped it in surprise.
"For me...NOW? Who in the name of...? Never mind; do you LIKE drying dishes? Move your tail, bunny-girl!"
Erin hurriedly untied her apron, "Be right there."
When she got to the front hallway, she was unable to see who was there at the door. Her mother was standing in the way, blocking the view. What the...? Was she doing that...on purpose?
"Mom, what's going on?"
By way of response, Bonnie swung herself out of the way...and at once Erin's paws were flying up to her face and her mouth was falling open with a gasp. There, gathered in front of the door, was ..."
"Hiyeeeee, Erin!"
"Oh my God, GUYS!"
It was her posse, all six of them, Terri Blackburn, Cara Combs, Jill Pepper, Tawny Lloyd, Sue Cannon and, last but not least, her BFF, Lisa Chatterton, currently seated on Sue's shoulder.
Sniffing back the tears, Erin threw her arms wide and rushed forward. In mere microseconds she and her buds were packed together in a tight group-hug.
"Oh guys, guys...I can't believe you're here!" the young bunny almost sobbed. She'd had no idea that her friends were coming, although looking back on it, she was more than a tad certain that her mother had known. Of course, having them here would only increase the amount of pressure she'd be under for her audition performance. But that was cool; this was the kind of pressure she liked.
"When did you get here?" she asked, when they finally let go of each other.
It was Sue who answered her. "Last night; my dad drove us."
Erin's eyebrows went up and her nose began to twitch, "What, he drove you...all the way from Bunnyburrow?"
"Aw, he was coming here anyway," the young bobcat explained, waving an airy paw. But then for some odd reason, her eyes moved away and she began to chew on the corner of her mouth. When she spoke again, it was in a hushed, hesitant tone, "He's here to see...to talk to..."
"Craig Guilford...right, I get it," the white-furred bunny finished for her. Strange that the mention of that rogue coyote's name didn't bother her as much as it used to.
"Anyway," Cara Combs said, hastening to break the ice, "we're staying with my Dad's cousin's flock, up in the Meadowlands."
"The Meadowlands," Bonnie Hopps observed from behind Erin, "That's kind of a ways away, isn't it?
Cara flipped a hoof back and forth.
"Well yes, Mrs. Hopps...but beggars can't be choosers, y'know."
"Yes, of course," the portly doe-bunny agreed with a nod...and then she was the one with her nose twitching uneasily, "Listen," she said, focusing on Sue and Cara, "I'd love to invite you in, but. erm..."
"We'll manage it," the young sheep replied, offering a raised thumb and nodding at Sue over shoulder..
They did, but it wasn't easy. The Hopps bunnies had to clear the halls to make room for the pair...and even then, Cara left several tufts of wool on the walls behind her. Fortunately they were nothing that couldn't be easily removed with the swipe of a paw. It was only when the young ewe and bobcat had reached the living room that they were able to stand up straight again.
For the rest of the posse, the going was much easier. Jill and Tawny were both rabbits, so negotiating the hallway was as easy for them as it was for the Hopps bunnies. For Terri, a black-footed ferret, it was almost like being at home. Lisa, the only rodent in the group, simply rode in on Erin's shoulder.
After setting the little Douglas Squirrel down on the dining room table, Erin turned to her mother with her paws on her hips. "All right mom, fess up; you knew all along that my girlfriends were coming, didn't you?"
As always, Bonnie Hopps remained completely unflappable. "Of course I did, Erin...but you wouldn't want me to spoil the surprise, would you?"
No, the young bunny decided...no, she wouldn't have.
"Hey, Erin. Where's your sister Judy?" It was Lisa Chatterton, talkative as ever, looking around the room with her tail flipping.
"She went on ahead, Lisa," The young bunny explained, "gonna meet us later at the Performing Arts Academy." Dropping into half crouch, she laid a paw upside her muzzle, leaning in close and lowering her voice, "She's going to, um, 'reserve' us a couple of parking spaces." By way of demonstration, she flipped open an invisible lapel, as if to reveal a badge,
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Judy wasn't the only one planning to get to the amphitheater early. Conor Lewis had been there for nearly an hour already, in the tunnel beneath that led there from the Lionheart Auditorium. At the moment, he was crouched at the foot of the stairs leading up to the hidden door on the right side of the stage—and standing on his tail to keep from fox-screaming in frustration.
In the beginning, it had all gone like clockwork. He had arrived on campus shortly after 11:00 and set to work at once on his preparations.
First, he had installed a pair of web-cams, the first one providing a view of the tunnel entrance in the wings just above him, and the second one offering a wide-angle view of the entire stage. Next—well, the ZPD cops weren't the only ones bringing drones to the party; his miniature aircraft was currently parked in a niche of the overhead theater pavilion, battery charged and awaiting his command. In another niche, at the opposite end of the bandshell, he'd installed a gadget resembling a walkie-talkie with ten different antennas; the mil-spec big brother of a device highly popular with cowboy truckers and car thieves. Needless to say it was flatly illegal to possess one of these babies. However, given the charges already pending against him, the fugitive young silver fox was not all that concerned. Besides, he almost certainly wouldn't need to make use of the thing; it was strictly a fail-safe option. Last, but not least, he had run a splice into the wires leading from the soundboard to the PA speakers. The controls and mikes weren't hooked up as of yet, and it wasn't plugged in either, but no matter. Conor had seen the Academy's soundboard put to use many, many times, and had even been recruited to run it once or twice. That was how he knew that it was equipped with a Wi-Fi interface. With a little luck the password wouldn't have been changed, and even if it had, it would slow him down for a few minutes at most.
With all of these tasks completed, he'd returned to his hiding place in the Lionheart Auditorium, making a final check on his appearance before turning in. The really nice thing about having lightened his fur to resemble that of an arctic fox was that it had more or less turned him into a blank slate. White fur is easily altered to just about any color you like. And so, with the judicious application of some steel grey fur-tint, and a few orange highlights, Conor had transformed himself into a Crab-Eating Fox, a coastal species from south of the equator. As the name implied, these foxes dined largely on crustaceans, fish, and mollusks—as had he, ever since his escape from jail. No one catching a whiff of his scent would find anything peculiar about it. Of course, he smelled that way, why wouldn't he? That's how crab-eating foxes are supposed to smell, dude!
His disguise had needed only a few small tweaks to get right. And so, when he'd curled into a circle for the night, it had been with no small measure of satisfaction. Everything was going according to plan.
And then lo, there came the breaking dawn of the morning after.
And THEN...!
Awakening early, Conor had enjoyed a quick breakfast of energy bars and apple juice before setting off for the Gazelle Amphitheater through the underground tunnel.
But when he got there...no, no, no, no, NOOOOOOO!
Booting up his laptop, the fugitive young silver fox had seen—nothing, nothing but a milk-white screen imprinted with the words, 'No Internet'.
At first, he had thought something was wrong with his computer. But then he'd realized...there was no Wi-Fi service down here; none, zip, nada, forget it.
"Aggggh Grrrrrr, I hate EVERYBODY!"
His day had only just begun and already he'd hit a major snag.
"Like the Tigeranic hitting that stinkin' iceberg!" Conor raged under his breath, speaking to nobody in particular.
This was worse than bad, try catastrophic. Without access to the internet, he couldn't activate his webcams, he couldn't tap into the ZPD database, he couldn't operate his drone, he couldn't hack into the soundboard; he couldn't do stinkin' ANYTHING. He wasn't just blind right now; he was blind, deaf, and dumb...dumb, dumb, dumb fox!
That was the worst part.
"I could have checked last night to make sure I had internet access down here; it would have taken me like two stinkin' seconds, but NOOOOOOO...!"
It was useless for Conor to remind himself that nothing like this had ever happened before—not in any of the other tunnels that ran beneath the Performing Arts Academy. He was determined to beat himself to a pulp and nobody was going to deny him the satisfaction.
A few minutes later, his fury at last spent, he plopped down at the foot of the steps and cast a mournful eye upwards at the secret door leading out onto the stage wings.
For all he knew, the place could be swarming with cops. Without access to the net, there was no way to tell...and if the ZPD was out there, no escape either. He dared not show his face upstairs, no way Renee. The best thing he could do right now was just bag the whole thing and head on home. Sorry Erin, I did my best.
Padding silently up the stairs, Conor tensed, crouched, and muttered softly into the darkness. "Please...don't be out there." He then leaped up, grabbed the door handle and pulled. When it swung open, the noise was like a boulder being dragged across rough concrete... to his ears, anyway. He winced and gnashed his teeth together. If there were any cops within hearing range, they'd be on him before he had time to breathe.
But then... ohhhh, thank you, thank you, THANK you, the stage was completely deserted, nobody here but us foxes—eeeee-yes!
Flipping open the laptop, Conor was euphoric when he saw the view from his webcams on the screen. At last things were looking up...and speaking of up...
He stashed the laptop back in his pack and sprinted for the lighting gantry steps taking them two at a time. A moment later he was huddled in the lee of that... whatever-it-was disk. "Please, let's make this the last little surprise of the day."
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In another part of the school, Dr. Carl Vignius was dearly wishing he'd left his pickle-ball paddle in the car—because right now he was barely restraining himself from grabbing it and swatting the animal sitting atop his desk like a bedbug. If this nut-cracking little jerk wasn't a cop...!
"I'm sorry, but that's out of the question, Lieutenant."
Carl Vignius was an arkar, a species of bighorn sheep whose long, flowing chin hair gave him an air of sagacity. It was an apt assessment; for more than thirty years, he'd been one of Zootopia's most esteemed theatrical producers, staging far more hits than flops. The entire back wall of his office was given over to the awards he'd collected over the years. He knew more about the theater—musical in particular—than most other mammals in the biz had forgotten. Three years previously, he'd announced his retirement...and within six months found that was bored out of his mind. When City Hall had offered him the Presidency of Zootopia's new Performing Arts Academy, his first instinct had been to grab it like a winning lottery ticket.
Except...
"Are you sure you want ME, Councilmember? I've got exactly zero experience in academia."
"Perhaps," Claudia Nizhang had replied, "But you've also got a reputation for having a can-do attitude and for turning things around...and that's exactly the kind of President that the Academy for the Performing Arts needs right now."
As things turned out, the red panda's assessment of the situation was, if anything, a grand understatement. No sooner had Dr. Vignius taken up his post, than he'd found himself engulfed in an amorphous blight of nethermost confusion; unfinished classrooms, unfilled teaching positions, and a school administration that was about as organized as the average ragbag.
In other words, it was exactly the kind of challenge the arkar sheep relished, and he'd jumped in with both hooves.
He hadn't been able to fix everything of course. For example, the school had only just now broken ground on the first of two dormitories, a project that should be more than halfway completed by now. Still, no one could deny how much he'd accomplished during his time in office. It didn't hurt that he genuinely liked the students and they liked him in return. He couldn't make it halfway across the campus without one of them waving and calling out a greeting.
Of course there'd been setbacks; there were always setbacks. Only a short while ago, one of the school's most promising students—the holder of the Gazelle Scholarship no less—had been arrested for biting a police officer, and then compounded his mistake by breaking out of jail. With no choice, and with a heavy heart, Carl had signed the papers formally expelling Conor Severus Lewis from the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts.
That episode had been a savage blow, but not nearly as heavy for him as for the lady seated in the chair on his left.
Moving on from the issue of Conor Lewis was not an option however...and for that they could thank the animal currently perched on Dr. Vignius' desk-blotter, Detective Lieutenant Albert Tufts, ZPD. Heading up the Department's Cybercrimes Division, he had come here in pursuit of that selfsame young fox—and he seemed to take for granted that the primary purpose of today's auditions was to help him achieve that goal.
Now the Kaibab squirrel spread his arms open, pawlms up, in what he must have supposed was a pacifying gesture.
"Professor Vignius..."
"It's DOCTOR Vignius..."
"Very well, Dr. Vignius, please be reasonable. We know why the Lewis boy is coming today."
"IF he's coming..."
"...and we also know that once he has what he came for, he'll be gone." Tufts refused to be interrupted a second time. "So, the longer we can keep him here, the better our chances of apprehending him. You understand that, don't you?"
No, Dr. Vignius didn't understand, but before he could say anything, Gazelle was already halfway out of her seat, "The only thing I understand, Lieutenant Mechones, is that your demand is both unfair and completely unreasonable; sabotaging today's auditions so that you can go tilt at your windmills. How DARE you?"
In response Tufts glared at her for a second and then looked towards Dr. Vignius with a questioning eyebrow. The arkar sheep immediately leaned forward and thrust out his chin. "Don't look at me, Lieutenant; I completely agree with her."
This time the reaction from the squirrel was a barely repressed smile, one that sent a chill crawling up Carl's spine. Veteran of many a backstage poker-game he knew that look, all too well. It was the face of a player who knows he has the winning hand—and who doesn't care if you know.
Now Tufts leaned forward with his elbows on his haunches.
"Is that your final word on the matter?" he asked, his features empty of expression.
Carl Vignius managed to keep a straight face while nodding, "Yes," and so did Gazelle, though she was clearly every bit as perturbed as he was.
The sigh from Tufts that followed was clearly of the theatrical bent—who'd know that better than a former stage producer? And the look of more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger that came over him was an even more obvious bit of fakery. It was nearly enough to make the arkar sheep roll his eyes.
Nearly...because he knew what was coming next; the look on his visitor's face said it all.
"I had hoped this wouldn't be necessary, Dr Vignius." Tufts voice was as brittle as old shellac, "but I'm afraid you leave me no choice. Officer Swinton?"
Wearing an unhappy expression, the pig-cop stepped forward with a document in her hoof, holding it shakily, as if it were some unclean thing. She unfolded it, took a breath, began to read aloud and then took another one.
Tilting his head slightly, Dr. Vignius held out a hoof of his own, motioning for her to give him the document.
"Allow me to spare you such an unpleasant task, Officer."
Swinton looked at Tufts, who nodded, and then she set the papers on the arkar's desk.
Reaching for them with one hoof, Dr. Vignius extracted a pair of reading glasses from his vest pocket with the other. Affixing them to his muzzle with a small flourish, he held out the document at arm's length, and began to read.
He was looking at a search warrant, signed by the Honorable Judge George P Schatten, Zootopia Criminal Court.
Setting the papers down again, he peered over the rim of his spectacles at Lieutenant Tufts.
"Fine, as soon as today's auditions are over, you'll be granted full and complete access..."
"I don't think you understand DOCTOR," Tuft's angry chitter cut him off at the knees, "By that time, our suspect will be long gone." He had dropped all pretense of civility
"If he shows up, which he won't," Gazelle hissed acidly from the sidelines, "Taking that kind of risk...just to watch...why would he DO it?"
Tufts folded his arms, looking pleased with himself. "Because he's a 14 year old boy, Ms. Gazelle...and if there's one thing that will prompt a boy that age to do something stupid, it's a girl." Waving a dismissive paw, he turned in Dr. Vignius's direction again. "But never mind about that for now. If you'll read further sir, you'll see that this warrant gives us the right to begin our search immediately, and to make it as thorough as we wish." He assumed that sorrowful look again. Carl Vignius would later say it was the closest he came that morning to swatting him into the desktop. "I'm afraid it's going to take a long time—all day today and probably into the evening, possibly even tomorrow afternoon."
"Wha...? Are you serious? What about the auditions?" The arkar's apprehension had given way to horror...and also hate; hatred he directed at himself for letting this bushytailed upstart finally get to him.
Tufts responded with yet another exaggerated sigh.
"Ah. I'm afraid they'll have to wait until our search is completed, sorry."
"Oh no, you can't!" Gazelle was out of her seat again, this time wringing her hooves in anguish. "The kids auditioning today have been practicing for...you can't do this. Many of them came from out of town; some even came here from out of the country. Their parents will be expected to be back at their jobs on Monday. We CAN'T postpone, not now!"
Her plea left Tufts completely unaffected. "Take that up with the young felon preparing to show his face here today. If it weren't for him, none of this would be necessary. Heck, he's probably somewhere here on campus already."
Carl Vignius took off his glasses, polishing them with a microcloth.
"And if we agree to your, errr, change of schedule, you'll call off your search?"
Tufts sat back and tapped his fingertips together, "Well—that and a few other conditions. If we could count on your full cooperation, in that case it would be counterproductive to conduct a full search of the Academy campus. It would alert our suspect to the fact that we're laying in wait for him."
In response to this Gazelle almost said something, but instead only cleared her throat. Dr. Vignius, on the other hoof, still had his voice in good working order.
...And more than a little experience at bargaining with a hard-nose.
"All right Lieutenant, let's skip the jabber and get down to cases. What is it, exactly, that you want from me?"
Tufts' tail flipped twice and he again leaned forward with his paws on his knees.
"First, I still want to conduct a search of the Gazelle Amphitheater; just the theater, and I promise that we'll finish before the auditions start."
"Agreed," Dr. Vignuis answered, tersely.
"Second, I want at least four undercover officers in the audience."
"What?" the arkar sheep's bushy eyebrows turned upwards in surprise, "Why are you...? I'd have agreed to that anyway."
The squirrel didn't seem to hear him.
"And I want four more officers stationed backstage," he continued smoothly...and this time he ran straight into a roadblock. At once, Dr. Vignuis's face stiffened and with it, his back.
"Absolutely not; you can have one officer backstage and that's all."
Tufts' tail turned into a bottle brush.
"Four officers, Doctor." He chittered, nodding at the warrant sitting patiently on the arkar's desktop.
"ONE," Dr. Vignius countered, regarding the Kaibab Squirrel with look of cold venom, "or you can go ahead and make your stupid search. That many police officers backstage would likely ruin the auditions anyway."
"What...how?" Tufts expression had shifted from cross to confusion.
"One," the sheep repeated, leaning across his desk for emphasis.
Tufts' mouth pulled inward, as if he'd eaten a sour cherry. "All right, I'll settle for three officers backstage."
Vignius pretended to think this over for a second-and then he said, "I'll allow two but that's it."
For the next three seconds, he and Tufts regarded each other silently, eyeball to eyeball as the expression goes.
"All right Doctor, two." The squirrel chittered through clenched teeth, and then leveled a finger at him. "But if our suspect gets away because of that restriction, I'm holding you fursonally responsible."
"As you wish," Dr. Vignius shrugged indifferently, "all right, what else?"
"Since there are no surveillance cameras inside the amphitheater, we need to install some of our own," the squirrel said.
"No problem, as long as you keep them out of sight."
"And we also need to deploy a pair of police drones over the amphitheater."
"I'll agree to that," the arkar said, "as long as you keep them at least 10 feet back from the audience...and I don't want anyone to be able to hear them either."
"Yes, I understand," Tufts nodded. "That's acceptable. And I also want any faculty and/or staff in attendance to be notified that our suspect may show up here today, and to be on the lookout for him."
"I'll take care of it," Dr. Vignius assured him, "Anything else?"
"Nooo, I think that about covers it," Tufts slapped his knees and stood up again, "For the present anyway, though I may think of something else later. Right now, my team needs to get cracking on that search." He reached out and offered a paw to the arkar sheep, smiling warmly for the first time since entering his office. "The ZPD thanks you for your cooperation, Doctor Vignius. Good luck on the auditions; I hope they go well."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Vignius reached out with a fingertip and allowed Tufts to shake with him—but then, as soon as the squirrel's back was turned he wiped it on his desk blotter with a look of loathing.
For a long time after the Kaibab squirrel's departure, the office was as silent as a sealed crypt. Then Carl looked over at Gazelle with a weary expression on his face.
"So, do you think I'm a sell-out?"
She only smiled forlornly.
"Have you forgotten who you're talking to, Doctor? I haven't lasted this long in the entertainment business without having to make a few hard choices of my own."
"Nobody does, not in this profession," Vignius shook his head knowingly, "And that's one lesson that can't be taught; the only way to learn it is the hard way."
"Ai, si," Gazelle replied.
"I'll tell you this much, though." The Academy President's face had frozen into flint. "If that bushytailed little tyrant somehow does manage to disrupt today's auditions—in any way, shape, or form—the ZPD will be hearing from our attorneys."
Gazelle clenched a hoof against her chest, as if preparing to swear allegiance
"And I will cover your legal fees," she said, and then tilted her head slightly. "But did you notice something Doctor?"
"What's that?" he asked.
She waved a hoof at the office door.
"The whole time el Tentiente Tufts was in here, he never once referred to Conor Lewis by name."
"Yes, I did notice that," the arkar sheep replied, and then his face assumed a plaintive expression. "Why, Gazelle?"
Her dark eyes narrowed and she chewed her lip. "I...don't know, but I get the feeling that el ardilla arrogante is just a little bit afraid of..."
"No, no," Carl was waving his hooves. "I meant the Lewis boy; he had everything going for him and he just threw it all away...WHY?"
"That, I don't know," Gazelle admitted, slumping in her seat and crossing her arms. The look on her face was one of 'you had better not come near me.' "And we're not going to find out either, at least not today. As far as I am concerned Senor Tufts is only wasting his time—and everyone else's. If Conor Lewis has even a shred of common sense, he won't come anywhere near L'Academia today." Her eyes narrowed once again, "And if there is one thing that young zorro plateado is NOT, it's estupido."
"This is true." Dr. Vignius almost smiled, but then something Tufts had said to her came back to him.
"...there's ONE thing that will prompt a boy that age to do something stupid..."
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Truer words were never contemplated. At the moment, the fugitive young silver fox had no idea how badly he'd blundered in coming up straight up here after exiting from the underground. True, he couldn't be seen from the stage below, but with the ZPD preparing to make a full sweep of the Gazelle Amphitheater, that made little, if any, difference. No way would Tuffguy Tufts NOT send someone to check out the lighting scaffold. And when that happened, Conor would be, as Danny Tipperin might have put it, caught in a sucker box. He'd spotted at once, and then trapped, with nowhere to run when the cops blocked off the stairs. As for making his escape by sliding down one of the curtain ropes, yeah, that'd work—if he could manage it without being seen. On a stage soon to be crawling with police officers, the chances of pulling that off were about as likely as jumping into the ocean without getting wet. Instead of rushing to his vantage point after leaving the tunnel, he should have paused to consider his next move. Under a different set of circumstances that was exactly what he'd have done.
Not this time; when Conor had opened that hidden door and found nobody waiting to nab him...brother that was all she wrote. The heady combination of relief and elation had propelled him up the lighting gantry like a bottle rocket. Even now, he might have stopped to consider the precariousness of his situation. In the present moment, however, he had only one thought on his mind.
"Agggggg, grrrr...why didn't I go BEFORE I came up here? Dumb fox!"
It was lucky for him that none of his buds were present to hear that thought. More than likely they'd have razzed him for sounding like his dad—unaware that the fugitive young silver fox had never met his father.
It was no good trying to fight it; he could hold out for ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops. And for all he knew, it might be another five hours before Erin Hopps took the stage. Blankety-blank bunny, this was all her fault! The nearest privy to his perch was all the way down backstage, just off the rehearsal room.
And the ZAPA kids didn't call that particular restroom Barf-Bag Central for nothing; the stench inside was 'enough to gag a dung beetle', as his friend Jason m'Beke once so aptly put it.
But what other choice did he have? The nearest alternative was more than twice as far away, by the amphitheater's front entrance...and that one was probably still locked.
With a sound that fell somewhere between a groan and a sigh, Conor stood up, cracked his knuckles over his head, and prepared to climb back down again.
He was three steps down the catwalk when he remembered something, the gas-mask tucked inside his backpack. Should he...? Nah, it wouldn't be that bad in there...would it?
He turned, went back, and snatched up the pack. Maybe not, probably not...but why take chances?
As it turned out, bringing the pack along was a wise choice. Before Conor was even three steps away from the restroom door, his eyes were watering and his nose seemed to have shrunk to the size of a gumdrop. Aggggh, grrrr, it was times like this that he hated being a species with a keen sense of smell. The stench beyond that door was way worse than the last time he'd been here. He started to unsling his pack, but then hefted it back on again. "Ahhh, let's just get this over with," he muttered, speaking to no one in particular.
He was in the midst of zipping himself up again, when he heard it; the sound of a door opening, coming from somewhere outside of the bathroom, and then another ...and another. And then voices, first one, then two, and then several, followed by the crackle of a radio.
That last noise was the one that tipped it; the cops were here—lots of cops, and HE was...
Conor might not have understood how vulnerable he'd been when he was crouching behind that weird-looking disk on the lighting gantry...but he sure as heck understood the situation now. There was exactly one door in or out of this place, and as for the windows...narrow slits, too slender to accommodate anything bigger than a hamster, and they probably didn't open anyway. To make matters worse, there was no place to hide in here, no concealed spaces of any kind; he was trapped. His only option would be to duck into one of the stalls and pull the old hop-up-on-the-toilet-tank ploy...and even then he didn't dare shut the door. If the cops came in here and found every stall door open except ONE—what would be the obvious conclusion?
Oh foxtrot, he could hear footsteps coming...at least three different animals, two of them larger species; tigers or maybe...no, wait, they were moving off in a different di..rect...noooo!
His mouth had begun to water uncontrollably and throat was trying to run backwards. "Oh God, no...don't let me puke NOW." No way would the cops outside miss hearing that sound, but it was no use trying to fight it. Between the stench—which seemed to be getting worse with every passing second—and the tension of knowing that the ZPD was out there, his breakfast was exactly T-minus ten seconds from liftoff...nine...eight...seven...
Wait; the backpack!
Conor tore it open like a birthday present, nearly breaking one of the fasteners in the process. Dangit, where was that thing? Had he forgotten to bring...no, wait, there it was; his gas mask. But...would it work? He had brought it along as protection against tear-gas, not the stink of sewage... "Never mind, dangit! Get that thing on your head already—quick, before you hurl all over the floor!"
It was a little snug, but still a decent fit, and while it didn't completely alleviate the stink, it was enough to render it at least tolerable—for now anyway. What wasn't so tolerable was the sound of more footsteps approaching. And this time, the young fox knew that they weren't going to go away. With no other option, he bolted into the nearest large-mammal stall.
Oh, foxin'-A...this thing had no toilet-tank, only pipes and a toggle-handle.
"Of COURSE it does, you stupid fox-kid," his inner voice scolded, "this is a public restroom!
With no alternative, Conor hopped up onto the rim of the toilet bowl, and then clambered up onto the pipe assembly. Leaning back against the far-inside corner of the stall, with one foot braced on top of a pipe, he tried to make himself as small as possible. It was a precarious balancing act at best, and he didn't know how long he could hold it. Well, somehow he'd just have to make it last. At least the doors to these stalls only swung open by maybe half an inch when they ... "Aw nuts; my tail!"
It was dangling beneath the edge of the partition easily visible to anyone bending down for a look-see. Conor reached down to scoop it up, nearly losing his footing, and then pulled it tight against his chest.
At that instant, the restroom door slapped open.
Immediately, he heard a growl. "Ewwwww, oh, my GAW!"
The voice was high, disgusted—and distinctly lupine. So was the voice that answered.
"What the heck? Holy wolfsbane, Griz!"
"Tell me about it, Wolford. This is worse than that exhumation we had to attend, remember that?"
"Don't remind me, I couldn't eat for two days." A few seconds of silence followed and then the voice spoke again. "Okay, he's not in here, let's go."
Conor almost breathed a sigh of relief...until he heard, "What? We barely poked our heads in the door. Come on, we have to give this place at least a quick look around before we go."
"Oh for the love of Black Pete, Ford...no way is that kid hiding in there; a fox's sense of smell is almost as good as ours."
His companion was having none of it.
"Okay, fine, let's just go...but then what happens if Lieutenant Nutzi finds out?"
"All right, all riiiight. Call..."
"Heads."
"Tails; you're up Griz."
"Two out of three?"
"Quit stalling, you're the one that said we have to at least make the effort...so go on, get in there!"
"Grrrrr-Yip! Me and my lofty principles."
The next thing that the young fox heard was sound of more footfalls, on his side of the door...getting closer and closer, seeming to come straight at him.
He held his breath as he heard the cop approaching, unconsciously pressing himself deeper into the corner of the stall. It was almost as if he was attempting to will himself through the wall and into the next room.
And that was when he felt his foot beginning to slip—and his balance starting to give way.
AND... Like all good public restrooms, this one had a nice, white-tiled floor that basically turned the place into a low-grade echo chamber. The slightest noise and those two cops would be all over him like a boiler-suit.
The wolf—Conor assumed it was a wolf—was close now, less than five feet away. He could feel his foot continuing to give way, slithering down the length of the pipe. When it reached the bend, where the chrome turned downwards, it would be good-bye perch, hello floor.
And he couldn't stop it; not without shifting his weight and causing the stall partition to creak...and alerting the wolf-cop, who was now only three feet away from his hiding place.
Correction, he was only two feet away. Conor bit his lip and stifled his breathing, listening and trying to keep his foot from slipping any further.. It refused to cooperate, continuing to slide with the juggernaut inevitability of an advancing glacier. On the other paw, the staccato hiss of an animal scenting the air never came to the young fox's ears. Instead, all he heard was a sudden expulsion and intake of air.
He wasn't the only animal in here holding his breath...thank GOD.
A sliver of dark blue appeared in the crack of the doorway. The wolf was directly in front of his stall now. Conor braced himself, waiting for the door to be thrown open. Instead, the shard of blue dropped downward and a shadow spread over the floor of the stall.
In spite of his terror, he couldn't help noticing the shape; yep, it was a wolf out there all right.
And he also couldn't help wondering...why the heck was he looking under the door instead of simply opening it? The answer came when a snow-white paw reached through the gap beneath the doorway and snatched up something from off of the floor.
Another wave of panic washed over the fugitive young fox. "Oh, no...what'd I drop?"
But then he heard, "Ahhhhhh heck!"
"What is it?" queried the voice of the other wolf, the one outside by the restroom entrance.
"Old breath-mint package," his partner replied disgustedly, "Thought it was a memory stick."
"Well, hurry up and finish, will you?"
"You want to come in here and help?"
He stood up and moved on...but Conor still didn't allow himself to breathe. The wolf at his door had two more stalls to go—and his foot was continuing with its inexorable slide. He heard footsteps moving further down the line, heard the sound of the door to the last stall, opening and falling shut again.
And now he could feel his foot beginning to turn downwards. It had reached the bend in the pipe. Any second now, he'd go tumbling.
Then the wolf spoke again, "All right Wolford, there's nobody in here; happy now?"
"Hey, it was your idea..."
"Let's just get out of here."
A blue and white blur went past Conor's stall, moving at a brisk pace, and heading towards the exit. Come on, come onnnnn, how long does it take to...? Oh no, his foot was off the pipe; there was nothing beneath him but air...air and the floor of the bathroom stall.
He hit the tiles just as the exit-door slammed shut.
At once, he was on his feet again, tense and waiting...waiting for the pair of wolf-cops to come crashing in and take him down.
He was finished; this was the end. Even if he managed to dodge those two, there was a roomful of more police officers, right outside the door. Ohhhh, he had WARNED himself not to underestimate Tuff-Guy Tufts—and then he'd up and done it anyway. Of all the...hey-y-y, wait a minute!
Nothing was happening; no footsteps were approaching the door; as a matter of fact, the noises outside seemed to be growing fainter.
Conor propped himself against the rim of the toilet bowl...at last allowing the air to escape from his lungs. He had just gone from a very bad place to a very good one. As Danny Tipperin had once told him, 'Any time the cops are looking for you, a good place to hide is always somewhere they've already searched.'
"Just don't stay there too long." The lenses of the young fox's gas-mask fogged up as he recited the rest of the homily under his breath. He was safe...for a while anyway. "Unless some other cop hears the call of nature," he reminded himself, harshly. "Whoa, if Danny could see me now, he'd slap me around from here to Pawkeepsie."
Giving his head a small shake, Conor stuffed the thought back in its box and closed the latch. He could kick himself later, but right now... okay, the situation was what it was—so what was he going to do about it? First order of business, he needed to get his wits about him.
Pulling his legs into the closest thing he could manage to the lotus position, he laid his paws on his knees, pawlms up, breathing in stages of four; breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, and then repeat. This was something he'd learned from Kieran...who wouldn't be a whole lot happier than Danny if he knew of his protégé's predicament. "Never mind, don't think about him either, just...stinkin'...breathe."
Conor did, but made certain to keep an ear cocked in the direction of the door.
It wasn't easy with that ever-present stench in the air, but he managed it. Slowly, gradually, he felt the racing of his heart beginning to ebb and his head starting to clear. All right, the next thing he needed to do was figure out just what the heck he was up against. Quietly removing the laptop from his backpack, he propped it between his knees and opened it. He did not, however, take the next, obvious step of logging on to the internet. If Tufts was smart—and by now, Conor had no illusions as to his adversary's intelligence—if he was smart, he'd be hooked into the Academy's DSL lines and Wi-Fi routers, watching for any unusual activity. "I just hope he wasn't doing that the first time I booted up." the young fox silently beseeched of whoever might be listening...and then he waved the thought away like a pesky moth. If that had been the case, he'd be in custody already.
Still, he didn't dare try it again. But that was okay because he had an alternate route to the web, one that—ah, the irony—one that the cops had unknowingly bought here with them; he would log on to the net by way of their Wi-Fi router.
They were bound to have one, he was sure of it. They'd had one the day that Nick had caught him inside of that alleyway...and that had been without Tuffguy Tufts running the show. This time the Kaibab squirrel was in charge...and so it was a slam-dunk that there'd be a ZPD router somewhere close by—a router for which he had the passwords.
The gambit was not without its risks, but they were risks were more than worth taking in the fugitive young silver fox's opinion. Number one, with Tufts at the helm—that one wolf's remark about 'Lieutenant Nutzi' had all but confirmed it—with him in the big chair, there'd be a truckload of stinkin' tech gear set up around the amphitheater; laptops, tablets, bluefangs, maybe even a server or two. With that many active computers in the vicinity, a little extra activity on the ZPD network would be barely noticeable. Number two, instead of having to go in by way of The Beast, he could hook up with the Department's mainframe almost directly.
Number three...Ahhh, never mind; two was plenty.
Entering the access code, Conor quickly established contact with the ZPD database, and then instructed his laptop to do three things. First, it was to locate and track any ZPD computers within a 1-block radius of the Gazelle Amphitheater; second, it was to locate and interface with any police surveillance cameras within the boundaries of the Gazelle Amphitheater, including drone and body cams. Third, it was to monitor the police database and alert him to any new references to 'P-Fish,' his latest ZPD code-name.
The response to this third command erased any and all remaining doubts; Tufts was here all right, no question about it...and he wasn't here to watch the show. In the last ten minutes alone Conor's nom de guerre had come up at least six times in various text messages—and twice more over the police band.
When he checked the view from the ZPD surveillance cams, the shock nearly blew him through the back wall of the restroom. Holy foxtrot-on-a-magma-floor, there were so many views from so many different cameras, none of them were discernible; to accommodate them all, his laptop had been obliged to shrink them to the size of thumb-claw icons.
Conor fell back against the rim of the toilet-bowl completely, dumfounded. No way could he make Erin's performance with that many cameras watching the action...
Wai-i-it, hold that thought.
Minimizing the page containing the camera views, Conor called up the controlling app and clicked 'sort by source.' Ah-haaa, just as he'd suspected; most of what he was seeing was the view from the ZPD's body-cams—all of them, every single one that was currently active, not just the cameras inside the Gazelle Amphitheater. When he filtered out the excess, he found himself left with a much more comfortable number of fifteen POVs. Two of these views, it turned out, were from drone cameras and those he could also eliminate; he had no intention of moving out into the open.
At least three of the remaining surveillance cameras were trained on the spectator seats. Tufts apparently thought that his target might be planning to infiltrate by way of the incoming crowd. Given the amphitheater's proximity to the street, it wasn't a bad thought, but Conor had long since rejected that idea; there were just too many dang variables. He filtered those cameras out as well...and also most of the others. The surveillance-cams he was interested in were the ones watching the stage area.
There were three of them, "So far," the fugitive young silver fox archly reminded himself. But for now, at least, the underground passage's secret entrance wasn't visible in any of them. The first camera was trained on the left side wings where the kids would gather before going onstage to perform. No worries, he wasn't going anywhere near that place, but the other two...ahhh, now those might be a problem, they had almost the entire stage area covered in an overlapping field. Avoiding their all-seeing eyes would require some seriously artful dodging.
Conor set the computer aside and got up again, flexing his arms and stretching his legs. He was contemplating, not for the first time, just bagging this gig and bolting back to his loft. Admittedly though, his motivations were somewhat different than they'd been in the previous instances.
Tuff Guy Tufts had invested a heckuva lot of the ZPD's resources in trying to catch him here. Imagine the reaming-out that bushytailed little dirtbag would get if it all turned out to be for nothing. He could almost hear the squirrel's voice in his head now, stammering out excuses while pitifully wringing his paws... "Now Chief, I-I can explain everything..." The thought was nearly enough to bring on a fit of giggles.
Ahhh, but there was that promise he'd made again.
Ohhhh-kay...he'd stay.