Chapter Text
The patrol car’s windshield wipers fought the storm in a useless, hypnotic rhythm. I parked the cruiser by the broken curb in Happytown. The headlights washed over the mouth of a narrow alley where the regular police “tanks” couldn’t fit.
“Anonymous tip. ‘Suspicious package’ in a dead-end alley,” I muttered, rereading the call on the dash computer. “Classic.”
“Dispatch said it looked like an otter,” Judy added, already unbuckling. “That puts it under the New Division.”
“Oh, right. The glorious Special Cases Division.” The sarcasm came easy. “Bogo calls it an inclusion initiative. I call it cleanup duty for places rhinos can’t squeeze into.”
I killed the engine. The heater’s warmth started bleeding out immediately.
“Let’s move, Wilde,” she said. “Someone has to do the dirty work.”
I took a breath and opened the door. The shock was instant. The street was more soaked than my patience. A thin rain—the kind that fools tourists and rots wood—came at us without mercy. The cold wind didn’t ask permission; it went straight to the bone, making my scar protest as the temperature dropped, stiff tissue tightening beneath the synthetic leather jacket.
A jolt in my hip.
Another in my shoulder.
The city hurt me without needing to touch me.
We walked the stretch the cruiser couldn’t cover. The alley was a catalog of urban filth: cigarette butts, used condoms, food scraps, broken furniture. This was the side of Zootopia the postcards from Savanna Central worked hard to forget. Far away, skyscrapers glowed with organic designs and flashy signs, blotting out the stars.
Privilege, for a few.
Down here, there were leftovers.
Buildings frozen in time. Peeling plaster. Rusted bars. Makeshift gardens in oil cans tried to fake a little life, but the stained signs gave the abandonment away.
The air didn’t smell like wet earth.
It smelled like sewage and fear.
My partner, Judy Hopps, was the only warm thing in that gray scenery. She walked too close, her attention more on me than on the surroundings. Two sharp amethyst eyes cutting through the mist.
I straightened up.
Back straight. Hard stare.
I felt a touch at the back of my neck and flinched, fur bristling. Judy. Small, steady paws, checking my temperature like she could measure how much I still had left in me.
The touch was familiar. Unasked for, but accepted.
And the same question always came back: why does she care so much?
I’m just a broken fox, patched together by surgeons and bad decisions.
“Damn cold,” I muttered.
“We could get hot chocolate right now…” she teased, her tone far too soft for that hour.
In an ideal world, I’d turn around. I’d be home, in front of a fireplace, with my favorite bunny. But I didn’t have a fireplace. Barely had a heater that worked. And duty—an invisible chain—kept me there.
The mystery pulled me in.
And she was there.
“Not the worst idea, Fluff,” I shot back, forcing half a smile. “I’ll call Fangmeyer and tell her we didn’t find the body.”
“Ha. Like that’d work, Slick.”
She changed me. Convinced me I was more than a corner hustler. Picked up my pieces when I fell apart.
“The sooner we’re done, the sooner we get home,” she said. “Rest. Together.”
“Together.”
The word carried weight.
We moved on. The silence thickened. No rats. No insects. Just that metallic smell that comes before tragedy.
I reached for my holster. The twist woke my scar for real. Barbed wire around my ribs. I froze for half a second, teeth clenched to keep quiet.
Judy noticed. She always did. A minimal nod: I’m fine. Focus.
The shape appeared behind a rusted dumpster.
The otter was down.
The rain kept the blood from clotting; pale pink lines drew crooked maps across the pavement, running into the gutter. A yellow streetlight flickered over the body, insects already starting to gather.
Judy stopped.
Not sharply. Not theatrically.
Her ears drooped just a little—almost imperceptible—before she pulled herself together.
I felt it.
“Easy, Carrots,” my voice came out rough. “Central, this is Wilde. Code 10-54. Secure the area and call forensics.”
I stepped closer, by protocol. Checked the pulse. Nothing.
She died with her eyes open, staring into the dark sky, terror frozen on her face. Whatever she saw… got to her before we did.
Knife marks tore through the cream-colored blouse. Blood soaked everything crimson.
It never gets easier, seeing another animal thrown away like this.
“We’ll find who did this,” I said low, angry. “We’ll bring justice to this filthy city.”
“We need to focus,” Judy replied, voice steady. “Now.”
“Together.”
“Together.”
Backup arrived. The victim was still in the secured area.
We exchanged a nod. Nothing more.
Evidence collected.
Photos taken.
Cold.
Procedure.
Her belongings were still in the secondhand bag. Phone, wallet, keys.
Allison Otterson. Twenty-six.
The body was taken.
Bagged.
No ceremony.
We went back to the ZPD.
The corpse came with us.
Hours later, the report was filed. The rain had faded into an irritating drizzle.
We left at 2:15 a.m. My body felt like ground glass and rust.
“Want me to drive us home?” Judy asked.
I looked at the old sedan in the lot. Stiff suspension. Seats that punished my hip.
“No. Let’s walk. Grabs and Bites should still be open.”
“It’s five blocks, Nick.”
“I need to stretch my legs. If I sit now, I’ll lock up.”
She understood immediately.
We started walking under the wet neon signs.
Solvitur ambulando.
Problems get solved by walking.
Or at least you buy yourself some time before closing your eyes and dreaming of dead otters.