“Would you quit with the chatter, Weselton?” York dropped onto the ground with a heavy thud and fished twenty Zootopia bucks from his pants pocket.
“Go grab us something to eat.
Keep the change.” Weselton took the cash and blinked at York, genuinely surprised.
“Feeling generous today?
Did you finally get paid?” “Got paid, my tail!
This is everything I’ve got left!” York grumbled, yanking his pockets inside out to prove it.
They hung empty and limp, not a single scrap of lint remained.
He’d treated Weselton to dinner last night, and this was all that was left of his savings.
He reached up, pulled the black-and-white framed picture off the wall, and slapped it facedown onto the ground.
“Now hurry up!
I’m about to keel over from hunger!” Weselton snapped to attention and bobbed his head eagerly.
“On it!
What’re you in the mood for?” “Anything that’ll fill this hole in my stomach.” “Say no more!
I’ll bring back something that’ll stuff you till you pop!” It didn’t take long before Weselton came hauling back a massive sack of flatbreads, dragging it along the dirt like a sack of coal.
“Buddy!
We hit the jackpot!
A pie shop was doing a charity special, one Zootopia buck per flatbread!
I cleaned them out, twenty whole pies!” York stared at the enormous bag scraping along the ground, blinked slowly, and finally gave a tired nod.
“…Yeah.
Not bad.” At least it would keep him alive.
Dry as cardboard though it was, York still managed to cram down six of them in one go, pounding his chest to force each last crumb down his throat.
He turned to look at Weselton, who was now sprawled lazily across the corrugated tin roof of his shack, belly swollen like a drum, picking his teeth with a stray twig he’d scavenged from somewhere.
“Weselton,” York called up.
“I need cash.
Help me check the dark web for any open gigs.” He knew the risks.
But right now, it was the only lifeline he could think of.
Weselton shot upright so fast he nearly rolled off the roof.
His eyes went wide as dinner plates.
“Buddy.
You cannot be serious.
You want to dive back into the dark web?!” “Weselton, you don’t understand how bad things are for me right now.” York’s voice dropped, hard and grim.
“If I don’t get out of Zootopia by tomorrow, those wolves are going to catch up to me.
And when they do…” He swallowed.
“Let’s just say it won’t be pretty.” Just thinking about the shape Jason had been left in made his fur stand on end.
He locked eyes with Weselton, voice thick with urgency.
“Look.
I need you, buddy.
Please.” Weselton sighed, long and heavy.
“Alright, alright.
For the sake of our friendship these past few days…
I’ll help you out.
Just this once.” He swung down from the roof and disappeared into his ramshackle tin hut.
A cacophony of banging and rummaging echoed from inside, drawers yanked open, boxes overturned, junk sent flying.
After a minute, Weselton emerged clutching a beat-up flip phone.
“Found it!” York’s gaze landed on the relic, and he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching.
This thing looked like it had been obsolete since before he was born.
The screen was microscopic, the casing scuffed and dented, the hinge held together by sheer stubbornness.
He never would have guessed Weselton had been hoarding such a “treasure.” “You’re telling me that fossil can actually connect to the dark web?” York’s voice dripped with doubt.
“Hey!
Don’t you underestimate this little beast!
It can even crack walnuts!” Weselton puffed out his chest and flipped it open.
The screen flickered and buzzed like a dying firefly.
He scowled and slapped it, hard.
The display steadied.
York: …This phone’s got personality, all right.
Weselton clumsily pecked at the tiny buttons, squinting and muttering to himself, until he finally navigated his way into some obscure back-alley website.
The screen flooded with dense legal disclaimers and blood-red warning signs.
Weselton blew right past them without a second glance.
Seconds later, the dark web unfurled before them, endless threads of chatter, paywalled dens, and job postings dripping with danger.
It was York’s first time seeing this underworld firsthand.
The raw criminality of it, the bounties, the illicit trades, the coded threats, sent a chill crawling up his spine.
If he had any other choice, he’d never touch this filth.
His gut, his upbringing, everything inside him screamed that this was wrong.
They scrolled for a while, picking through the dregs, until one listing caught their attention: “Delivery Worker Wanted.
Transport goods to designated location.
Fee: 300 Zootopia bucks.” Weselton’s brow furrowed.
“This one’s tempting, but…
buddy, are you really sure about this?
I mean, look at it.
We don’t know what they’re shipping.
Could be anything.
If the cops bust you, you’re looking at hard time.” The warning hit like a bucket of ice water.
“Message the client,” York said, calming himself.
“Ask what we’d be hauling.” “On it.” Weselton typed out a few quick questions and got a reply a moment later.
“He says it’s medical equipment.
Zootopia’s got strict laws against private resale of that stuff, so there’s some legal heat involved.
That’s why they’re recruiting off-grid.” Weselton looked up, worry etched across his face.
“Illegal medical equipment trafficking, that’s months in prison, easy.
You sure about this, buddy?” York didn’t flinch.
“Accept it.” This wasn’t murder.
It wasn’t trafficking living creatures.
At worst, it was a gray-area hustle.
He could live with that.
Then he froze.
“Wait.
One more thing.” His voice dropped.
“Ask them, does this job have any connection to the wolves?” Once bitten, twice shy.
York’s paranoia had sharp teeth now.
The mere thought of walking into another wolf trap made his blood run cold.
Weselton heaved a sigh but dutifully tapped out the question.
A minute later, the reply came back clear: No connection.
York let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
They finalized the details, time, place, handoff procedure, and York set out alone for the pickup point.
As he walked off, Weselton stood in the doorway of his shack, waving a white rag like a widow seeing her sailor off to war.
“Buddy…
good luck!” York glanced back and shot him a middle finger.
“Would you quit looking at me like I’m walking to my own funeral?!” Weselton just smiled and said nothing.
York rolled his eyes and strode off without another word.
—— The pickup point was tucked away in a crumbling residential block on the city’s ragged edge, a narrow, grimy alley that reeked of mildew and neglect.
At the mouth of the alley sat a delivery truck, dark and still.
Its sides were plastered with a garish advertisement: “Uncle Tony’s Supersonic Pizza!” complete with a grinning cartoon chef flexing a thumbs-up.
York’s job: drive this rolling billboard to a club called “Aurora” in Tundratown.
He opened the driver’s door and, per the client’s instructions, found the keys tucked behind the sun visor.
The engine rumbled to life.
York took one long, slow breath… And then another.
‘Time to roll.’ ————•★•————★ Author Note: Thanks for reading!
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