York moved through the darkness like a ghost, keeping to the pockets of shadow where the streetlights couldn’t reach.
His eyes never left Weselton.
The weasel must have felt something, a sudden chill that cut through the night air mid-strut, making his wiry body convulse with an involuntary shiver.
He pulled off his headphones, blinking stupidly, and swiveled his head to scan the grimy alleyway.
Nothing.
“Strange.
Why’d it suddenly get so cold?” The question barely left his lips when a wall of shadow swallowed him whole.
He turned, stiff and slow, and craned his neck upward.
There stood York, wearing the most pleasant smile a predator could muster.
“Hey there.
Miss me?” “…” Three seconds of dead silence.
Weselton’s bulging eyes locked onto York like a deer caught in headlights, sweat beading cold and thick across his brow.
He looked away, desperate to bluff his way out.
“I…
I don’t know you!
You’ve got the wrong mammal!” “Mm.” York draped a heavy paw over Weselton’s shoulder, leaned in close, and dropped his voice to a sinister murmur.
“That face.
That stench of sewer rot clinging to your fur.
I’d recognize you even if you were ground into dust.” His grip tightened.
Weselton yelped as pain shot through his shoulder.
His knees buckled, and the floodgates opened.
“I’m sorry!
Please, I’ve got a family!
And I swear on my mother’s grave, I never touched your stuff!
Someone else took it!” “Someone else took it?!” York’s voice cracked with disbelief.
He’d spent an entire day hunting down this miserable excuse for a weasel, and now he was being told his belongings weren’t even here?
Was this some kind of sick joke?
“Are you screwing with me?!” His eyes narrowed to slits.
The pressure on Weselton’s shoulder intensified, a faint crack echoed in the narrow street.
Weselton’s face contorted in agony, his words tumbling out in a desperate flood.
“A red fox!
A red fox took your backpack!
I don’t know her, I swear!
I’m telling the truth!” “Tch…” York rubbed his temples.
A headache was brewing.
“What did this fox look like?” “Uh…
let me think…” Weselton rolled his bulging eyes upward, his face twisted in pain as he clawed through his fractured memories.
“A female.
Red fur.
Young, I think.
Nasty temper.
Wearing a trench coat and gold-rimmed glasses.” The description hit York like a freight train.
He remembered her instantly, the fox who’d sat next to him on the train.
The pieces clicked together.
She must have recognized his backpack and snatched it from Weselton out of some sense of duty.
And while York appreciated the gesture, it made retrieving his property infinitely more complicated.
He didn’t even know her name.
How was he supposed to track her down?
Sensing York’s distraction, Weselton carefully eased his shoulder free from York’s grip and began backing away, voice trembling: “So…
can I go now?” “Of course…” York’s smile returned, broad and terrifying.
“NOT!” His tone twisted into something almost gentle, which made the words that followed all the more chilling: “I’m going to beat you within an inch of your life, then drag you to the Rainforest District swamps and feed you to the piranhas!” Weselton didn’t wait for a second invitation.
He bolted.
York lunged, claws swiping through empty air.
The weasel slipped through his grasp like greased lightning.
“Get back here!” Veins bulging across his forehead, York tore after him.
—— Heavy footfalls pounded through the sleeping streets.
They raced through alleys and across avenues, a frantic chase under the dim glow of flickering lamps.
Weselton glanced back, saw the gap widening between them, and couldn’t resist the taunt.
“Ha ha ha!
Come catch me, you dumb dog!
Catch me and I might let you… hehehe…” York’s vision went red.
He pushed harder, but Weselton knew these streets too well, slippery as an eel, always one corner ahead.
The frustration was eating York alive.
Weselton rounded another bend, ready to disappear into the maze of back alleys.
And then… He stopped.
Just…
stopped.
His eyes fixed on the scene before him, and all the color drained from his face.
Blind with rage, York didn’t notice the shift.
Seeing his prey frozen, he launched himself forward with a triumphant snarl, slamming Weselton into the dirt.
He grabbed the weasel by the throat, a savage grin splitting his muzzle.
“Got you!
All that running, and for what?
Go on, say it again!
What were you going to let me do once I caught you?
Huh?” Weselton couldn’t answer.
His face was turning purple, his throat reduced to a hoarse rattle.
With his last shred of strength, he raised a trembling paw and pointed into the alley’s depths.
York looked up.
His blood ran cold.
The alley was packed.
Dozens of Timber wolves in identical black suits stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces carved from stone.
In the darkness, countless pairs of crimson eyes locked onto him, cold, hungry, promising violence.
Through the forest of bodies, York caught a glimpse of something lying motionless at the far end of the alley.
Another animal.
Down.
Maybe dead.
A chill crawled up his spine.
They’d stumbled into something far bigger than a simple chase.
Slowly, carefully, York released Weselton and raised both paws.
A smile, more grimace than grin, tugged at his lips.
“Gentlemen!
Just passing through!
Terribly sorry… I’ll be on my way then!” He backed away, inch by inch, murmuring apologies.
The wolves didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Hope flickered in York’s chest.
Maybe they’d let him go.
Then, among the pack, a scarred wolf raised his hand with deliberate slowness.
“Get them.” “WAAAH!” Weselton scrambled up and fled without a backward glance.
BANG!
The gunshot cracked through the night.
A tranquilizer dart punched into Weselton’s rear end mid-stride.
He dropped like a stone, tumbling across the pavement in a graceless sprawl before coming to rest face-down.
Out cold.
“Damn!” York’s heart nearly exploded.
He froze mid-step, every instinct screaming at him to run, but that dark barrel was already swinging toward him.
He didn’t want to find out what that dart felt like.
Even if it was just tranquilizer.
Swallowing hard, he stared down the gun and felt despair settle over him like a shroud.
His first day in Zootopia, and this was how it ended.
If he’d known, he’d have stayed home and taken over the family farm.
At least the only predators there were the ones in the fields.
No.
He couldn’t think like that.
York gritted his teeth.
His mind raced.
His eyes swept over the wolves, and a completely insane idea sparked to life.
“Uh…
gentlemen!
It’s a misunderstanding!
All of it!” York lowered one paw, pointing at himself with a desperate, ingratiating smile.
“I’m a wolf too!
Look, my ears!
My tail!
Just like yours!
We’re all family here!” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Blueduck14 Don’t forget to write a review!!