Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

      ^{47 Brittlebush Drive, Big Dune, Sahara Square}

     The sun was slowly setting over the quiet neighbourhood of Big Dune, painting the surrounding sand a glittery red, and a famed author was sitting in a small dry garden sipping on jackalberry juice and reading the Zootopia Times. The warthog chuckled slightly to himself as he read, taking joy in other mammal’s stupid misfortunes.

     The author in question was none other than Arnould Badenhorst, bestselling author of the Game of Thorns series, and a recurring face on many discussion panels on TV. He had been in the game for over thirteen years, and his books were selling far and wide, reaching both teenagers as well as mammals in their elderly days. He was constantly praised for his intricate plots, well-developed characters, and epic dramas.

     On the other hand Arnould was known as a difficult man with a sour attitude. More often than not he had something negative to say about other mammals, which was also why he kept on getting invited back to discussion panels. After all, authors knew better than most, that intrigue sold more than cosy talks over coffee. The thing with Arnould is that he had an air of superiority over himself − he knew he was smarter than most people and he knew that he was always right. Yes, it had rubbed more people wrong than not, but it had also gotten him to where he was at currently.

     This is why he enjoyed reading the anecdotes of the cities stupidest mammals in the paper at night. There was always some elephant that had gotten stuck in an escalator, or some goat who had somehow accidentally wandered into Little Rodentia, and Arnould never understood how they could be that dumb.

     He was currently reading about a mink family up in Beaverdam who had accidentally rebuilt their house using termite infested wood, when a football came flying over his garden wall, hitting the small table next to his chair and shattering his glass juice. With a deep grunt, and protesting knees he stood up, digging his eyes into the three young children currently running towards him from across the street.

     “You!”

     Arnould’s booming voice made the young mammals stop in dead in their tracks. The one closest, a young lion, widened his eyes in fear when he saw the author.

     “You rascals should be in bed,” Arnould huffed, narrowing their eyes at them. “Does your mothers know you’re here?”

     “Yeah, she does,” a young giraffe said, eyeing Arnould up and down. “What does that got to do with you, old man?”

     With a grunt over the calf’s lack of manners, Arnould bent over and picked up the ball. He was angry now, and his eyes glinted with such intense fury when he looked back at the children that the three of them took an involuntary step backwards.

     “Can we have our ball back, sir?” the third of them, a ground squirrel, said with a tremble in her voice. “Please?”

     Arnould contemplated for a moment. If he just gave the ball back these annoying little mammals would never learn their lesson, and would continue to annoy and disturb his evening peace. But if he didn’t, he knew he would have to deal with even more annoying parents coming to his house and demanding the ball back.

     With an angry huff he walked up to the fence and dropped it outside.

     “If I ever see you near my house again,” Arnould said. “You will wish you had never been born. Respect your elders, children, or you will get nowhere in life.”

     The children all nodded quickly, but none of them moved closer to retrieve the wall. Arnould huffed again, turned around and grabbed his newspaper, and headed inside his house, slamming the door after him.

     Arnould wasn’t married, and therefore had never had any children, which to him was a blessing. He could think of nothing worse than being stuck with an insufferable child for eighteen years. The screaming, the uncleanliness, and the leaching of their parents money was something he would’ve never gotten used to, and was quite happy that he had escaped. His world was exactly like he wanted it to be.

     He moved through the small house towards his kitchen, where he fetched a new glass and filled it with juice. On his kitchen table lay a pile of letters, and he grabbed the top one with a smirk.

     It was his invitation to the annual Pawlitzer Price Ceremony that was going to be held here in Zootopia later this year. Arnould had been attending the Ceremony for a couple of years now, and already had two wins under his belt, but he was confident that this year was the year he was going to win big. His latest novel, A Song of Ice and Fur, had been a huge success and he was sure that it was going to be named Book of the Year. That would be the ultimate way to show the world just how clever he was.

     As he was putting down the invitation back on the table, his smirk faltered and took on an expression of annoyance. Underneath it had been a letter, written on pink paper and with red ink that smelled strongly of cheap perfume. It was addressed directly to his house, rather than to his publishers, where most of his post was sent. That annoyed him even further, and he picked the letter up and threw it in his trash can without opening it. He knew who it was from, and he didn’t need to read it. It was from her. Scarlett Ratoski.

     Scarlett was, to Arnould, an insufferable squirrel with a shrill voice and no actual talent. She had somehow ended up as one of the top writers of Zootopia with her sorry excuse for literature that was nothing more than smut for bored housewives. Arnould, however, didn’t really expect much more from a woman who could barely keep her clothes on, and even less her mouth shut. Too many times had the highly energetic mammal spilled gory details about her upcoming books to the press without a thought on how it would affect sales.

     Scarlett was a stupid woman, and he didn’t mind in the slightest that he was on her bad side. In that fateful interview a year ago he had only said the truth - that he knew from a reliable source she had so little imagination that the scenarios her books told were too outlandish for her to think of, and, ergo, she must’ve experienced them herself. Scarlett had been furious about that interveiw, sending letter after letter cursing him and proclaiming that the had ruined her marriage. But Arnould never replied. The dire consequences of that interview wasn’t his fault − it was hers.

     He would’ve happy strayed from this line of thought, but what kept him thinking of her was the upcoming Ceremony. For some reason that Arnould couldn’t fathom, Scarlett had been nominated for Book of the Year as well, which meant he would have to see her soon. The thought made him angry, and after he re-filled his glass with juice once again, he slowly made his way towards the staircase.

     Come to think of it, it wasn’t only Scarlett that he would have to meet at the Pawlitzer. The other three nominees were just as bad, and he could not be bothered small-talking to them for hours. Because surely, they would place the five of them around the same table. That was always the way. As long as he didn’t get seated next to Ike. That would be the bane of Arnould’s existence.

     Ike Gelasia was a snooty hyena that had a massive breakthrough a couple of years ago. Apparently he had come from a poor family in Hyenahurst, and had been a troubled child. But his first book had risen to number one in a week, and he had been an instant overnight success, much to Arnould’s bafflement. He had actually read Ike’s book, but it was nothing more than a childish collection of utter crap that had nothing in the way of a coherent plot. Arnould had told him this when they met at a book launch last year, and the runt had laughed Arnould in his face.

     Then there was old, dim-witted Annabelle Barth. An muskox that should’ve retired from writing years ago, and gone back to knitting or pottery or whatever it was that old hags did. She was always sickenly sweet to Arnould, and everyone else around her, and always had candy in her bag that she offered. The first time they had met, Arnould had been stupid enough to accept one of these candies, but he had had to spit it out in a napkin and chase it down with a glass of bourbon to get the taste out of his mouth. Her demeanor towards him hadn’t actually changed after that, but Arnould could see straight through Annabelle’s act. There was a fiery anger burning behind her eyes each time they met.

     Lastly there was Hugh Mier, a giant anteater that spent whatever time he wasn’t writing lecturing in schools and universities. Not that you could call what he did writing, Arnould mused to himself as he reached the top of the stairs and entered his study. His flighty action thrillers were nothing more than glorified boyhood dreams jotted down on paper. Arnould was incredibly happy that he had spoken to Hugh’s producers, and convinced them to not make his books into movies. Imagine the horror of constantly seeing posters, trailers, and merchandise for something as stupid as Hugh’s writing everywhere. Arnould wouldn’t been able to stand it. Hugh was just plain dumb, and him being nominated was a joke to other, real, authors out there.

     He finally shoved the thoughts out of his mind. He was in his study, his fortress of solitude, and he wouldn’t let those other stupid so-called authors take up precious time in his mind. He moved towards the desk facing the window, sat down in the creaking chair and opened his laptop. As the screen came to life his latest novel materialised in front of him. This excited him.

     His new book was very different from his normal works. This was going to rock the literary world of Zootopia in its foundations. The thought had had been lingering in the back of his mind for a couple of years now, and he had finally decided to sit down and write it. He had been collecting snippets and real-life stories for this for a long time, and even though he knew that it would upset almost everyone he knew, he also knew that it was going to be a roaring success. Cracking his knuckles, he started typing away.

     Time passed without him realising it, and soon the sun had set outside, giving the grand dunes an eerie blue glow. It was past midnight when he suddenly heard a creak from outside the room. He stopped typing, his ears perking up, listening. Arnould lived alone, and always had, so any sound except for his own in the house was a strange occurrence. He waited for a full minute, but no other sound was heard. With a small shake of his head he reached for his glass, but realised that it was empty. He sighed, and stood up to get some more.

     With knees protesting he moved to walk down the stairs when he suddenly heard the noise again, this time behind him. He quickly turned around, only to be met by a familiar face. Anger rose within him instantly.

     “What are you doing here?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have no right to be here.”

     When the mammal only stared and didn’t speak, Arnould took a step forward.

     “I know why you’re here,” he said, the anger evident in his voice. “And the answer is still a no.”

     The uninvited mammal smiled, and Arnould waited for the response that was sure to come. But instead the mammal charged towards him and kicked him in his chest. Arnould staggered backwards, and a second later felt the steps disappear from underneath him.

     Suddenly the time moved at a glacial pace, and he could feel himself falling down the stairs. All he could see what the mammal standing at the top of the stairs, smiling sinisterly at him as Arnould braced for the impact that was sure to come. This was bad. No, it was worse than bad. His protesting body, and his bad back, was surely not be able to take this fall.

     The last thing the warthog saw and heard before his world become completely black, was the figure at the top of the stairs, laughing.

Chapter Text

     ^{221 Barker Street, Gnu York, Savanna Central}

     “No, Mrs Kozlov,” the fox repeated, massaging his snout with his paw. “As these photographs prove − you’re husband is not cheating on you.”

     “But what about the missing food in the kitchen?” the goat in front of him asked, twitching a napkin between her hooves. “I buy new fescue muffins every day, and it’s always gone the next morning. I know Alfie doesn’t like it, so he has to be giving them to someone else.”

     The two mammals were sitting in a small office with a desk between them. The windows were fully open, the sounds of the streets outside pouring in, and a small fan was standing in the corner, trying to get some air flowing in the stuffy room. There were filing cabinets lining the far wall, but other than that and a dying plant the room was sparsely furnished. This was the main, and only, office of Wilde Investigations, and the fox behind the desk was an increasingly hungry Nick Wilde.

     A lot of things had happened in the last couple of years for him to end up here, instead of in the ZPD, but Nick was a firm believer in not regretting choices. He was quite happy in his current state, and had found that life as a private investigator actually quite suited him. If only he would earn a bit more money.

     “That is actually just you, Mrs Kozlov,” Nick said, pulling out another photograph. “You’re sleepwalking.”

     The middle-aged goat gingerly accepted the photograph and let out a small gasp. With embarrassment hung thickly in the already hot room she paid Nick what she owed, and excused herself from the office. Nick sighed and leaned back in his chair. He knew she would be back. She always was. Mrs Kozlov came to his office about once a month, always just as convinced her husband was cheating on her. Each time Nick proved her wrong, but he still didn’t say anything. Currently she had been his only client for the last six months, and he had bills to pay.

     It had now been three years since Nick quit the ZPD. It hadn’t really been a choice, and at the time Nick had been really sad to leave. But after the fateful incident which had not only ruined his career, but also his relationship with his fellow officer Judy Hopps, he had seen no other way. Chief Bogo might as well have kicked him out, with how he was treated after it.

     No, Nick wasn’t one to dwell on mistakes and what had happened, but if it was one thing that he did regret it was the fall-out he had with Judy after everything that happened. She, for some reason, couldn’t see how he would just throw everything away after everything they had been through together in the force, and Nick couldn’t understand how Judy would stand up for the force after how they had treated him. The argument had been loud, long, and ended in both parties walking away with a mixture of near-hatred and extreme sadness.

     They had stayed in contact afterwards, but it was quickly evident that something too large to fix had been broken, and seeing each other for coffee turned into occasional phone calls, which turned into a text message here and there, and before Nick knew they hadn’t spoken or seen each other for months. He knew she was still in the force, as she was quite often seen on ZNN as the spokesmammal for the police, but he didn’t know much more.

     But even though the two of them didn’t speak anymore, Nick still had Judy to thank for his current career. After he had quit the force he hadn’t been sure what to do with himself. He couldn’t go back to scamming and conning with Finnick − he was known to the cops now, and every move he made would be monitored. Feeling quite lost it had actually been Judy who had reminded him of his love for the investigatory part of being an officer. So Nick had taken what little he had to his name, bought a shoddy apartment over a noodle restaurant in Gnu York, and opened the doors to Wilde Investigations.

     At first the clients had been coming from far and wide. After all, Nick still had some reputation left after being ZPD’s first fox officer, but after he started turning away cases that he deemed too unworthy for his intellect, the clients slowly dropped away. Why would they go to an ex-cop with a superiority problem, when they could just turn to other services? That had been Nick’s downfall, of which he realised a little bit too late.

     A whiff of freshly cooked stir-fry searched its way into the room form the restaurant below, and Nick’s stomach growled.

     It was almost one o’clock, and he hadn’t eaten since the boring sandwich he had had at breakfast, but he was still not sure whether to go out for lunch or not. He was almost broke, and he knew he needed the little money he had just received from Mrs Kozlov to pay this weeks rent. Maybe it would just be better to stick it out to dinner time. After all, he had half a pizza in the fridge at home.

     Nick’s stomach growled again.

     With a heavy sigh he gave in to the hunger. A mammal had to eat, after all. He decided that the cheapest option would probably be a simple Bug-Burga from down the streets. But without chips, he could do without chips. And no drink. He had a faucet in the toilet. Yes, he could work around that. Maybe Mrs Jiang wouldn’t notice a few bucks missing from the rent.

     As he headed through the little foyer, and opened the door to head outside, he didn’t look where he was going and suddenly walked straight into someone and fell to the floor.

     “I’m so sorry,” a warthog about Nick’s age said, also on the floor. “I was just about to knock.”

     Nick’s gave a loud growl which made both mammals glance toward it. Cursing his bodily functions, Nick heaved himself up and reached out a paw to the warthog.

     “No worries, Tusks,” Nick said with a smile and helped the other mammal up. “It was my own fault.”

     The warthog smiled at Nick, but then saw the keys in Nick’s hand his smile faltered.

     “I see you’re heading somewhere,” he said and looked back up at Nick. “I can come back another time.”

     But as the warthog turned to leave, Nick quickly slunk around him and gave him his most convincing smile. Food would have to wait. This mammal had obviously come to Nick to seek his help, and who was he to turn away a potential case, and a potential new income.

     “Not at all, pal,” Nick said, arm around the mammal’s shoulder, leading him through the door. “Let’s go to my office, easier to talk in there.”

     They entered the office and after directing the warthog to one of the only two chairs in the room, Nick went around the desk and hurriedly packed away the photographs and notes from Mrs Kozlov’s latest case. When he was finally done, he sat down in his chair, put his elbows on the desk and rested his hands in his paws.

     “So what can I do for you, Mister…” Nick began, but realised he didn’t have the mammal’s name.

     “Nolan,” the warthog said with a smile. “Nolan Badenhorst.”

     “Nice to meet you, Nolan,” Nick answered, and could swear the name felt familiar. “I’m Nick Wilde. Can I offer you anything? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

     When Nolan declined all three options, Nick gave an inward sigh of relief. He had nothing but water in the office, and it would’ve made for an awkward moment if Nolan had asked for coffee.

     “What can Wilde Investigations do for such a fine mammal as yourself, then?” Nick asked.

     “Well,” Nolan began, seeming unsure where to start. “It’s quite silly really, and my mother has told me to give up on the affair. But I guess I just need to find out the truth. A couple of weeks ago my uncle fell in his stairs in in house and unfortunately passed away. The cops all say it was an accident, and my mother tells me to listen to them, but I just can’t shake the feeling that there is something more to it. Yes, he had bad knees, but he had lived in that house as long as I can remember. He wouldn’t just have fallen like that. Someone must’ve pushed him.”

     Nick, who had by this time leaned back, fished out his notebook, and was scribbling down whatever Nolan was saying looked up at the man.

     “Is there something else than just gut feeling you’re going on?” Nick asked. “The ZPD are usually quite good at getting to the bottom of things.”

     “Yes, well,” Nolan said, looking more unsure every minute. “There was no sign of a break in. No sign of anyone else setting foot in that house that day. And nothing was missing. Nothing except my uncle’s laptop.”

     “And why would someone want his laptop?”

     “My uncle had his latest novel on there,” Nolan said matter-of-factly.

     When there was no more explanation Nick put down his pen, and as his stomach growled for the fourth time Nick wondered if he had made a mistake deciding to talk to Nolan over having lunch. From what he had told him Nolan seemed to have nothing more to go on that a missing laptop. Hardly something mammals usually killed each other over.

     “Okay,” Nick began hesitantly. “Did the cops confirm that it was stolen from the house?”

     Nolan shook his head.

     “No, only that they couldn’t find it.”

     “Sorry,” Nick said. “But I don’t see why someone would ghost your uncle for a book?”

     “I know it wasn’t an accident,” Nolan said with vigour. “The police have it all wrong. Please help me find out the truth.”

     But Nick was getting increasingly bored with Nolan’s case, and his stomach was by this time screaming for food. Yes, he needed the money, but the last thing he wanted to do was trample all over ZPD cases. He wanted to stay as far away from the force as possible, and investigating a death that they had already ruled as an accident was sure to create some sore paws. And not to mention the thought of having to go to them asking for the case files. No, what Nolan was proposing felt less and less appealing to Nick, and he rose from his chair.

     “I’m sorry, Tusks,” he said and stretched out a paw. “But I don’t see how I can help you.”

     “Please Mr Wilde,” Nolan said as he too got out of his chair. “I know I’m right. You have to help me!”

     Nick sighed and walked around the desk, putting an arm over Nolan’s shoulder and started walking him towards the door.

     “This ain’t going to work out, pal,” Nick said. “ZPD has already wrapped up the case. Be a good boy and listen to your mother and put this behind you.”

     With angry eyes Nolan dug his hooves into the floor and made Nick stop in his tracks. He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and showed it in Nick’s face.

     “I need your help, Mr Wilde” Nolan said, his voice trembling with anger.

     Nick accepted the piece of paper and nearly let out a cry. It was a cheque written out to him, already signed, and with an amount almost so high it could pay his rent for the coming five months. He gingerly held the cheque in his paws, wondering for a second if this was some kind of joke. But looking up and seeing the determination on Nolan’s face made him disregard that thought. This was real.

     With a newly awoken urge to take on Nolan as a client, Nick smiled broadly and once again draped an arm around Nolan’s shoulder.

     “Forgive me, Tusks,” he said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “But I seem to have been a bit too hasty in saying no.”

     “So you’ll help me?” Nolan asked, and Nick could tell that the anger had not entirely left his body.

     “Of course,” Nick said walking Nolan back to the seat. “That’s why I’m here. To help you find your uncle’s killer!”

     The two mammals sat down by the table again, and Nick grabbed his pen. “Now let’s start with some details. What was your uncle’s name again?”

     “Oh, mutton chops,” Nolan said, slapping himself on his knee. “I must’ve forgotten to say.

     My uncle is Arnould Badenhorst.”

     That’s when it hit Nick why Nolan’s name had sounded familiar. Of course he know who Arnould Badenhorst was. Everyone in Zootopia knew who he was. If it wasn’t from his book series, and the TV series that followed, it was from his untimely death two months ago. It had been all over Zootopia Times and ZNN, and Nick would’ve had to live under a rock to have missed it. Everyone had been so upset, especially since the latest installment in the book series had ended on a cliffhanger, but also because Arnould Badenhorst had been both nominated and expected to win Book of the Year.

     A scenario played in Nick’s head, and a plan formulated. If he saw this through, and he was the one who found Arnould Badenhorst’s killer he would be famous. Yes, he might have to step on some paws in the ZPD, but with that kind of attention he could get his business back on track, and built up his reputation again. This could be the lucky break he had been waiting for.

     “I’m glad to officially welcome you to Wilde Investigations, Mr Badenhorst,” Nick said, his smile almost reaching his ears. “Now, let’s get to business.”

     Two hours later, after taking down every minute detail Nolan could provide him, Nick was heading down Barker Street to get some lunch. As he saw Bug-Burga’s storefront coming up he stopped, and smile. No − today was not a day he would go to Bug-Burga. Today he was going to treat himself. And with that thought crossed the street to the Wooldorf Hotel, and entered their restaurant.

Chapter Text

     ^{Pangolin Books Tower, Downtown, Savanna Central}

     She wished the smell was enough, but the coffee brewing in front of her would only make her feel more awake if she drank it. Unfortunately it wasn’t for her − it was for her insufferable boss. Eyeing the machine she was making sure it did it right. One splash too much of milk in her boss’ latte would make him scream, and she couldn’t take it today. To be honest, she couldn’t really take it any day. Yet he was constantly screaming, and she was still there.

     Jane had moved as a hopeful young pine marten, as many before her had, to Zootopia with dreams of becoming someone. And boy, had her dreams been big. She was going to become a famous actress, winning awards for both her beauty and charm. No, she was going to become the editor-in-chief of Vanity Fur, and be the style icon all of the city would look up to. Or, even better, she would become a highly regarded reporter, her featured stories being the most read in the Sunday edition of the Zootopia Times.

     Yes, the dreams had been many, but, as many before her, she had quickly realised that it was harder to make it in a city like Zootopia than she had imagine. Growing up in a small town, she had always imagined it being kind of like home. But Zootopia was a vast collection of people from all over the world, all with the same goals, and the same determination.

     Before she knew it a year had passed and she was living with two other girls in a small apartment and working as a receptionist at Pangolin Books under a boss she couldn’t stand. She knew it was a good job to have. After all, Pangolin Books was the biggest publisher in the city. It was hard to come by a steady job in the city, she knew that, and that was why she had stayed there. Initially at least. Now she had worked there for almost three years without any promotions or chances to grow, and stuck under the same vile boss with his intolerable temper.

     The coffee machine pinged, signaling that it was finished.

     With caution as to not burn her paw she grabbed the cup, and passing her desk she picked up that mornings internal memo. Her boss had just arrived, but Jane had been there since seven that morning, compiling all the emails and all the letters that had come in into one single page of bullet points, just like her boss wanted it. Jane never really understood why Mr McCavy wanted it that way, since he always made her explain each point in detail anyway. She assumed, and she was pretty sure that she was right, that he did it just to torture her.

     As she reached her the door of McCavy’s office she knocked politely before opening the door. McCavy was on the phone, his round guinea pig cheeks already puffy with anger.

     “No, Albert, I told you,” McCavy was screaming as she motioned Jane to come forward. “If she doesn’t rewrite the ending we will never publish. No-one wants their book to end with the main character working at Targoat. That’s just depressing!”

     And with that McCavy hung up and grabbed the coffee before spitting it back into the cup, turning to Jane.

     “What’s this?” he squeaked with the voice that always gave Jane a headache. “This is not my usual coffee!”

     “Sir,” Jane said, bowing her head slightly. “It’s your usual latte, made with extra hot almond milk.”

     “Latte?” McCavy said, looking at Jane like she was stupid. “When have I ever wanted a latte? Where’s my usual macchiato?”

     “Macchiato, sir?” Jane was confused.

     “Yes, macchiato,” McCavy said massaging his snout. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Fetch me something that is actually drinkable, will you?”

     And with that he turned to his laptop and started typing away. Jane bowed her head and quickly exited the room. This was her life, she thought to herself. She had a sadistic boss that wanted nothing but to see her fail, and she was stuck there. The thought of getting a new job had crossed her mind. Of course it had! But with the hours she worked she had no actual time to search for new jobs, let alone attend interviews. Plus, she hadn’t worked long enough for the company to get a letter of recommendation. And she doubted very much that McCavy would even give her one if asked.

     As she left the office the phone at her desk rang, and she hurried to pick it up.

     The day continued in this fashion − answering phone calls, correcting McCavy’s emails, and running errands all around the building. A normal day at Penguin Books Publishing. By the time her boss stomped past her desk and proclaimed that he was going to lunch it was already past two, and Jane gave a sigh of relief, reaching into her desk drawer as soon as the doors closed behind him to retrieve her tuna sandwich.

     But just as she was about to bite into it, someone walked up to her desk.

     “Excuse me, Chestnut,” a male voice said, as she quickly hid her lunch under a stack of papers. “I’m here to see a Eugene McCavy.”

     In front of her stood a handsome fox with an ill-fitting green shirt, flashing her a smile that she wasn’t sure how to take. She straightened her blouse and looked up at him.

     “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr McCavy is currently out for lunch.”

     “Ah, shoot,” the fox said, and did a mock facepaw. “I should’ve known. No sweat, I’ll just wait here.”

     And with that he grabbed a magazine from the end of her desk and pranced over to the sofa against the wall where he slumped down leisurely. At first Jane was too stunned to say anything. McCavy’s visitors were usually one of two sorts − either corporate businessmammals in clean cut suits without any personality, or nervous authors clasping their manuscripts tightly to their chests. This fox was neither. She couldn’t see him carrying a briefcase, or bag of any kind for that matter, and the air of arrogance around him didn’t fit the bill of a businessmammal. By the time she had finally composed herself enough to say anything, he had already put the magazine over his head and lied down, as if ready to sleep.

     “Excuse me, sir,” Jane said, praying that he hadn’t actually fallen asleep yet.

     “What’s up, Chestnut?” the fox said, not moving on the sofa.

     “Can I take your name, sir?” Jane opened the calendar on her computer. There was no booked meetings for McCavy this afternoon, except at five, and that was only Krumpanski from accounting. “What time did you say your appointment was at, sir?”

     “I didn’t,” and even though the fox still didn’t remove the magazine, she could tell he was smiling beneath.

     “Sir, I am going to have to ask you to lea−” But the fox swung his legs of the sofa, and interrupted her.

     “No need for that, Chestnut,” he said, putting down the magazine on the coffee table. “I’m just her to talk to old McCavy about some important propositions I’ve recently had come across my table. Trust me, when McSilky over there sees what I have in mind, he’ll clear his schedule.”

     He winked at Jane, laid back down, and left Jane wondering what to do. Even though he should find him extremely annoying, there was something about him that made him charming. Charming in some strange, arrogant way.

     Against her better judgement she decided to let him be. McCavy would be outraged by the fox and would throw him out, maybe even through the window. She waited, and when she was sure he was sleeping, she retrieved her sandwich from underneath the pile of paper.

     Forty minutes later McCavy walked back through the doors.

     “Erhm, sir,” Jane began, but before she could continue the fox had jumped off the sofa and was already standing in front of her boss with his paw stretched out.

     “Good day, Mr McCavy,”

     “And who are you?” McCavy said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Janet?”

     “I’m sorry, sir,” Jane said, ignoring the wrong name. “He was adamant he stayed.”

     “My name is Nick Wilde,” the fox said in a smooth polite voice, his demeanor completely different from what it had been earlier. “And I’m here on behalf of a Nolan Badenhorst, the nephew of your deceased client. My condolences, sir, but Nolan mentioned how much great a publisher you were and how much you had helped since Arnould’s passing and I knew I just had to meet you.”

     Jane had to bite back a snort. Since the day they had been informed about Arnould’s passing McCavy had done nothing but complain that the warthog had been selfish going on dying like that without even finishing the series. And on top of it all, he had been careless enough to lose the laptop with the manuscript. Without that they couldn’t even get someone to ghost write the last part of it.

     Jane had on top of it all also been asked to write numerous angry letters to Nolan, demanding the return of the laptop. Jane had spoken to the distressed nephew a couple of times, and she was completely convinced he knew nothing more than they did of the whereabouts unfinished manuscript. She felt sorry for him.

     But McCavy fell for it. He smiled, showing of his large front teeth.

     “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Wilde. Come to my office,” he chuckled, and added over his shoulder to Jane; “Fetch us two cups of coffee, will you, Janet?”

     As the two men entered the office Nick flashed Jane a smile before the door closed behind them.

     Jane left her desk, not sure if she felt angry or if she should like the fox’s perfect thatrics. He intrigued her and it bugged her that she couldn’t put a finger on why. Usually a mammal wearing short-sleeved shirt with palm leaf print and an ill-matching tie wouldn’t have been allowed near McCavy’s office, nor peaked her interest, but he had somehow managed to hit all of her boss’ sweet spots and waltzed in. She was impressed. As said, she had been there for almost three years, and she still wasn’t sure what to say to make him happy .

     When she had finished preparing the coffee she grabbed the tray, and went back to the office. Nick was sitting in a chair facing McCavy, who sat in his comically large chair with his back towards the massive windows showing the Zootopian skyline.

     “… and so I said ‘are you really saying that this is the first time?’”

     As Nick finished his joke McCavy burst out laughing. That was a sound Jane had never heard before.

     “Oh, boy,” McCavy said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Haven’t had a laugh like that in ages.”

     Jane walked to the desk and set down the tray as McCavy started writing on a notepad.

     “But to answer your previous question, yes,” McCavy said and put down his pen, handing over the paper to Nick. “As Badenhorst’s publisher, I had to keep an eye on every person that old hog managed to piss off. That mammal got half of Zootopia to hate him, I can tell you that!”

     “Anyone who would hate him enough to hurt him?” Nick asked as he accepted the piece of paper.

     “Milk?” Jane asked, but McCavy just gave her a dismissive wave of his paw. Nick’s question had caught her attention, and she wanted to stay in the room to hear McCavy’s answer. She looked to Nick, who flashed her one of his smiles and nodded in response to her question. When the two mammals started speaking again, she took her time pouring the milk, not wanting to miss a second of the conversation.

     “I could say no, but that will be a lie,” McCavy continued. “My first guess would’ve been Oposson, his PR manager, who hated his guts after all the shitty situations that he put him through, but he’s been out of the country for the last month. Other than that it would have to be any of his competitors. You know, he was nominated for the Pawlitzer Price?”

     “He’s not anymore?” Nick asked.

     “Well, yes,” McCavy looked up to the ceiling as if he was thinking it through. “But they don’t usually award posthumously, so he might as well be out of the race. I wrote them down for you. Ratoski, Mier, Barth, and Galesia. Can’t blame Badenhorst for disliking any of them. All just a bunch of cretins, if I say so myself.”

     “Sugar?” Jane interrupted, feeling she couldn’t pretend to pour anymore milk.

     “Just get on with it!” McCavy squeaked angrly. “Sorry for her, Wilde. She’s can be as annoyingly dim as she looks when it comes down to it.”

     “Oh, there’s no need to apologise, sir,” Nick said, glancing up at Jane who fumbled with the sugarcubes. He gave her a discreet wink which McCavy didn’t pick up on, before turning back to the conversation, and Jane felt a bit more relaxed as she put a cube in the fox’s coffee.

     “Do you know how I can get a hold of anyone of them?” Nick asked and took his cup from the tray to take a sip.

     “I know Galesia is having a launch for his new book on Friday,” McCavy said. “And Ratoski will do an interview to whomever that can stand her squeaking. But the other two… I’m afraid I don’t know much about their schedules. Barth hasn’t been with us for quite some time.”

     McCavy stopped speaking and for a moment the room was quiet. Then he snapped his eyes towards Jane.

     “Why are you still here, girl?”

     Jane jumped and realised she had just been standing there, staring and listening. Quickly, and quite clumsily, she grabbed the tray with the now empty pot of milk and sugarcubes, and hurried out of the room. As the door closed behind her she gave a nervous sigh, her bushy tail still quivering a little from getting caught eavesdropping, and hoped she wouldn’t be in too much trouble afterwards.

     Not long thereafter, when Jane had sat down behind the security of her small desk, Nick left the office together with a laughing McCavy who showed him to the lift. She still wasn’t sure what the meeting had been about. From what she had heard she would’ve guessed that Nick was a cop, but with the way he looked and the way he carried himself that surely couldn’t be the case. Maybe cops could act like that back in her hometown of Podunk, where the cops didn’t do much else than eat donuts and drive around town all day, but not here in Zootopia.

     Was he a reporter, trying to do some big exposé on Badenhorst and his enemies? For the first week after Badenhorts’s death Jane’s mailbox had been swamped with requests to see her boss and talk about their prized author, but she had quickly learnt to not bring those requests to McCavy. When the requests went unanswered, multiple reporters, even from magazines that she’d never heard of, showed up at the office, just to be escorted out by security just as quickly. If the ordeal had taught her anything it was that her boss hated journalists even more than he hated her, and that if she wanted to keep her job she should keep them away.

     No, that couldn’t be it.

     Nick had mentioned that he was working for Badenhorst’s nephew, but Jane couldn’t remember what Nolan did for a living. The few times he had been to the office, pleading to see McCavy after his uncle’s death, Nolan had seemed so meek and timid, and she couldn’t imagine a character like Nick working for a mammal like Nolan. She desperately wished she had been able to stay in the office longer, but the memory of getting caught made her blush underneath her fur.

     With a small sigh, and the pressing urgency to get back to her work, she put the interaction to the back of her mind and continued on with her day.

     A few hours later she had finally packed up for the evening and gotten on the bus home. But as she squeezed herself down between an old sheep and a smelly donkey, she found herself still thinking about Nick. There was something about the fox that peaked her interest more than she cared to admit.

     Her phone pinged, and she hauled it out of her handbag.

_{prep M’s draft for morning meeting.
erase wrongs. mark important context.
expect it by 8.}

     With a sigh she locked her phone and put it back in her handbag. If she wanted to finish preparing the draft on time she was looking at a maximum of four hours of sleep tonight. She really needed to get a new job. And for some reason, she felt that this Nick Wilde character might be her way out.