Chapter Text
Tonight’s the night. I adjust my collar in the glass of a display case. Ears perked, fur fluffed, bowtie askew. Still a red fox, through and through. Just with more flop sweat than usual.
This is your night, Tod. Time to blow the roof off of obscurity. Show ‘em you’re more than the tricky fox they always said you were.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous, Tod!” a voice calls out from the concessions. Chief Luggins, all broad shoulders and sharp eyes, stands in line holding a paper cup that probably hadn’t seen coffee in hours. “You practically breathe scales and arpeggios.”
“Chief!” I smile. “You keeping those diabolical Bad Guys on their toes tonight?” I’m upping the drama, like Tiffany Fluffit did the other night.
She gives a tired chuckle. “Always. Though I think they’ve upgraded from stealing to showboating. Did you see that article? Your favorite felon made the front page again.”
My ears went hot. “He’s not my favorite—” I cough. “He’s just… unusually photogenic for a wanted criminal.”
She jerks her chin toward a velvet rope in the far corner. “And of course, the museum’s tempting fate by putting the Serpent’s Eye on display.”
I blink. “That’s here?”
“On loan from a private collector. Security says it’s airtight, but you know how that goes.” She snorts. “Shiny bait like that? Practically an open invitation…”
She trails off, probably noticing my gaze drifting to the newspaper kiosk. “Foxwell, if you’re mooning over Mr. Wolf again, I’m confiscating your clarinet.”
I snap out of it. “I was not mooning,” I lie poorly. “It was more like… tactical media monitoring.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, unconvinced. “Just be careful where you aim that curiosity, kid. The charm’s real—but so’s the rap sheet.” She pauses, her expression turning serious. “By the way, keep your ears open. Weird stuff’s been going on near Marmalade’s place.”
“Weird how?”
“Neighbors reporting guinea pigs acting… off. Vacant stares, glowing eyes. One woman swore she saw them moving in formation, like they were being led.”
“Is this a horror movie now?”
“Feels like it,” she mutters. “Started after Marmalade brought that meteorite to his mansion. Claims it’s part of his collection of ‘energetically active artifacts’.”
“Sounds like something that messes with the Wi-Fi,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
She gives a tired smile. “Or your brain. Anyway, just thought I’d mention it.”
“Thanks for the nightmares.”
“Just knock 'em dead out there, Foxwell.” She starts to turn, then pauses, softer than before. “You know, they weren’t gonna let a fox headline the gala. Not without someone pushing. You’ve kept your head down, played by the book. That still counts for something.”
She winks. “Don’t make me a liar, Foxwell.”
“Knocking them dead is the plan,” I tell her. “I’ll try not to trip over any jewel thieves on the way to the stage.”
I turn toward the green room, but a face flashes unbidden in my mind—sharp grin, cocky tilt of the head. Stupid. Not now. My paw brushes the silver pin on my lapel. A silhouette of a fox, head tilted back, playing a tiny clarinet. A gift from my old teacher. A reminder to stay grounded. Professional. Focused.
A wave of latecomers surges through the lobby doors. I step aside—
and collide with someone.
“Whoa there!” A smooth voice cuts through the lobby’s hum. Someone steadies my elbow. “Easy does it. Wouldn’t want our soloist taking a tumble before the first note.”
“Oh, pardon me! Terribly sorry,” I stammer, stepping back.
I look up. The guy’s sporting a white suit, a striped fedora, and a pencil-thin mustache lounging over a sly smirk. Straight out of a jazz-age caper. He’s dapper, yet remarkably solid, considering how hard I bumped into him. Even through his aviators, his eyes hold an impressive luster.
He steadies me, faintly shifting my lapel. “No harm done.” He extends his paw. “Tod Foxwell, isn’t it? The clarinetist? Big night for you, I hear.”
I shake his paw, still a little dazed. "That’s me. And you are?"
"The name's Poodleton. Oliver Poodleton." His voice carries a golden timbre, laced with something I can’t quite place. "Just an admirer of the arts. So, what's the verdict for tonight? Soul-stirring revelations, or just a really good show?" He shoots me a wink.
My ears warm at his directness, but a spark of conviction surfaces. “Well, ‘soul-stirring revelations’ might be setting the bar a bit high for a debut. But I hope it’s more than ‘just a really good show.’ For me, it’s always been about the emotion behind the notes. If I can share a bit of that… that’ll be the real magic.”
Poodleton glances toward the west wing. “You’ve got good timing, Mr. Foxwell. Hard to compete with the Serpent’s Eye, though. That thing’s getting its own spotlight tonight.”
I follow his gaze. “Not the easiest opening act, but I’ll manage.”
He chuckles. “Let’s just hope no one tries to ‘borrow' it mid-show.”
He looks back at me with a half-smile. “Still, I admire the commitment. You’re putting your soul out there while the rest of the city gawks at a shiny rock.” He tilts his head. “Then again… people do love spectacle.”
A beat.
“Speaking of which… why the clarinet?” His smirk turns mischievous. “Of all the instruments out there, you chose that?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I mean don’t get me wrong, I respect any musician! Just figured you’d go for something cooler…”
Oh no. Don’t say it—
“Like the trumpet.”
“What, the clarinet isn’t cool enough for you? I thought you were ‘an admirer of the arts’?”
“Well, brass is bold. Flashy. You hear it in movie trailers. Woodwinds?” He shrugs. “Let me know when the clarinet lands a blockbuster theme.”
I narrow my eyes. “Alright, Mr. Hotshot. Let me know when you can play the trumpet better than I can play the clarinet.”
“Touché,” he grins, still watching me. “Just figured someone like you would've aimed louder. What made you pick the quiet one?”
I straighten. “Because it’s honest. It’s not about volume or bravado—it’s about craft. Detail. Years of pressure, playing to empty halls, trying to sound like more than just a fox with a nice tone.”
His head tilts. “So it’s a pressure thing.”
“Pressure turns coal into diamonds,” I say. “I’m just hoping tonight, someone notices.”
The house lights dim. Showtime. I give him one last glance as I turn to go.
“Enjoy the show, Mr. Hotshot.”
He raises a brow—amused, maybe even impressed. “Oh, I intend to,” he murmurs. “Break a leg.” He gives me a charming little parting salute. I have to drag my gaze away from him. Something about that grin sticks in my head like a tune I’m not done hearing.
The buzz backstage is the familiar flavor of controlled chaos. I assemble my clarinet. That strange conversation with “Mr. Poodleton” lingers at the edge of my thoughts. So does Chief Luggins’s warning. But for now, they fade to the periphery. This is my moment.
My piece is the daring Weber Clarinet Concerto No. 2. I step onto the stage. The spotlight warms my fur and veils the audience in the darkness. I nod to the conductor; he raises his baton. Bows go up, the winds take their breaths.
The first notes are clear, resonant. I nail my entrance and pour every ounce of my being into the music. The soaring melodies, the intricate runs, the soulful allegro. For these precious minutes, I’m not just Tod Foxwell, obscure fox clarinetist. I am a conduit for something beautiful.
Then a sharp CRASH explodes from the east wing.
The orchestra grinds to a halt. It wasn’t a cymbal. Those shouts weren’t part of the show.
"What was that?"
"Security!"
A panicked cry cuts through the confusion: "It's the Bad Guys!"
Chaos erupts. People are gasping, some shrieking, others scrambling. Stagehands run past me. My heart leaps into my throat. My mind flashes to Chief Luggins’s tired face.
I book it, threading backstage for the exit. I mindlessly snatch my clarinet case on the way out.
An armored truck idles quietly under a streetlamp, its back door invitingly open.
Hide first, questions later. Fox gotta fox.
I slip behind a rough canvas tarp. My hands move on instinct—bell, barrel, joints—and I nestle them into their velvet slots and snap the case shut.
Okay, maybe this is a bad hiding spot.
I peek out from the tarp just as a rush of footsteps and voices floods in.
"Go, go, go!"
"Did you get it?"
"Uh, yeah, I got the Serpent's Eye! What do you think this is, amateur hour?"
The Serpent's Eye? That jewel, or sculpture, whatever? And I'm stuck in their getaway vehicle. Fabulous.
The truck’s engine sparks to life and swiftly lurches into motion. I cling on, heart pounding, as they argue directions.
The ride is a terrifying symphony of screeching tires and bellowing.
"Left! No, your other left!"
"Does every light have to be red?!"
"Watch this. Three... two... one..."
The city lights are a frantic blur through cracks in the canvas. I stay still, barely daring to breathe, my clarinet case a flimsy shield against the unknown.
After an eternity of jolts and near misses, the truck screeches to a halt.
"Alright, coast is clear," a gruff voice announces. "Let's unload the Eye and ditch this crate." Heavy footsteps. The back doors creak open. I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Wait a sec," another voice, sharp and suspicious. "What's this?" The tarp rips away.
My blood runs cold. Five pairs of eyes land on me. A hulking shark, a wiry snake, a manic-looking piranha, and a tarantula. And framed in the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like he’d won a bet?
"Mr. Poodleton?!" My voice cracks. My heart sinks to my stomach.
His aviators are off now, a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face. “Well, now,” he says with a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “If it isn’t Mr. ‘Pressure Makes Diamonds’ himself. What have we here?”