Chapter Text
The sun had only a few minutes left to hang over Zootopia. The snow-covered slope shimmered in warm shades of orange, sparkling in the last light. Another day in Tundratown was coming to an end. From the hill, the whole district looked almost unreal: the first neon signs flickered to life in the distance, porchlights and streetlamps glowed soft and welcoming, and before long the road up to the ridge would be strung with dozens of lights—just not yet.
Pawbert’s furry little paws hurriedly rolled the last snowball into place, trying to finish his project before he had to go home. He knew the clock was against him. If he didn’t get it done now, tomorrow’s weather would turn his lynx sculptures into nothing but a melting mound of slush.
He carefully hoisted the final “boulder” of snow and set it on top of the slightly bigger ball beneath it. But it wasn’t time to celebrate. He still had to add the details: paws, ears, noses…
“Pawbert! What are you still messing around with? Get home. Now!” a rough male voice barked behind him, heavy steps crunching through the snow.
“Yeah, Dad—just a sec! I’m almost done!” the lynx kit called back, not turning around.
He dug a small pouch out of the pocket of his brown pants and tugged the drawstring loose. Inside was everything he needed for the faces: a pair of yellowish pebbles for each statue’s eyes, two little red triangles for each nose, blackened bits of fireplace kindling for mouths, and thick gray thread for whiskers—plus the tufted ear tips that marked their species. Right. The ears. Pawbert had almost forgotten the ears.
He scooped up a handful of snow and started shaping triangles on each head, crowning them with tufts—small, proud brushes of snow that made the statues look unmistakably lynx. He worked fast, breath puffing in short bursts, the faceless spheres steadily gaining feline shape. With the claw of his index finger, he scratched quick indentations for the trinkets. Pebble by pebble, the figures stopped looking like random lumps and started looking like someone.
Pawbert backed up a couple of steps to admire his work.
A sudden sting of cold hit his cheek—sharp, startling—and his body reacted before his thoughts caught up. He spun around, yellow eyes searching for the culprit… and took another snowball square in the face. It smacked with a dull crack and burst apart.
Pawbert shook his head, snow scattering from his whiskers.
“Cut it out!” he shouted, wiping the leftovers off his muzzle.
“Where’s your sixth sense, little one?” a voice snickered.
Cattrick Lynxley—Pawbert’s older brother—walked up grinning, tall and smug in a brown coat and bluish pants. He came close enough to loom, then leaned in to inspect the sculptures.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“It’s Mom and Dad!” Pawbert blurted, pointing at the lynx on the right. “That one’s Mom—and this is Dad!”
Cattrick’s mouth twisted.
“Wow. What a talent,” he said with a dismissive snort. “Why are you even wasting time on this?”
“But I—”
“You could’ve been practicing snowball throws with us,” Cattrick cut in, his tone turning sharper. “Or racing, or anything. Instead you’re just…” He flicked a claw at the sculptures. “Playing with a pile of snow.”
The words landed heavy in Pawbert’s chest, like they had weight. Did Cattrick not love Mom and Dad? What was so wrong with making them as snow sculptures? Tons of kids their age did stuff like this. It was fun—wasn’t it? Why did Cattrick have to make it sound stupid?
Pawbert dropped his gaze, ears folding back. His muzzle twitched as he tried not to show it.
“Cattrick. Pawbert. It’s getting late. Time to come home—Kitty and your father are waiting,” a soft female voice called from ahead, her steps crunching closer.
“Yeah, Mom. I’m coming,” Cattrick muttered.
“Pawbert,” she added, gentler.
He lifted his head and saw her: a light-gray lynx with the same yellow eyes. A burgundy coat hugged her frame, and a red scarf was wrapped tight around her neck against the wind. She looked strong—steady—like calm made visible.
Aurore bent down, warmth in her smile.
“Don’t listen to your brother,” she said. “Your dad and I turned out beautifully, sweetheart. Just like real.”
She leaned in and kissed the top of Pawbert’s head between his ears, her fur tickling his forehead.
“You’re talented. You truly are. And your brother is just… pranking you.”
Without a word, Pawbert hugged her, stretching as high as he could and rising onto his toes to reach.
But the crunch behind them was getting louder again, and something in Pawbert tightened—like his body already knew what was coming.
“Aurore, what is this—excuse me—blubbering?” his father snapped. “How is he supposed to grow into a proper Lynxley if you coddle him like that? Inside. Both of you. Now.”
Aurore let Pawbert go carefully and stepped toward her husband.
Milton Lynxley looked younger than his voice sounded—an heir to an influential family, but tonight just a family man in a bluish winter jacket. His eyes narrowed; his whiskers bristled; his stare pinned itself to the youngest.
Aurore kept her tone even, almost bright. “Look at you,” she said, nodding toward the snow figure. “It’s a perfect match, Milton. Our son did an amazing job.”
“He—”
She slipped her arms around him from behind and rested her head on his shoulder. Pawbert watched his father’s face soften, anger melting down into something quieter—though a chill still lingered in it.
“Well…” Milton said at last. “Yeah. It’s not bad.” He glanced at Pawbert. “But you can do a lot better than this, Pawbert. Now go warm up with the others.”
“Yes, Dad,” Pawbert answered, small and careful, and ran toward the house without looking back.
Milton stared out over Tundratown as it grew brighter by the minute, neon and lamplight eating away at the dark. Pride warmed him from the inside out—pride in the Lynxleys.
But something kept snagging at him.
He waited until the crunch of pawsteps faded.
“He’s going to grow up spineless, sweetheart,” Milton said.
“Pawbert isn’t spineless,” Aurore replied. “He’s your Lynxley. Just… different.”
“He’s not a Lynxley at all,” Milton muttered. “He’s Aurore number two—a boy is the only difference. He takes after you in every way…”
He stepped away from her and bent over the snow sculptures, moving to the one meant to be him. With a sharp swipe of his paw, he tore off the clump that formed the face—ears, triangles, all of it—and held it up.
“And yes,” he said softly, almost to himself. “You’re right. He really is different.”
He extended his arms—then his grip loosened.
The snow clump collapsed, crumbling into a shapeless spill across the ground.
“And that worries me.”