Mr. Otter Pops By For A Chat

Day Zero
75 Hours until Last Night

Vasily clicked through channels idly. A cooking show, with a closeup on a knife filleting a stag beetle. Lowbrow comedy, someone being hit with a coconut pie. Infomercials about tusk extensions and capping, for elephants who wanted an extra edge during mating season. A music video: Gazelle gyrating on a beach, and her ever-present tiger backups, with maybe a square foot of cloth between the two of them.

Perfect. He twitched the corners of his moustache upwards into something like a smile as he cranked the volume until the bass rattled the pictures on the wall.

“You like her music?” he asked the fox on the couch, who said nothing. “Is a bit overproduced for me. But me, I am an old fashioned sort. She makes people happy. Who am I to judge?”

Still no response. “Oh,” said the otter, “sorry”. He trotted over and casually unwound the belt that had been pinning the fox’s muzzle closed. It opened, gasping stickily for breath. And then, as expected, it began to spill pleas.

“You don’t have to do this. I know I said I’d have it, but business isn’t what it used to be. No one trusts no one anymore after the Bellwether thing. No one’s looking to buy land. All I need is another week, though, I got some leads-”

“Is not my decision,” said Vasily placidly. “Is Mr. Big’s. And Mr. Big, he has made his decision already, yes?”

“Oh, shit, oh shit. Please. *Please.* Can’t you talk to him?”

Vasiliy picked up the crowbar from where it rested against the edge of the couch, gave it a slow test swing and let it tap against the end table, wobbling the lamp atop it. “No. I do not talk. I listen. He tells me, ‘Vasily, this fox Fernando, he does not pay me his debts. Go and reason with him.’”

“This is *reasoning?*” Fernando’s voice was high, shrill, but muted under the thumping baseline from the television. “I told you I don’t have it, and I’m not gonna be able to get it if you, if-” he trailed off, panting, as Vasily rested the crowbar on his shoulder, ran the cold metal tenderly up his neck.

“No, I say it wrong. I am making a reason *of* you. A reason for others not to steal from Mr. Big.”

“*I didn’t steal from him, I just need one more fucking week, please!*”

Vasily tapped the crowbar affectionately against the side of the fox’s muzzle. “You are saying this already. Why do you think the answer is changing?”

“Fuck,” came the reply, through hyperventilating gasps. “Fuck, fuck, oh fuck.”

“Shh, sh sh sh. Close your eyes, little fox. It will be over soon.” Vasily dragged the bar’s tip down the fox’s stained wifebeater, over his boxers, let it hang for a moment on one knee as he got his grip with both hands. He tapped once, twice, watching the reflexive little jerks of Fernando’s leg as he began to sob. When he found his angle, he drew the bar back, high behind his head.

He nearly dropped it when the TV behind him began to screech. They both jumped, Fernando falling over sideways on the couch with a panicked cry.

“What in-” Vasily turned around. The screen was displaying an Emergency Bulletin standby pattern, blaring an alarm for attention. He heard the same alarm going off in apartments all over the building, shaking free from windowsills icicles already loosened by the sun  and smashing them against Drift Street below.

“Maybe we will have to wait a moment, very sorry,” he told the shaking fox, who pressed his fact into the couch cushions and gave a muffled scream in reply. He retrieved the remote and dialed the alert back down to a less painful volume, watching the words “Please Stand By” scroll past repeatedly over the greyscale map of Zootopia. Then the picture flickered, and switched to a very harried looking snow leopard in closeup behind a desk.

“This is an all points emergency alert. Please remain calm,” she said, while looking anything but. “At 2:03 PM Zootopian Standard Time, numerous unidentified sea vessels were detected arriving on the eastern shore of Saraha Square, carrying what appears to be-” she swallowed thickly. “-what appears to be a hostile invasion force. Firstline defence was not mobilized, as the vessels appear to be submersible in nature, and this force has caused several casualties in Sahara Square proper. Reports are varied, but the invading force appears to be predominantly reptillian.”

“Scalies?” said Vasily to the television, incredulously. “Scalies never poke their heads out of Steliodomus. What do you think-” he trailed off as he turned to look at the fox, who had struggled upright and was watching the screen with wide eyes and an expression somehow more terrified than the one he’d been wearing a few minutes ago.

“At this time, all non-Saharan residents are advised to remain in their homes,” said the leopard, in a voice that quavered only slightly. “A full biome lockdown has gone into effect. ZPD millitary police have been mobilized and are deploying to the area, and biome gates are currently being secured with the heaviest defenses possible. Residents of Sahara Square: seek shelter, underground or indoors if possible. Do *not* engage with anyone. Do *not* stop to help the wounded until the ZPD has secured the biome. Remain calm. *Remain calm*,” she repeated, as if it were a mantra.

“Cheryl,” croaked the fox next to him.

“What?”

“Cheryl’s in Sahara square. The kits.”

Vasily turned to look at the fox, then for the first time at the pictures on the wall. Fernando, a female jackal, some black-furred pups. “You are married?”

“Ye-...no. Divorced. She took the kits back to her… her parents, in…”

Vasily frowned, the corners of his moustache drooping. Then he leaned over, hooked the sharp tip of the crowbar’s curve into the belt binding Fernando’s paws, and jerked upwards. It tore through easily, and the fox, startled, fell forward off the couch and onto his knees. “What-”

“I am thinking Mr. Big has new priorities now. Go. If you run you may make it before the biome gates come down.”

The fox stared up at him, uncomprehendingly.

“*Go,* Vasily repeated, and this time it clicked. The fox flew to his feet, disappeared into the door to the bedroom, staggered out a moment later trying to pull his pants on and tuck a small personal dartgun (where had he gotten that?) into the wasteband of his pants at the same time.

“Thank you, thankyou thankyou-”

“Keep low,” Vasily said. “Rub sand in your fur as soon as you are getting there. Get to roofs if you can, to alleys if not. Go, now.”

The fox didn’t waste another word. The door to the apartment banged shut behind him.

“Good luck,” Vasily told it, and sat down on the couch, clicking the harried leopard’s face off with a touch of the remote before resting his face in his paws.

Today had been going so smoothly, too.