Wilde Card (Zootopia Original Story)

1: The Bunker

Song: Burning Down, Everyone You Know

The moon was high in the darkening city sky. It was difficult to tell between aeroplanes and stars. Distant traffic could be heard on Zootopia's streets as the nocturnal animals made their way to work. To the untrained eye, nothing unusual was happening. Nobody had even noticed that the Mayor's son, Konni Lionheart, had been out of sight for three days. No one quite knew why the old mayor had been reelected, but it seemed that his withholding of information in the Missing Mammals case of twenty years ago had long been forgotten.

A Red Fox leapt through the open window of her bedroom and out into the night. She didn't have a choice at this point: she needed to see Konni. She hadn't heard from the young lion in days and she had grown tired of waiting for a response. She had a failsafe to find him: an app that allowed them to track each other's phones in the case of an emergency. They'd sworn not to use it for personal gain: she deemed this fair use.

After making her way quietly down the street, with a bag over her shoulder and her claws clicking on the pavement, she placed her bag in the top box of her red Yamaha YZF-R1 motorbike and climbed onto it. She pushed a pair of goggles past her ears. They weren't the smartest thing to wear, but she couldn't have jumped from her second floor window with a crash helmet, so the dark sun goggles would have to do. She had no trouble seeing in the dark, anyway.
She winced when she ignited the bike's engine: her father was sure to have heard its growl. She looked back at the house. The lights remained off. The door stayed closed. "Okay," she breathed. "I'm coming to find you, Konni."

~

Upon walking into the bunker three days prior, Konni stood between four beige walls with scuff marks from the edges of furniture. There was a red sofa which had long lost its shape. In the back of the room, opposite the door, was a metal-topped table. Konni was surprised it wasn't dented. Tucked beneath the table, either side, were two wooden chairs which looked like they'd been gnawed by beavers, and then used as a scratching post for small claws.
Suspended from the ceiling were two light bulbs which gave off an uncomfortable yellow glow. He decided he'd avoid using those as much as possible. Maybe he could ask for some plug-in desk lamps?
There was a set of drawers in the wall next to a closed door (through which was a bathroom). He wondered how such a small-looking place had so much storage.
There were no windows in this room, but he'd been led in by the man who'd designed the bunker: an astute horse with an eye for detail. He gave him a manual of everything he needed to know: code words for various security precautions; where the hidden TV was; what to do in the event of a burglary. All that good stuff.

He had been pacing his bunker for the past ten minutes, his long tail flicking behind him from side to side. He knew Flayre would find him eventually: she had a knack for that, most likely inherited from her father. He brushed back his growing blonde mane and took his phone from the table. She'd not even sent him a meme or funny video recently. And she would normally do that every couple of hours. That meant she was up to something. He sighed, placing his phone back on the scuffed metal table. He silently hoped she wouldn't get to him – he wasn't allowed to tell her why he'd left his posh, city mansion for a bunker like this. However, her finding him was part of the plan: it was to keep her safe.

He heard a knock at the door and his heart began pounding in his chest. Was that the fox, or an intruder? There was another, more urgent thud at the door. He gulped. He opened the door.

There she was in a black, leather jacket and armoured leather pants with goggles on her head. Nothing about her had changed. Though, why would it? He hadn't been gone long. "Ha! I knew I'd find you," she said.

She was shocked when he ran into her, picking her up in a warm, almost bone-crushing embrace. She pulled away and had to resist the urge to smack him: the thought of scraping a large chunk of his light fur with her claws crossing her mind. "What the hell are you doing down here, Konni?"