cover art by: akemi2310224
Zootopia has become a cesspool.
Predators are assigned collars that have needles inside them; designed to push into their throats if they get unruly.
Nick Wilde, 22, a depressed schizophrenic, works at a D.P.C.U, which pic...
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The rain.
The rain slammed the city, with a force only matching the roar of the loudest of lions.
The sky was a deep grey, darkening out the sun for thousands of miles. It kept the city in a shroud.
This city was Zootopia, and dear reader, don't let the name deceive you; this is no utopia.
This is, for lack of a better world, a grey, dirty hell; where the power hungry ran a tyranny, and the citizens were treated in the most vile and unfair ways imaginable.
Predatory animals, while rather docile in this modern time, were looked down upon as monsters. Monsters with only the urge to kill, not raise families, not love, not learn; but to kill.
This is where the story starts, with one of these "monsters", a fox named Nick P. Wilde, sitting at his window desk in his dark room, on August 29th, 1999.
¤
The fox's room was dark, and musty. The walls and low ceiling enclosed him in their claustrophobic way, the light bulb burnt out from many months ago. A deep, dark blue blanketed the rough, carved wood, and... two quivering arms.
One laying down on the table, scarred, fur in miss matched patterns. The other was above it, holding an Exact-o knife. The fox was shaking, eyes dilated to dots the size of an ant.
His breath was shaking, and his stomach felt empty, cold sweat breaking out over his fur. His muzzle was contracted, fear carved into his face.
The blade was sharp and shiny, while his fur was a spiced reddish orange. Such a stark contrast.
Lined up against the windowsill on the desk, were dozens of hackysack dolls, all seemingly homemade, and needles shoved inside of them. They seemed to be as full of pain, as were Nick's eyes.
The fox felt his eyes burning, tears began to form in the corners of them, and he brought the exact-o knife down, and he cut a diagonal line in his flesh.
He screamed; screamed with an intensity that rivaled the heat of a boiling sun. He cut and cut, until there were three X's carved in his right arm, bleeding a deep, dark, shineless crimson.
His breathing was erratic, his body shook with tremors, and he moaned in pain, moaned with hurt.
His shaking eyes glanced to the desk, where the dolls were all lined up, faceless and nameless.
They locked onto the pins in the dolls.
Dolls of voodoo are stuck with pins.
A voice rang in his ears, a very angry, horrible voice; that didn't exist.
He gulped, and with reached to pull a pin out of one of the dolls.
The pin was dull, no shine, but all the more sharp at the end. With his quivering finger, he jabbed into his arm, alongside the heavily bleeding x's.
