10:23 PM, en route to the home of the late Mr. Big
A reporter is supposed to have nerves of steel, thirst for adventure, and the ability to sniff out a good story – or else make one up. But it was impossible to not be a nervous wreck who wanted nothing more than to be at home and safely under the covers, when you've been summoned to the home of the most feared and respected crime boss in all of Zootopia.
Such was the case of one reporter Jack S. Wranger as he sat in the back seat of a black limousine. The cream-furred rabbit could hardly contain his shaking, the brown cap on his head nearly falling off as he looked around. The interior of the vehicle was very comforting, relaxing. A gentle brown covered the seats with gray cloth on the roof and floor, a set of fancy glasses resting on the far doorway beside an untouched bottle of wine. The glasses were spaced impeccibly, hardly shifting with the gentle turns that the driver made. A faint, ornately designed white 'H' faced outwards on the glasses, a reminder of who it was that the rabbit was going to meet.
Across from him sat a black panther, finely dressed in a black suit and white undershirt. His black tie was pulled tightly against his neck, and his dark brown eyes only occasionally turned from the window to the rabbit. No attempts at conversation were made, save the offer of a drink which the rabbit kindly refused. A window to the front seat was visible behind the panther, but the blackened glass cut the two mammals off from the driver and his passenger.
Jack's thoughts drifted back to why he was here.
"Jackie," his boss shouted, walking through the mess of desks and filing cabinets that made up their offices. The Feline Inquirer was a big newspaper company in Zootopia, but as were all paper-printing companies, they were struggling to stay relevant compared to on-screen news apps. The result was a grouping of exhausted mammals, straining to find interesting enough stories to keep the paper afloat. The rooms were hot and stuffy, the air dry and the fans doing little to relieve the heat of so many mammals in the room. Keyboards could be heard as reporters and researchers did their best, and the ringing of phones hardly ceased for more than a minute. A bland environment, but one most members of the office had found comforting through the recent years. "Yes, boss?" Jack said, ears rising up as he lifted his head from the article he was working on. Photos, papers, and pencils littered his desk. Discarded or now-useless papers were stained with the dark rings of a coffee mug, the plain white cup sitting dangerously at the edge of his desk. The tan cap he wore, a vintage favorite for his field work, rested on a pile of papers at the other edge. "Got a letter for you," his boss said, slapping a cream colored envilope onto his desk. Jack looked at it, then up to his boss. The badger looked at him expectantly, dim blue eyes waiting for him to open the letter. Jack took a moment to set down his cup, watching as his boss fixed his rolled-up sleeves. "For me? You shouldn't have, Logan," the rabbit chuckled, picking it up and turning over the paper in his grasp. His heart stopped for a moment when he saw the red wax seal, an unmistakeably designed 'H' sitting in the very center. The left of it held a series of unnecessary curls and loops, the two pillars that formed the vertical sides of the letter being far fatter than the rest of it. The styling invoked memories of letters from grandparents, the beautiful lettering that flowed over the paper being the nearest comparison. Jack could feel the eyes of the badger beside him boring into his head, urging the rabbit to open the letter. Jack was hesitant. Had she somehow found out about his snooping? In his attempts to bring together a story that could help the business, he had gone digging into the surprising lack of evident organized crime on the streets. The result led him to find that there was once a large collective of mafias within the city, at least one per district. But now, all of them were under one name, signified by a single letter. There was no clear rhyme or reason as to why they had all fallen under one rule, one family, but it was clear from how the older members of the mafia reacted that the new leader was to be feared. The rabbit had attempted to discover the history of this, the why and how and when, only to meet a dead end at every turn. Most mammals who had ties to the older families were tight-lipped, and online information was scarce at best. With a set of sweaty, shaking paws, Jack opened up the envelope and slid out the letter. The paper was smooth, a shade paler than the casing it had come with, and bordered in a manner similar to the H's design. Leaves and vines ran along the sides of the paper, safely encompassing the words waiting for him. He took a gulp of air, and began reading.
"Dear Mr. Jackson Wranger,
It has recently come to our attention that you have given an unusual interest in the criminal past of our fair city. In the past, as is current, this act was heavily frowned upon. But as one age draws to a close, it seems only fitting that the tale be told. As such, you are being summoned to the estate of the late Mr. Big tomorrow evening. A cheauffer will arrive at your home promptly at 10:00 PM for transport. It is advised that you not be late."
Signed just beneath it was a single letter, an H. The calling card of the city's crime leader, once something he gave little thought towards, was now sending him into a silent panic. Logan, his boss, was leaning over his shoulder to read the letter, standing upright with wide eyes and a dumbfounded expression as he ran a paw over his head. "Shit, kid..." he muttered. Jack's mouth felt dry as he set down the letter and sat back in his chair. Dread filled him as he considered the many possible reasons for him being summoned. It could be so innocent as the letter implied, the goal simply being to pass along a story of the underground of Zootopia. Or it could be something far more sinister – perhaps he had looked too deeply into something without realizing it, and he was to be silenced? "Sir," the rabbit said, after finding his voice. "I think I'd like the rest of the day off." "Go ahead, son," the badger said. He walked around the desk and placed both paws on it, leveling his eyes with Jack's. "Get your things in order, just in case. Don't bother coming in tomorrow, either. I don't think you want to risk keeping them waiting." Jack nodded and thanked the badger, before slowly packing his things and walking out the doors to go home. He ignored the curious looks he was given, taking his windbreaker and slinging it over his shoudler with his messenger bag as he walked home, blankly staring all the way.
The night was cold, the winds of fall biting at the districts that weren't temperature controlled. A faint drizzle had begun since he had left his home, the faint pattering of raindrops on the vehicle calming him slightly.
Once they pulled into the lengthy driveway, a sense of finality settled within the reporter. His shaking slowly ceased as the vehicle came to a halt, and the door on his right was opened up. A large polar bear stared down at him, dressed in a suit similar to the panther's, waiting for him to exit. Jack quickly gathered his things and hopped out, followed by the panther. The polar bear grunted quietly and shut the door, before leading the two inside the large, victorian-style home. Snow at least a foot and a half thick covered the roof, small chunks of it falling away as rain that hadn't yet become snow hit the roof. Jack shivered and shook himself as he entered the noticeably warmer house, his breath no longer visible.
He was stopped within in entryway by an arctic fox. Unlike the rest, he was not dressed in a suit, but rather a running outfit. "I need to search you," he said in an official tone, nodding in thanks as Jack relinquished his items and let himself be pat down. The only item in his pockets, his phone, was removed and carefully examined, before being handed back to him. His messenger's bag was carefully sifted through, the sound of pencils and papers sounding from inside as the fox dug around, before also being carefully sealed and handed back. Lastly, his coat, which only held a wad of napkins. This too was given back to the reporter.
"Right this way," the fox said, turning and folding his paws in one another before him as he led Jack down a series of halls. Lights designed like candles adorned the walls, as did a wide variety of photographs. From one of an old shrew in a red dress, to one of what could only be Mr. Big with his daughter when she was but a child, or of many groupings of polar bears in suits, the photos held a story of their own. But Jack was not given enough time to try and work out these stories, as he was quickly ushered into a room with two large oak doors. The golden handles complimented the floral engravings of the wood, giving not even a creak as they were pushed inwards.
Jack stepped into what could only be described as a study. Massive bookcases lined the walls, packed to the brim with novels ranging from Sherlock Hound to the works of ancient philosophers. A fire crackled on the left side, warmth radiating from it and relieving the rabbit. Towards the back of the room was a floor-to-ceiling window, moonlight streaming through and illuminating a perfectly kept desk of dark wood. A quil and ink bottle sat beside a lamp on one side, the other having stacks of books haphazardly placed down.
To the left, on the far side of the fire, sat a figure in a fancy chair. The wooden frame supported white fabric and gold lacings of more victorian-era floral pattering. A similar chair sat not far from it, a single small table between the two. This, too, held several books, one of which was open, and a coaster that had a half-empty cup of tea on it.
"Ah, Jackson," sounded an aged, unfamiliar voice. It was light and warm, yet tinged with experience and an unspoken authority. "I've been waiting for you. Please, take a seat."
A gray paw, slightly smaller than his own, gestured to the seat across from their own, and Jack did as was told. He took a nervous breath, setting down his bag and removing his coat as he did so. It was then that he took a look at she who had summoned him.
White tinged the gray rabbit's muzzle, and a multitide of scars showed on her fur. One small cut above her right eye, and a similar one ran along the far side of her right cheek. A nick was in her right ear, towards the top, and a matching nick was at the base of her left ear. She was dressed just as the rest of the mammals he had encountered so far were, with one exception. Over her heart was a red flower he couldn't identify, pinned in place like a corsage. Her amethyst eyes sparkled brilliantly, but held a depth that spoke of her experience and age. Yet when he sat there, he felt more than one gaze upon him.
"I trust your ride here was a comfortable one?" she asked. Jack nodded. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. "Would you care for a drink? Perhaps a tea or coffee?"
"No, thank you," Jack muttered. He watched as one of her ears flicked and she reached for her drink, taking a slow sip.
"You know," she said. "It was on a night much like this that my place in this city was solidified." She turned from the fire to look at Jack, and he swallowed nervously. She chuckled softly at his reaction. "That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
"I-I believe so," he stammered. "To be quite honest, ma'am, I'm not entirely sure why you summoned me here."
"You are a reporter, correct?" she said. Jack nodded. "I summoned you here to pass along the story of my rise. It was surprisingly swift, I will admit. And I have done my share of deeds, both good and bad, while I have held this power."
Jack nodded slightly. "I understand now," he said.
"I should hope so. It's your job to, isn't it?" she chuckled. Jack offered a nervous smile and nod of affirmation. "You have a moment's time to gather your things before I begin."
Jack nodded and hastily began pulling things from his messenger bag. A small recorder was set on the table between them, and a notebook was withdrawn with a pen, the rabbit flicking through the pages until he found a clean one. With one final, steadying breath, he scribbled the date onto the paper. "Alright, ma'am, I'm ready for you to begin."
The rabbit across from him chuckled softly. "Let's start us off with somewhere simple, shall we? My name," she said, pausing for a dramatic effect. "Is Judy Hopps."