The Fire Triangle -- Part II, Oxidizer

The Fire Triangle: Book II - Chapter 48

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 8: Everything You Know is Wrong
(Part 5...Concluded)

Undisclosed location, Zootopia Sound-Monday, 17:47, ZST

At first, Conor was unfamiliar with the tune; he had heard it maybe one or two times before-and that had been years ago.

But ...where the foxtrot was he? He could see his arms; he could see the bed...a hospital bed? Yeah, okay, but beyond that, he could see nothing; nothing except a ring of haze surrounding him, perhaps the size of a traffic circle.

And after that-zippity; just an endless, empty black void.

Yeah, and what about that music? It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere; from beyond the darkness and, at the same time, from somewhere inside of his head.

But now he finally recognized the melody; it was the opening synth-riff from the old Alan Purrson's Project tune, "You Can't Take It With You." Hmmm, how did that first verse go again?

♪ "Well, I sympathize completely
But there's nothing I can do
I am just a humble servant
With a message here, for you." ♫

Whoaaaa, wait a minute-that wasn't any synthesizer. Someone was whistling those notes; repeating them over and over again, in a closed loop.

That was when he heard the voice...deep and soft and smoky.

"Hello, boy. So...we meet again."

Conor looked...and fox-screamed.

Skittering backwards, he pressed himself into the mattress and pillow with all his strength-as if trying to bury himself inside of them.

Standing at the foot of the bed was an enormous wolf, with fur like an arctic glacier. The astounded young silver fox recognized him at once, although ...n-no, it couldn't be...not him.

He was big, mean, and hulking; with deep-set, burning eyes, embedded in a mask of ash-grey fur. The most familiar thing about him was his mode of dress; a baggy shapeless tunic with Slavic overtones, a relic of Soviet Russia.

But it was the object in his paw that drew the bulk of Conor's attention; a crescent-moon, razor-sharp sickle. The sight of it was enough to turn his tail into a bottle-brush and make his fur stand on end as if charged with static electricity. He felt a bolt of searing heat slice across his back. It wasn't real, but only a memory-of what the leader of the Stalniy Volki had done with that thing the last time they had met. He'd been about to finish the job with his hammer when...

When...

"No, no, no! You're dead; Danny blew you away, I saw it." Conor had done more than see it, actually. It was another memory he couldn't get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried.