"Sheep don't eat meat."

The smell of greasy, fried food hangs in the air like a delicious fog. Ordinarily, it would have a calming effect on me. It's a warm, even familiar sensation. Like that feeling you get when you come home to a fresh-cooked meal. A trip to Bug Burga is usually the highlight of my day, the perfect way to end a long morning of tiring but fulfilling work. The light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Any other day, carrying a sack full of comfort food back to my apartment to enjoy would be enough to get me dancing.

Any day but today.

"You know that's not... normal, right?"

I can still see the look in my manager's eyes as those words spill out of his stupid face. A mix of confusion and worry as he intentionally stands in front of me with his arms crossed, blocking my way to the loading docks -- while all the other crew members file in past me just fine to start their shifts.

"Wasn't so long ago I was your age, kid. And look, yeah, I get it, we all get into experimenting with weird shit a little when we're young. 'Try anything', or however that song goes."

He says "experimenting" like I'm trying out drugs or some shit. I'm not some fucking deviant. I'm not a junkie or an addict. If I ever find "Kenny's stash", I'm flushing that shit down the toilet. I'm a normal, functional member of society. I'm not some fucking screwup like Ozzy, who needs weekly visits to make sure I don't step out of line.

"Listen, you live, what, a mile from the latest outbreak? Until we can, you know, figure out exactly what's going on with all that, we're -- look, just don't worry about coming in tomorrow, alright?"

For a second I thought it was a kindhearted gesture, on account of grief. An offer to just take the day off so I could try to recover. Get my wits about me after everything that's happened.

Until he told me not to bother coming in the day after tomorrow, either. That's when I put two and two together.

I move forward another spot in line, my fist crumpling the slip of paper in my pocket that might as well be pink.

I can't fucking believe my luck. My boss has cut my hours yet again -- officially, it's "until further notice", but the formal letter I'm holding reads an awful lot like "permanently". He's stalling me out until I quit so that he doesn't have to fire me and pay the severance I'm entitled to. And for fuckin' what? Because I just happen to eat bug meat, and because I just happen to sort-of live near a store where a predator went savage?

If anything, I'm more of a victim here than anyone else! I'm being unfairly discriminated against because of the company I keep. The company I've been FORCED to keep. I wouldn't even BE here if I wasn't down on my luck! That bastard didn't even give me a chance to explain, to plead my case. The security guards standing nearby made it clear I shouldn't stick around and try to argue.

This isn't hard to understand: I'm not like them! Prey species don't go savage -- we're immune, remember? And even if we did, I'm a hornless ram, for fuck's sake! What am I gonna do, bruise someone with my flat, nubby teeth? Just because I live near a bunch of hair-trigger preds that could go savage any moment, doesn't make me one of them!

And now, those same hair-trigger preds have probably cost me my fucking job, just by association.

"Next in line, please."

I step up to the counter, eyeing the menu. I knew what I wanted when I came in. Now I've lost it already. They're doing a promo for a limited time -- real cheese. Cheese like I would've killed for when I first moved in. Now, though, I don't want it. Now it'd just be one step closer to the deviant the rest of the world's already starting to see me as. So hold the cheese.

Hell, I shouldn't even be here. I'm so fucking frustrated I can't even think straight. I feel ready to explode. Everything on the menu looks the exact same -- I'm reading the text over and over again and it's just not sticking. Oblivious to my frustration, a familiar badger with the nametag "Rex" slouches forward in front of me, tapping his register.

"Oh hey," the cashier yawns. "How's my favorite wannabite doin' today. The usual?"

Boom.

"I'm not a FUCKING 'wannabite'!" I shout, slamming my hooves on the counter. "Where the fuck do you get off? I'm not some 'wannabe predator' living out some -- some twisted fantasy!!"

Rex looks back at me with raised eyebrows, standing up straight.

"Alright," he replies passively. "Sorry, guy. I didn't mean it like--"

"I don't fucking care how you meant it!" I clamp my muzzle shut, exhaling heavily out my nose as I look the menu over, trying to will myself to calm down. "Just -- look, just gimme a double roach deluxe. With real cheese."

"Gotcha." Rex quietly turns to the till and rings my order up. "That'll be three eighty-five."

"No, I said REAL cheese," I reply impatiently, tapping my hoof. "I'll pay more for it, just--"

"I heard you," he replies, holding up one paw. "Your order will be three eighty-five."

Letting out a heavy sigh, I reach into my wallet and pull out a five spot, pushing it across the counter. My hooves are shaking. I'm suddenly acutely aware of the impatient predators looming behind me. We're always expected to be 'understanding' of their disgusting habits, but they see something they don't know and all they do is gawk. Well they can fucking stare all they want. I'm not here for them.

Rex takes my money, counts my change out, and hands it to me along with a receipt and a paper cup.

"I didn't order a combo," I mutter, looking down at the receipt and the cup in my hooves. "This is more than I paid for."

"I know," Rex says, his expression unchanged. "Next in line, please."

As I take a seat in the mostly-empty dining room, I lower my head, turning the cup in my hooves over as I try to gather my thoughts.

I never wanted to get involved here.

My plan from the get-go was to keep my head down, save up enough, find a better place to live. Somewhere along the way, I lost the plot. I started thinking of Pack Street as something other than what it is: a stopover. A stepping stone on the path to a better life.

Now, that plan's gone belly-up. Yeah, I've got a little money set aside, but it's not nearly enough to move on. Not only would I have to find a new apartment, I'd also have to find a new job. If I moved someplace nicer like Flock, I wouldn't be able to even make the deposit on what I've got, let alone pay for a month's rent.

Like it or not, I'm pretty much living hoof-to-mouth right now. Trapped on a street full of short-fuse predators, any one of which could pull a Pandora. Last time, I was lucky -- I showed up after it happened. What if I'd been even twenty, thirty minutes earlier? What if it's one of my neighbors this time? Hell, considering how much time Avo, Annie, and Wolt all spent around Pandora, if this thing IS contagious, any one of them could be infected and I wouldn't even know. Even Betty and Charlie had regular contact with her. It could be weeks, days, maybe even hours before one of them turns.

And if it happens -- when it inevitably happens, I've got nowhere to run. Forget my livelihood, forget my hopes for socializing, I'm risking my damn life just being here. I've gotta focus on my goals. Gotta remember who I am. I'm a sheep among wolves, and I don't belong down here.

Eventually, Rex sets my order on a tray, rings the bell, and then returns to work polishing the counter as he waits for the next wave of customers to roll in. Looking up from my seat, I realize that almost everyone's cleared out of the restaurant. If I ignore the run-down buildings outside the windows, I could almost believe this was the Bug Burga from my old neighborhood. And one day, hopefully soon, I'll be sitting in an empty Bug Burga in a better neighborhood again.

And Pack Street will just be a bad memory.

With that thought in mind, I actually feel a little better. I've got my plan set. It won't be easy, but I'll make it work. Back to basics: head down, eyes forward. I gotta be the guy who gets through. I'm not here to rub elbows. So just force a smile, and stay pleasant long enough to get out.

Standing up, I walk over to the counter and pick my bag up before turning to the cashier. I can probably start by not being a jerkass to Rex. Even as angry as I was, I knew better than to explode at him like that.

"Hey," I murmur, holding the bag with my burger and hay fries. "About earlier."

He nods. "Don't sweat it."

"No, I was wrong. I'm sorry for going off on you." Running a hoof through my wool, I sigh. "You're not the one I'm mad at. My boss, he..."

"Dude, really, don't worry about it," he says, that same lazy, tired smile coming back around. "We've had a conversation like this before, remember?"

I stare blankly at him for a few seconds before it dawns on me. Yeah. Yeah we did. Right after the last time I unfairly shot my mouth off at someone, as a matter of fact. During the aftermath of my run-in with Al, I remember asking Rex about how he dealt with irate, asshole customers.

Never figured I'd end up being one, myself.

"Still, you don't need someone acting like a prick to you," I argue. "You don't deserve that shit."

"I appreciate that, I really do. But like I said before, dude, I just let it roll off me," he yawns. "Just sit it out, bide my time. 'Cause I know after they walk out that door I won't see 'em again."

I look down at my food, deep in thought.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe."

The street's tense. Restless, almost. The whole walk home, there's a lingering sense of unease that I can't shake, and I think everyone else is feeling it too. Considering that it's coming on to night in a primarily nocturnal district, it seems like there should be more mammals out and about than there are this time of day.

But then again, part of me's thankful for the empty streets.

I'm no specist, but I don't think it's unreasonable to be rattled right now in light of recent events. I can't stop keep thinking back to the night Dora turned. The looks on everyone's faces said it all -- from the bystanders in the crowd, to Cliff and Neil, to Anneke melting down at our dinner together. Even Charlie seemed bothered, to put it lightly -- and until recently you could've convinced me that nothing could faze her. If they're all this shaken, I feel like I have every right to be too -- maybe even moreso. Right now the odds are against me, which is all the more reason why I need to focus on putting Pack Street firmly in my rearview mirror.

If anything, my setback tonight just strengthened my resolve.

As it stands right now, my plans haven't changed. I'll take a night or two to regroup. Scour the paper and Camelslist for new job prospects, and save up enough to move out. Leave this backwards town of pack customs and pecking order behind me, and move on. Back to normal society. Back to the real world.

"Hey, yarn ball!"

In my peripheral vision, there's a black wolf girl sitting on the edge of a set of cement stairs that lead to the building next door to my apartment tower, its face punctuated with dingy curtains behind dirty, faded glass. I don't even stop in front of the dilapidated steps, but I give the wolf a passing glance.

"You need someone to bat you around for a while?" Betty snorts.

"Pass," I reply, forcing a smile. Fuck's sake, not now. You're the last person I feel like talking to. "I feel like I've been batted around enough today."

"Aww, poor little lambchop," she grunts, pulling a cigarette out of the pack in her shirt pocket and lighting up. "Another rough shift at the sitting-on-your-ass factory?"

I stop and turn, looking her square in the eye.

"I got laid off today." Well, not formally, but let's be honest -- that's what happened. I don't feel like feeding her all the details and she doesn't give a fuck about my life anyway. She's said as much in the past.

Blinking, Betty's face softens, just a touch. She pulls her cig out of her maw and exhales a plume of thick, pungent black smoke, breaking eye contact and looking instead at the cracked pavement.

"Tough break, Cormo," she says after a minute's silence. "That sucks."

"Yeah," I grimace, putting my hoof on the door to the lobby. "I guess you know the feeling, though."

"What?"

I hesitate at the entrance, hearing muddled voices coming from inside.

"Pandora's. Didn't you work there?" I ask, looking back at her.

"No. You got me confused with Avo, fluff." She gives me a tilt of her head. "I don't work at that fuckin' smut den. I'm next door, at the locksmith's."

"Ah." I shrug. Could've sworn she was employed there, but in my haste to leave when she and Avo were grilling the shit out of me, I didn't really get a good look at her uniform. Guess that explains a few things. "My mistake, then."

I head inside and Betty returns to her smokes.

"Take care of yourself," she mutters.

I'm barely through the door when, amid the din of voices, someone calls out to me.

"Hey, who ordered mutton?"

Ozzy's wearing his typical dopey grin, glancing to the other preds in the lobby like he expects applause for his hilarious joke. He chuckles, raising his soda can to me in a mock toast as I scrape my hooves on the doormat. Frankly, I'm over it.

More than I have been since my first visit, I'm making a mental note of all the predators around me. In an atmosphere like this, I feel I have to. Ozzy wears a big harmless smile, but he's a hyena, and as he told me himself, those teeth can crunch bone.

The TV in the lobby's blaring. Most of my neighbors seem to have congregated to watch what looks like the highlights from last night's hoofball game. Or maybe they're just shooting the shit, who knows. Al's here, looking tired and irritable, even for him. He's a wolf. One I have to look out for, for sure.

He's leaned against the wall by the stairs listening to Marty, who's lounging on one of the bottom steps like it's a seat. Marty's a stoat. Not much trouble there. Not physically, anyway -- his personality more than makes up for it, though. Lucky me. He's waving his arms frantically as he describes something, though I can't hear him over the sounds of the TV sportscasters.

Charlie and Avo seem to be engrossed in a discussion of their own as I walk past them. Charlie glances over at me, nodding once before turning back to Avo. If you hadn't been here a week ago, you'd never have known this was the same wild-eyed fox that threw herself across my chest. Avo gives me a tired smirk. It's full of teeth. No surprise. She's a jackal. Or wolf? I can't keep it straight. Either way, trouble. I can see in her face she's wishing she had beaten Ozzy to the punch on this zinger.

I've counted them in my head time and time again, but now it seems more important than ever. So that's three wolves, if I'm counting Betty and Avo, a fox, a hyena, and a stoat. The aardwolves aren't here, but they don't seem much threat. Wolt said they only eat bugs.

God, I'm really surrounded, aren't I?

"We was just talking about you," Marty huffs with a mean grin. Somehow I don't fucking doubt it.

Having finished my silent census, I close the lobby door behind myself, giving them a tired nod as I make my way towards the staircase. I'm not gonna stick around with them this time -- I just want to head upstairs, eat, and unwind before going to bed. I'm going to spend my time off tomorrow doing some legwork for a new job. Even if I have to work two part-time gigs, I've got to figure out a way to do more than just make ends meet.

Unfortunately, there's a big hyena blocking my path.

"What's in the bag?" Ozzy asks, gesturing to the plastic sack from Bug Burga. Like it's not fuckin' obvious from the branding on the side. "Gettin' your daily protein, wannabite?"

My hoof knots into a fist around the bag's handles. It's this kind of shit right here that's gotten me steered off course in the first place -- hanging out with you assholes, I've somehow become branded as some kind of pretend pred. I catch myself only seconds away from firing back another scathing rebuttal.

Nah. Not this time. I'm not gonna go off on Ozzy again -- not after what happened with Rex. Sure as hell not after what happened a while back. I'm not looking to start trouble, but I'm not going to keep playing their game here.

"I'm not a wannabite."

There's no trace of humor in my tone. To my credit it's a lot softer than the way I told off Rex. Short and to the point. I'm putting my hoof down because I'm not going to be stereotyped -- certainly not by this crowd. Not after being lumped in with them.

"Hey, arright, arright," Ozzy chuckles awkwardly, backing off with eyebrows raised as Al leans imposingly over his shoulder. Probably gauging me to see if I'm about to lose my cool again. I guess I can't fault him there. "I'm just messin' with you, Remmy."

Nodding again, I shift my bag to my other hoof and offer a tired smile to show there's no hard feelings. Like I said, gotta keep things smooth until I can leave. Starting today, I'm 'Mr. No Problems'. I'm not making waves.

"It's been a long day. You guys have a good one." I glance down at Marty, who quickly realizes what I mean and stands up, stepping aside so I can make my way to my apartment.

Halfway up the staircase, my ears catch the faint sound of mumbling followed by stifled snickers.

"Hey Remmy!" Marty calls out from behind me.

I turn my head slightly to glance down at him, bracing myself for whatever's headed my way. I'm used to being the frequent target of ribbing since I'm the odd mammal out here, though I usually handle it better most days. In my defense, most days I haven't just been shitcanned for my diet and choice in apartments, though.

"Me an' my sister are having a barbecue this weekend. She said you're invited." He looks up at me from around the corner, paws on his hips. Marty has a sister? News to me, I guess.

"Really?" I ask, slightly dubious. I feel like this is a setup for a gag, but I have no idea what the punchline is.

"Yeah. She didn't know where else to get lambchops around here!" He smirks confidently as Ozzy snickers and Al groans, shaking his head. Ah, there it is. Having me over for dinner, not having me over for dinner. Really hilarious. That one got a lot of play back when I was in middle school, though I guess usually we'd be the ones using it to warn about going to some pred kid's house. Still, even by sheep pun standards, that was pretty fuckin' weak, Marty. Besides, I already heard the lambchop joke once today from Betty.

Something sparks inside me. Turning around, I crack my neck as I look down at him with a widening smirk.

"Hey, if your sister wants meat," I reply, straightening my shirt out, "I'll give her all she can handle."

Marty's expression twists into shock and manic disbelief. Ozzy's face freezes into an open-mouthed grin, eyes gleaming like someone who just found buried treasure. Even Al's staring at me with arched brows, his jaw dropped to form a silent, incredulous "oh" like he can't believe I just went there.

How's that for a fuckin' zinger, shorty?

The silence doesn't last. Ozzy busts out into insane, feverish laughter, leaning against the banister for support. Tears are beginning to well up in the hyena's eyes as he struggles to stay upright, cackling so loud that I imagine they can hear him all the way over at Packer's. From around the corner, Avo leans in, making no attempt to cover her own snickering as Marty just kind of deflates on the spot, with that weird look still frozen on his face.

"Yo, fuck you, grazer!" Marty croaks, desperate to pretend I didn't just destroy him, though a lot of the weight of his insult kind of falls flat because he's too busy swallowing down a laugh of his own. "Don't make me go savage on your ass!"

The joke-threat's in poor taste, but coming from someone like Marty, I don't even blink. Besides, anyone would be desperate for a comeback after a roasting like that.

Ozzy's still in the middle of hysterically laughing, having slumped back against the wall. His eyes are rolled up as he continues to hee-haw. Cringing, Marty looks at him in disgust, retreating a little into his shirt in a similar way to how I've tried to retreat into my wool in the past. I turn back up the stairs, more amused at the scene than the fact I was able to get Marty back so well. He's kind of had it coming for a while, to be fair.

"Cripes, Ozzy, shut the fuck up," I can faintly hear Marty grumble. "It wasn't that funny."

"Someone found his woolly little BALLS today," Al snickers, distantly behind me.

"Guess they were in Marty's sister's mouth," Avo replies smoothly, prompting another howling hyena laugh.

I leave the lobby behind and head to my floor. With any luck, by the time I come back out tomorrow, Ozzy will have stopped laughing.

Turning the key to West 001, I push the door open, step inside, and exhale heavily. What a fuckin' day. That comment from Rex, and then Ozzy -- I don't know. I'm trying not to let it eat at me, but honestly, it does. To my core, in fact.

I am not a wannabite.

I think I'm saying that as much for my own benefit as theirs. Like a reminder to myself -- I know if you're told a lie long enough you start to believe it. Just like how I've gotten used to this place, gotten used to their ways.

I feel like I have to reiterate it -- once and for all. I'm not a "wannabite", a "pred pretender", a "predophile", a "toothie", "chomper chaser", or anything even remotely close. I can handle the usual assault of nicknames and insults -- "grazer", "fluff", "yarn ball", "woolly bully". "Cud-chewer". "Grasseater". Even "carnivore" doesn't faze me. They don't hit me as offensive so much as just hokey. And honestly, I figure for these guys, they're largely terms of endearment. But I do have a name -- it's what normal people in normal society used to call me.

My name is Remmy Cormo. I live in Zootopia. In a crappy little apartment downtown, off Pack Street.

It's been a few months since I moved into this dump. It's all I could find. And afford. I needed an apartment, so I looked in the paper and this was the only place that would return my inquiry. Cheap rent with all the basics I really needed: water, electric, a roof over my head. And with the budget I had at the time, and the circumstances I was coming out of -- well, this place looked like a no-brainer. I made the mistake of just assuming that Pack Street wouldn't be that different from the rest of Zootopia. Maybe a bit more pred-centric -- I wasn't such an idiot that I didn't recognize the name -- but I mean, I just thought there'd be tons of other visible prey walking around too.

It's what I was used to. There were predators where I grew up, yes, but there were a hell of a lot more prey.

It wasn't long before I realized how off my assumption was. I quickly realized I am the only sheep in my apartment building. I am the only prey species in my entire apartment building. I figured the population split here MIGHT be something like half and half, at the absolute most.

Not even close.

I moved into a predator neighborhood without even realizing it.

Thinking back to Marty on the staircase, I sigh. Maybe that was a low blow, given I brought his sister into it. And... my neighbors. They're not bad people. They just like to joke around.

But they're not MY people. I gotta remember that. I don't think there's a single mammal on this block I would call a "friend", really. Maybe there was one. But right now she's probably strapped down in a special lab somewhere, feral and mindless. I wonder if she'll ever be herself again, but I can't dwell on it right now. My focus has to stay on the mammals still here.

They're not who I thought they were when I first moved in, true. Not out for my blood. I can survive here until I have to leave, at least. Few weeks ago, I wasn't so sure.

A little strange, but we all have our quirks. Nobody's above it. And the more I see of folks like Ozzy and Al, the more I start to see there's more under the surface.

Hell. I got to see a lot more of Charlie recently than I ever have, and my very first impression of her had her stark nude.

And what about me? What's my deal? Well, like I said, I'm not a wannabite. I'm perfectly happy being a prey species.

I just have unusual tastes when it comes to some things.

Reaching into my kitchen drawer, I shove the metal whistle aside and pull a few packets of leftover firefly sauce out. Gotta have my sauce. Unwrapping the plastic bag, I'm surprised to find that the burga inside's still fresh and warm. Breathing deep, I embrace the best thing that's happened to me all day, enjoying a little whiff of heaven.

The Double Roach DELUXE. With real cheese. Thing o'beauty.

Tearing open a sauce packet, I lift the top bun and begin to slather the patty in it. Mmmm. I really wish they hadn't discontinued this stuff. Yeah, I'm excited over a fucking bug meat sandwich. That doesn't make me a wannabite. I'm sure I'm not the only sheep who eats at Bug Burga. I just don't see any because there are none in the area, that's all. I mean, my old town was able to keep a Bug Burga in business, and there were plenty of sheep who lived in the area. That's gotta say something, right?

Swinging over by my front door, I begin locking up for the night. I've gotten into the bad habit of not locking my door recently. I guess I kind of convinced myself there was no point to it, but thinking back on it now, that's a pretty stupid idea. I live in a dangerous place, and the locks will do some good in saving my hide if I ever really need it. Not EVERYONE around me is a skilled lockpick -- just the career criminal who lives next door and the literal locksmith in the next building over.

Speaking of the area, it's not that I'm AFRAID of my neighbors.

But with all this talk of predators going savage and attacking people on TV -- not to mention what happened with Pandora -- I'm just thinking of my own safety.

Collecting my burga and fries from the counter on a paper plate, I stumble over to my couch and collapse in front of the TV, clicking it on with my remote. I can hear the faint sounds of mammals kicking up a ruckus out in the street. God, I hope they're not about to start another fucking block party. It's too early in the night for this. Some mammals are trying to sleep. I imagine they'll get a lot more "stick in the ass" types besides just myself complaining.

"--anding for our citizens, and of course, for the future of Zootopia!" the idiot box screams in my face. I hurriedly fumble with the volume -- geez, I don't remember setting it this fuckin' loud.

"And if you're just joining us, our top story tonight, once again," the Channel 2 newscaster begins, making a show of straightening his papers out as he attempts to look dignified in front of the camera, but unable to shake the huge grin from his face.

"The nightmare is finally over."

Nightmare?

"Channel 2 Action News is now able to confirm the earlier rumor -- that the violent epidemic plaguing our city appears to have been an elaborate hoax."

I pause, my burga raised halfway to my mouth. There's no conceivable way I heard that right. They couldn't mean the savage thing, right? Is there some other epidemic?

"A police investigation is currently underway, but sources close to the ZPD have confirmed the earlier rumor: Mayor Bellwether has been arrested."

Sorry, what?!

The anchor straightens his tie, smiling broadly as a photo of the Mayor lights up the corner of the screen. She's wearing metal cuffs and the angriest look I've ever seen her make, all from behind a mugshot plate.

"We have confirmed at this time that over the past several months, Dawn Bellwether headed a criminal conspiracy designed to poison predators across the city, by means of a yet-unknown toxin. This toxin is apparently responsible for the recent outbreaks of so-called 'savage syndrome'. Earlier theories regarding 'predator biology' being the root cause now appear to be completely erroneous."

I lean forward in my chair, my eyes wide as saucers. At some point my burga ended up in a messy splatter of sauce back on my plate.

"Details are still coming in, but for now, it appears the entire city can rest easy."

You could knock me over with a feather right now. There's no -- there's absolutely no way this is for real! Predators turning savage ISN'T some kind of genetic thing or an infectious disease -- it's because they were drugged?! By our fucking MAYOR?!

Setting my food on my table, I get up from my seat. Despite being exhausted I can't sit still -- I'm light-headed with anticipation. The room feels like it's starting to spin as I'm watching the gleeful anchor continue reading the news. He's a black wolf -- not unlike Betty, I guess. Guy looks like he's trying his fucking damnedest not to cry, he's so overcome with emotion. Like anyone could possibly blame him!

Shit, I don't even know where the hell to begin right now. If it's a hoax -- if this really all is just some crazy conspiracy -- that means I've been living in fear for nothing! Everything I know is wrong. Everything EVERYONE knows is wrong. Fucking ALL of Zootopia's been living in fear for nothing! Predators don't just "go savage"! That's it, boom! We're safe! I'M safe! Everything's okay now! Holy shit, they weren't kidding -- the nightmare really IS over!

That definitely explains all the noise outside.

Wandering over to my window, I peer out as the TV continues to blare behind me -- nightly news panelists all chattering blindly away in the studio about what this means for the future of Zootopia. The streets are packed. It's not a block party after all, but it might as well be. Out under the streetlights, dozens of predators of all shapes and sizes dance, cheer, and shout. I can see groups huddled together, talking excitedly, and others embracing. I can even spot a few prey in the crowd, maybe locals like me, or just mammals passing through that heard the news.

A huge giraffe struts through the crowd like he's on stilts, picking up two small canines and hoisting them triumphantly up to ride on his shoulders. A family of bears, wailing happy tears loud enough to hear even through my window, wrap themselves so tight they seem to merge into a single ball of shaggy brown fur. And as I watch a big cat crying on an old goat's shoulder, sobbing like a burst dam that's been waiting months to release, I can't help but smile as relief begins to wash over me like a tidal wave. I don't know WHEN the last time was that I was able to lay my head on my pillow without worry.

The TV downstairs was on, and it looks like the news spread quick, so I can only imagine how everyone in the building's taking this -- I bet Anneke is fucking over the moon right now. She seemed so worried at dinner the other night -- god, I can't wait to go see her reaction to this! Talk about being able to sleep better at night! She's gotta feel loads better, now that she knows there isn't some -- some fucking biological timebomb inside her, trying to eat away at who she is! And Charlie -- man, Charlie's going to go nuts! It's like a fresh start for all of us.

The only real sour note here is the Mayor. All this -- all my stress, my suffering, my anxiety, my fear. My job -- god damn, my JOB! That's on her! All the shit I've put up with -- the whole CITY put up with -- over the past few months. All the pain and anger we've ALL been through -- it's because of her.

It was her all along.

Fuck! I stood up for her, the city rallied behind her, and she spit in our fucking faces. She looked us all in the eye and told us she was working to find an answer. What a fucking betrayal. And after Lionheart?! That's how she got the job, isn't it? Fucking hell, clearly corruption is an occupational hazard for mayors in this city. They were probably in it together! About a thousand angry words for that ewe fill my head, none of which I feel like repeating.

I hope this doesn't end up hurting pred-prey relations, especially in the wake of all this good news. God, I can't believe I defended her!

Marty! God, what about Marty? I bet he's already thinking about all the ways to say "I told you so". A conspiracy of this scale, going to the very top. He'll probably be wearing a tinfoil hat from now on. I don't really blame him. I'm never trusting a politician for the rest of my fucking life.

I glance over my shoulder, back to the TV. The camera's gone back to the main anchor.

"Early forensic reports suggest that the toxin may have been distilled from a known natural source, though citing safety reasons, police have opted not to release specific details to the public at this time. In light of this new information, medical experts say it may well be possible to treat and even reverse the effects in victims exhibiting savage behavior."

And -- shit, I hadn't even thought about Pandora! So she's going to be all right? Can they really cure it? I mean it's poison, so there's got to be an antidote, right? Holy shit, if that's the case, then that means she won't have to spend her whole life in that fucking state! She'll be able to get back to her business! She'll be able to see her friends again! Charlie'll be so excited to see she's okay. And Avo'll probably get her job back, too!

...and I guess that means I'm probably not fired either. At the very least, I'll have a leg to stand on with my boss, right? Now that there's proof beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm not gonna go savage either? (Not that I was ever worried about it, but that's not the point.) I mean hey, let's not get too ahead of myself here, but in light of everything, I could probably even press for better hours or a promotion. Maybe both. The threat of wrongful termination sure would get my boss motivated, now that he's gotta know there's NOTHING to justify what he did. I get maybe he was just scared of what he didn't understand, but there's a reasonable limit.

You don't get a free pass to treat people however you want just because you think they're dangerous.

I imagine they'll probably even be able to do drug testing now for this poison thing, too. So many lives are gonna be saved now that they actually know WHAT it is that's causing all this. I'm fidgety and giddy and I keep pacing. I don't normally pace. But I'm marching from my chair to my window and back, nonstop.

I'm gonna remember this night for the rest of my life. Mammals will be telling their kids about this. Where they were when they heard the news.

Well, guess what? I was eating a burga. That's right: A sheep eating meat. And now, more than ever, I think the world is going to recognize there's nothing wrong with that.

The news breaks for commercial, so I mute the TV for a second and head over to the front door, pressing my ear against it. I can hear what sounds like loud conversation coming from the downstairs lobby, and maybe out in the hall. I'm tempted to go down and get everyone's reaction -- I bet they're all on cloud nine right now. Maybe after dinner; I just remembered I still haven't even eaten yet. Plus, despite the good news, my body's still drained after the shit I've been through. And I'm gonna need a few minutes to get a grip on all this.

What a rollercoaster of a night.

I'm still just kind of awed -- months of worry and fear, poof. All gone. Things might even start looking up around here. A lot of tension's gonna be relieved. Has to be. Hell, maybe I won't have to immediately move after all -- which, I mean, if I'm being honest, is probably for the best. Staying here, at least for a little longer, would probably be better in my financial state. I can't really afford to be making a move right now anyway, and if I can keep my current job, so much the better, right?

Running my hooves through my head wool, I turn the TV's volume back on, taking a seat at the very edge of my couch cushion. I can't even wrap my head around this right now. It's too much at once. I'm gonna be digesting this for days. It's like waking up to an alien world -- I feel like I'm in some kind of fever dream. Some bizarre, anti-Pack Street where everything's wonderful and the sun's shining and we're all gonna be okay. Somebody, pinch me.

A commercial for Bug Burga reminds me for the second time that my own food's getting cold -- but before I can reach for my plate, it's interrupted halfway through as the night news anchor from before comes back on, this time joined by a co-host? Co-anchor? Whatever. A reindeer I think, female, in a high-necked sweater and blazer.

"We're coming back with breaking news," she announces, sounding charged but professional. "The ZPD is now reporting that several co-conspirators have been arrested as well."

Co-conspirators?

No, I guess it stands to reason. No such thing as a conspiracy of one. She couldn't have been making poison, running around administering it to mammals all across Zootopia, and still acting as the Mayor. Not by herself. I hadn't even considered the other bastards involved, so it's good to only think of it when the danger's passed. Don't have to risk an ulcer worrying about some remnants of this still skulking around when they've already got them apprehended. Just one less thing to worry about. Suits me fine.

The male anchor nods in confirmation, and the screen cuts to a photo of cops swarming around three tall, bulky white rams.

"There's no word yet on the rumors circulating about corrupt agents working within the ZPD. However, of those currently in custody, police have confirmed that all the 'savage hoax' conspirators are sheep."

Oh.

The anchors continue to drone about something, but suddenly it's all background noise. Everything at the edges of my vision starts to blur, and all the sounds -- from the street, from the TV -- they might as well not exist. Even my burga might as well not be here.

Double roach. Deluxe. Real cheese. Firefly sauce.

And for the life of me, I suddenly can't find my appetite.

All I can see is the image of those rams, surrounded by cops.

All this. The last few months. Everything.

Sheep.

Sheep did this.

"Oh boy," I whimper.

I stare at those woolly hooves wrapped in handcuffs for what feels like hours. Then the image changes and the anchors are back on and I stumble out of my chair, half-blind. I hear a wet splat. My dinner's on the floor. I don't even care.

I stagger to the door. Locks are on tight. I double check them. Triple check. Five times. Ten. I squeeze the deadbolt so tight my hooves hurt, twisting it as hard into the door frame as I can. I can't control my breathing. I look back at my room, try to get my heart rate under control. I blink repeatedly. The room won't focus. When I look up, I've moved my chair across the room and braced it against the door.

I lurch to the window. Everything's spinning.

The celebrations haven't stopped. Maybe that's a good sign. There's raw energy there tonight. The streets are full of it. Out in the crowd, lit by the yellow haze of the streetlights, a circle's formed. Some kind of spectacle.

There's some kid in the middle, shouting something, holding a pillow over his head. It's got a face drawn on it in red paint. The stuffing's been half-pulled out at the top to make a sort of white coif.

I watch in a daze, my hooves on my head. He chucks it to the crowd, and they start smacking it around like a volleyball, cheering and laughing. A towering lion moves in, snatches the pillow out of the air. He's shouting something into the crowd, and behind that shaggy mane, I recognize him. It's Neil.

He shakes it in his claws -- even bites it. Thick cottony clumps flutter out of it and onto the ground, landing in messy little piles. It looks like it's snowing out there. All at once it hits me what I'm looking at.

I stagger back, tearing my eyes away only to meet another pair looking right up at me.

A black bear standing on the sidewalk stares up at me with a blank look. He taps the nearest predator on the shoulder and points up. Straight at my window.

Next thing I know, I'm lying on the floor, panting. My window blinds are shut tight.