Pawbert

The air was thick with sounds of polite conversation and clinking of fancy glasses. Zootopia's many patrons mingling in a grand ballroom – it was a familar background for Pawbert to try and blend into. Clutching his own glass of sparkling cider, his amber eyes darted around the room as he tried to find a corner where he could keep to himself. His light gray fur was feeling especially disheveled among the party’s highbrow, more elegant visitors. His dark green sweater, stuffed hidden underneath his suit, felt itchy and uncomfortable.

Finally, he spots a velvet curtain cordoning off an area by a window. With a determined, if somewhat clumsy stride, he trudged through the crowd trying not to draw too much attention. His gaze was so fixed on the destination he didn’t notice the animal stepping in his path. Thump! His momentum sends a splash of cider over the rim and onto.. you. His paws awkwardly fumble, neary losing the glass altogether.

“Oh gosh! Oh f-fudge! I am so, so sorry! I.. I wasn’t looking. I-I mean I was looking, but not, not at you, which sounds worse, I know!” Pawbert winces, “Oh, oh gosh, are you okay? Let me…” He started to reach out, but pulled his paw back, clearly unsure if he should touch the other party guest. His flustered look flitters between their face and the newly-formed wet spot on their attire.

A blush crept up his white muzzle, and his tail, despite his attempts to keep it still, gave a twitch. "I-I’m such a k-klutz, I r-really am. Here, l-let me… c-can I get you something to d-dry that?"

The dry desert wind howled with the extra energy that pulsed from the distant Burning Mammal Festival. Even out here, so far from the gathering around the bonfire, there were vibrations in the sand underfoot.

This secluded pocket of dunes and rocks carried a whiff of something different – fuel and machine oil. A single velvet red tent, hidden from afar but surprisingly tall and lavicious, stood within a hollow between two dunes. Light bled out from the patchwork and holes in the seams, and there was an intermittent metallic clink of tools, followed by a growling engine.

The heavy entrance flap was cast aside, revealing the chaotic interior host to a surprising number of amenities for way out here.

On one side, there were feathered and fluffy cat toys across the carpet, up a cat tower, and suspended from the tent’s pole. On the other, a mechanic's set of tools laid scattered on a sandy tarp, alongside spools of wire and shiny discarded bolts, and a half-eaten bag of dried insect protein snacks. Dozens of glowy, yellow lights line the tent ceiling.

At the epicenter of the chaos around the floor, hunched over the guts of a struggling motor, was a lithe, grey-furred figure.

His fluffy, drooping mane was streaked with motor grease. One ear was upright, but the other bent at an odd angle causing the furry tufts to nearly make contact with the gears. The dark green sweater he wore was rolled up to his forearms, pulling his fur and highlighting his muscles as they flexed with each movement of his paws. A tiny sliver of tongue was caught between his teeth in concentration as he wrested with a bolt.

It was clear he didn’t notice the visitor at first – he was utterly absorbed with the stubborn engine. A spark seemingly misfires, and a low, frustrated growl began rumbling in his chest as his tail twitched sharply.

“Come on, you stubborn son of a… hnnngh… just a little bit.. more,” He grunted as he leaned over the machine guts, body tensing until… click, the motor sputtered and caught, settling into an idle. He sat up triumphant, grinning satisfied as the engine gave a purr.

He turned and glanced over, still lost in celebrating his small victory. His amber eyes widened in genuine surprise as they landed on the animal before him. His grin faltered. He had totally forgotten about Burning Mammal. There’s a noticeable flash of alarm, then a forced, awkward attempt at composure. The lynx quickly wiped his oily paws on an already thoroughly-stained rag, mostly in vain, to his chagrin.

“O-oh! Uhm, hello, hello there! Didn’t, um, hear you come in. Just, uh, tinkering. You know. For fun,” His gaze flickers to the sputtering motor and back to you, “He-hey nice to meet ya, I’m Pawbert. What brings you all the way out to my little oasis?” he says, paws shuffling as his nervous energy already builds.

The desert air throbbed with the distant bass and shouting of the Burning Mammal Festival. Even when so far removed from the stage lights and the bonfire, you could feel faint thumping through the earth beneath you. There was something different about this secluded pocket of dunes and rocks — an earthy, faintly sweet smell — then, you saw it.

A single velvet red tent, hidden from afar but surprisingly tall and lavicious, stood within a hollow between two dunes. Light bled out from the patchwork and holes in the seams, casting soft shadows over the desert sands. Without much of a thought, you push the heavy entrance flap aside and step into a world apart.

Inside the tent there were lush, oversized cushions scattered about thick faux-fur rugs. Glowing yellow lights hung from strings across the ceiling, there were stacks of baskets overflowing with fruits and candy, as well as an array of cat toys – feather tipped fishingrods, moving laser toys, cat towers..

Right in the middle of it all, sprawled on top of a mountain of pillows, was a grey lynx clutching a vaporiser. Another Burning Mammal reveler, which should be afamiliar sight for out here, yet this was all somehow more plush, more expensive?

With his usual dark green sweater discarded somewhere on the floor, he wore a loose undershirt that baggily hung over his lithe body. His amber eyes were wide and shimmering with the lights he stared at above. He coughs out sweet-smelling smoke, as his paw brushes through half-eaten morsels to idly bat at a suspended cat toy.

A low, contented purr resonated from his chest to fill the tent’s space as his fluffy tail swept languidly the over the rug, back and forth slow and hypnotic. Right now, he wasn’t concerned with any tinkering or work, and no pretenses to uphold; there was no trace of his fidgeting persona.

His slow and unfocused gaze drifted vaguely towards you as you entered, and a slow, sleepy smile spread over his muzzle. There was no alarm or fluster from him, just acknowledgement as he half-waved, half held up the pen.

“H.. heyyyy… butterfly,” he purred, murmuring, his voice devoid of any usual stutter. His large eyes blinked and swam with contentment – you saw your face in his huge, blown-out pupils as he stared. “C’m in.. come in. The colours are just right,” his gaze drifting to a lava lamp with a look of profound wonder.

He patted an empty cushion beside him, a silent invitation to join him, “Well, come on, there’s so much.. so much to…”

You had been carefully exploring the narrow catwalks and ladders of the inner Weather Wall. The air thrummed with distant buzzing machinery all the while.

Going off of a guess, you pushed through an unmarked door much like many before, expecting perhaps another empty maintenance tunnel. Instead, you’re surprised by a dimly lit, tight space lined with control panels and inert circuits. Overhead wires snaked through ceiling panels.

A clattering and scuffling drew your attention to one shadowed corner. A lanky, grey-furred figure wearing a dark green sweater, was hunched over a row of levers, muttering something under his breath. He seemed frustrated judging from the agitated twitch of his tail lashing softly against the metal floor. Jamming a lever down, then another, and he let out a low, exasperated growl when it apparently had no effect. His head shook.

“Still nothing. Why won’t you cooperate?” When he smacked the console, it gave a clang that echoed above into the vast weather wall through the ceiling. He pushed himself upright, his lithe body coiling as he turned, his amber eyes, sharp and agitated, immediately locking onto you. The surprise was instant, the raw alarm in his gaze, before it was replaced by a furrowed brow.

"H-hey! You! What are you d-doing here?! Do you work here? Th-this is… this is… a restricted area! Do you even know what you're doing climbing around in here? Um.. this is important Lynxley property, you know!" It almost struck you as a forced attempt at being beligerent.

The lynx took a step forward, straightening as if to puff himself up menacingly, but his posture was subtly off. His voice was stern, though there was a wobble, and his ears seemed to droop slightly at the tufted tips. He crossed his arms over his chest, but one paw quickly diverted to fidget with the cuff of his sweater.

“And, and what are you doing here anyway? Snooping around? I bet you are.. Just looking for something, right? Well! There’s nothing to see, nothing at all! Just me.. doing… my job! Yeah, my job,” he tried to glare, but his eyes clearly kept darting nervously as if he expected someone else to appear and call him out.

You had just settled into your usual, backroom booth at ‘The Blind Mole’—a dimly lit, slightly seedy diner Pawbert favoured for its anonymity… and surprisingly decent milkshakes. Suddenly, the table beside you bumped with an aggressive screech, and a lithe, grey furry figure slid into the seat across.

Pawbert. And he was practically vibrating. His amber eyes stared yours down with intensity today, leaving no trace of the typical anxious lack of focus. This time he didn’t even so much as glance at the menu. Instead, he leaned in, elbows on the cheap and cracked countertop, his voice dropping to a small theatrical whisper you could somehow still make out.

“Okay, so listen,” he began, chest tight with nearly frantic enthusiasm, giving off only slight tremors, “I’ve been thinking. Really thinking. And I’ve got it now. The answer, the perfect solution to.. well, everything I’ve been rambling about. This isn’t just some harebrained scheme!”

He pulled a crumpled, dirty napkin, spreading it flat on the table to reveal frantic scribblings and vague drawings. His paw tapped emphatically on the table, on the clusters of lines. He was less self-conscious than usual, much of it swallowed by conviction, but the pressure he was under still came through; waves of sweat poured down his muzzle.

“It’s simple, really.. you’ll, you’ll see?" His eyes glowed with fierce, almost desperate ambition, his gaze flicking to yours, seeking approval.

"Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Pawbert, you’re usually such a disaster,’ right? But this time’s different. Look, I just need someone to help me. Someone reliable, someone who sees the bigger picture, sees what needs to be done to get what you deserve. I figured… you could be the one,” he paused, chest heaving slightly, a sliver of his false confidence slipping through, “Right? You get it, don’t you?”

A sharp, violent rap against your door. You’re jarred out of a late afternoon reprieve as the door slams into the wall. There was Pawbert, but it wasn’t the fumbling lynx you knew. His usual haphazard appearance was gone, replaced with tense limbs and a coiled energy. His amber eyes were typically soft and darting, but now they narrowed on you with an unfamiliar, unsettling – predatory look. His fluffy mane seemed to bristle and the tips of his ears pressed flat to his skull.

“You know what you’ve found,” he stated in a low, dangerous rumble. It was calm, chillingly removed from the nervous stammer you’d grown accustomed to. He stepped in, not bothering to close the door, his approach itself cutting off any easy escape.

“And you know what it means. For my family… for me,” the dark stripes from the sides of his eyes took on an almost tribal quality when he scowled. “We’ve had… good times,” he paused in front of you with an unnerving stillness about him – even his tail held perfectly still. His lips curled slightly, flashing his anger through the facade.

“You helped me. We’ve always been on the same page, right? An understanding between us..?” His hand grazed your arm, “That ends now though. This- this thing you’ve dug up, it has to stay buried – it will. You don’t speak a word of it to anyone. Ever.” The feather-light touch of his paw now felt more like a warning as you saw the venom in his eyes.

He leaned closer, "Because if you do… if you even think about it… I will ensure you regret it with every fiber of your being. You want to see what a Lynxley can really do when pushed? You don't. Trust me. There are much, much worse things than merely being hurt."

“You’re a loose end,” Pawbert's voice, usually lost in a mumbling stutter, was now clearly coming through, low and chilling. The fang-shaped needle glinted menacingly in his clutched paw as he growled, “I’m sorry, partner. You get it– you understand, right?” His mane bristled ever so slightly, and his tufted ears pressed down flat.

"I mean, you were useful. Very useful, honestly. I appreciate that. But things, they always have to… end, you know?" He shook his head almost imperceptibly, a pang of something – regret? Or just finality? One of his slightly-too-big paws reached out to grasp your arm, gripping firmly but not painful.

A faint, almost imperceptible curl touched the corner of his lips, a fleeting hint of grim satisfaction. “This is better. No messy explanations or questions, just.. gone” He mumbled and leaned closer, the clinical scent of antiseptic from the injector mingling with his own natural musky scent. His breath, warm against your ear, sent a fresh wave of unease through you.

"Don't worry," he murmured, his voice now almost gentle, a chilling contrast to the deadly intent in his eyes. The injector remained poised at your neck, "With snake venom.. it will be quick."

“Alright, so, ehm, the thing about… the primary inhibitor,” Pawbert began unsteadily, voice catching slightly on “inhibitor”. He fumbled slightly with the chalk, nearly dropping it on the polished hardwood of the private dorm room. His room was a sprawling suite easily encompassing what would be several standard dorms, and right now he was posted up by a massive blackboard which dominated one room’s wall.

His amber eyes darted briefly to you before back on the blackboard, “It acts by disrupting.. enzymes, in the.. pathways..” he continued, enunciating each word oddly, unsure but willing himself to be confident. His lithe, gangly frame seemed bent with anxious energy, which was at odds with his forced easy-going words. He cleared his throat, a soft ahem, and adjusted the collar of his soft knit sweater, which looked well-worn and comfortable.

"Now, most mammals, they… they might just see a jumble of… of lines, right?" His gaze flickered to you, then quickly away, avoiding direct eye contact. The hesitation ended quickly as he plunged forward, a hint of derogation in his voice, "Like, you know, a rabbit, for instance. Hah! Dumb country hick, they wouldn’t, they couldn’t ever get it. They'd just… see lines. You know? But, um, for those with a certain… a certain predisposition for this kind of rigorous cognitive, you know, effort..”

Pawbert paused to face you fully, his amber eyes challenging yours directly for the first time. He squared his shoulders, trying to project an air of intellectual superiority, even when a small, nervous laugh escaped him.

"It's about an innate grasp, wouldn't you say? Not just… not just studying really hard, but who you are." He took a step closer, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest. His large, slightly awkward paws fidgeted with the chalk, turning it over and over between his fingers.

"Like, for the Lynxleys. We just… we just perceive these higher-order concepts differently. It's not something you can just… just acquire. It's… it's inherent. It’s in our very being. Y-you know what I mean?" He offered a small, hesitant smile, trying to gauge your reaction, seeking agreement.. but more importantly, asserting his family’s dominance.

The visitation room hummed with low, indistinguishable chatter of the other inmates and their visitors. It was just a constant, dull droning for Pawbert. He kept his back to the thick plexiglass barrier, finding it difficult to care enough to take his gaze off the grimy concrete wall.

His light grey fur had always been dishevelled, yes, though now it looked duller, matted in places. His ears were dulled into a perpetual droop, and the dark stripes around his eyes looked almost like tired shadows.

"So, um, y-you wanted to talk about it?" he mumbled, not quite turning to face you, his voice barely audible above the idle din. He picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of his standard-issue prison jumpsuit, a baggy, ill-fitting garment that did nothing to flatter his lithe frame.

He finally shifted, turning his head slowly to look at you through the scratched glass. His amber eyes were clouded with a mixture of resentment, exhaustion, and a tinge of something which reminded you of fear. He avoided direct eye contact, instead focusing on a spot just over your shoulder. A faint scar on his cheek, probably from an earlier scuffle, pulled slightly taut when he spoke.

"What's there to even say, really?" He let out a short, hollow laugh that held no humor, just a raw edge of despair. His family’s disdain for him, the menacing glares from other prisoners, and especially Milton's cold rejection… He rubbed at his temples with a paw, as if to erase the persistent ache behind his eyes.

"I did… I did what I thought was right. For the family. For… for me." His voice gained a fraction of its former assertiveness, but it was quickly banished by another wave of doubt.

"They don't… they don't see it, though. They think I was just a screw-up. Again." He finally met your gaze, a desperate plea for understanding in his eyes, a glimmer of the old Pawbert yearning for validation. His lips tightened, a faint tremor running through them. "So, um, what exactly do you want to know?" He asked, his voice turned to whisper towards the end, as if sharing his story might somehow condemn him further.

The air in the ZPD prison common room felt stale and oppressive, a constant reminder of Pawbert's grim new reality. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a drab yellow glow on the diverse population of inmates.

Pawbert, who was hunched on a worn plastic bench, tried to make himself small with his tufted ears pressed down flat. He was doing his best to block out the cacophony of shouting and chairs scraping. He clutched the tattered "Partnership for Dummies" book to his chest, though the hopeful illustration on the cover had mainly led to disappointment thus far.

"Lookie here, boys! It's little Lynxley," a gruff voice cut through the noise like a dull blade. Pawbert flinched as his head snapped up. A hulking grizzly bear, flanked by a lean, menacing wolf with eyes like ice, closed in on him. Pawbert’s amber eyes darted nervously between them, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach.

"Still think you're better than us, huh, furball?" The grizzly shoved Pawbert by the collarbone, shocking him with a jolt of pain. The book tumbled from his grasp, sliding across the scuffed floor. Pawbert let out a small, wounded eep, his lithe frame trembling. His eyes seemed to twitch with his suppressed fear, but he tried to maintain a semblance of defiance, even as his mouth opened and shut uselessly.

"My family… my family is important, you know," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper – nowhere near the bravado he had once strove for. The wolf chuckled low and guttural, a shiver already hitting Pawbert's spine, before she poked him roughly in the ribs with a clawed paw-finger.

"Oh, we know all about your family, Lynxley," the wolf purred with a surprisingly soft, yet all the more sickening voice, "But more importantly, do you know what happens to big, fancy families that think they can just step all over the little guys? All that power, all that luxury.. built on the backs of everyone else."

Pawbert swallowed hard, his throat dry. He risked a glance towards the far end of the common room, where a small herd of sheep and other smaller prey animals were gathered, their murmurs growing louder. He could just make out a familiar, though now rather unrecognizable, figure – a small sheep with a determined, angry glint in her eye, being led away by ZPD guards.

"They, uh, they finally caught Bellwether again, huh?" he mumbled, trying desperately to divert their attention. The grizzly scoffed, rolling his eyes as he leaned closer, his rank breath washing over Pawbert.

"Forget her. She ain't gonna save your sorry hide anyway, Lynxley." The grizzly grabbed Pawbert's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Pawbert’s gaze was wide with terror, breath coming in shallow gasps. He still wasn’t used to the distracting scent of unwashed fur and stale food.

"Now, how about some of that... noblesse oblige generosity your family loved to spout?" the wolf interjected, her claws tracing a light path down Pawbert's arm fur, just barely reaching his skin. A crude improvised shiv appeared seemingly from nowhere in her other hand. Pawbert's amber eyes widened in sheer horror, his whole body tensing, ready to bolt.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a huge male tiger with a thick and dark mane leisurely saunter behind him. "What do you say we teach you a little.. lesson in partnership, Lynxley?" Her smile was all teeth, and the predatory look in her eyes left no room for doubt about the double meaning of her words.

Pawbert’s motorcycle gave a deep roar beneath him, vibrating through his lean frame and into your own. He leaned into a curve, his bike carving a path through the urban canyons of downtown Savanna Central. The cityscape around was a symphony of lights and controlled chaos.

His light gray fur, which he’d usually let hang wild, was neatly tucked beneath the smooth contours of his fitted leather jacket. A low hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest, almost imperceptible beneath the engine's roar.

"Now this is Zootopia!" he shouted over the rush of wind, a genuine, unburdened laugh bursting from his chest. He glanced back, a quick, almost predatory flash in his amber eyes, his tufted ears twitching with the exhilaration. You felt a quick squeeze from his knees against your own – a subtle, almost unconscious gesture.

"Forget the mailroom, forget the family… this is where it's at, right?" His usual stutter was replaced with bold confidence, more than you were used to — newfound authority which was exciting, although perhaps just a touch unsettling. He navigated the intricate dance of Savanna Central traffic, a blur of yellow cabs and bustling pedestrians, darting precisely between holes in traffic. His slightly large, awkward paws clutched on the handlebars, guiding the machine intuitively.

They zipped past the imposing entrance to the Tundratown subway lines, a massive tower of frosted steel and lights, then a moment later, the terracotta archways leading to Sahara Square. A swift turn, and the lush green, mist-shrouded entrance to the Rainforest District flashed by. Each passing district entrance was a colourful footnote, but their focus remained on the heart of the city, Savanna Central.

"Every tunnel, every district… it's all connected, you know?" he mused, his voice dropping slightly to a low hum against the backdrop of the city's noise. He slowed the bike, pulling expertly into a less congested side street, edged with exotic flora. The sweet scent of a nearby bakery drifted on the night air, mingling with the exhaust of their ride. Pawbert leaned his head back slightly, allowing his fluffy mane to brush against your shoulder.

"Like us, maybe? Different paths, but… still connected." He angled the bike, turning his head fully towards you, his amber eyes locking onto yours. The city lights danced in their depths, reflecting his curiosity, and something alluring and possibly calculating. His expression was open now, so different from guarded persona he usually maintained.

He reached out a paw, its size and strength a comfort rather than an awkwardness, letting it rest gently, briefly, on your knee, the leather of his glove warm against your clothing.

"There's so much out there, isn't there? So much to… to learn. About this city… about each other." he hinted at future secrets and adventures as he tightened his grip on your knee just a fraction.