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The heavy bag rocked on its chain as I drove another right hook into it, the impact rattling up my arm and into my shoulder. Sweat stung my eyes, but I didn’t stop. Every thud was Francine’s trunk hitting the pavement all over again. Every grunt was the sound of Scorpion dying in that hallway while the ram we were after vanished into the night. I hated this gym. Too bright. Too many mirrors. Too many mammals pretending they’d never lost anyone.“Darkclaw.”I caught the bag on the rebound and turned. Sergeant Nick Wilde (red fox, green eyes, SWAT vest half-zipped like he couldn’t be bothered) was leaning against the squat rack, arms folded, watching me like he already knew what I was going to say.“Wilde.” I wiped my brow with the back of my wrist tape. “If you’re here to tell me I’m hogging the bag again, save it. “Nah. I’m here to ruin your excellent brooding session.” He pushed off the rack and walked over, stopping just outside my reach. “Chief’s finally green-lighting a new tactical team out of Precinct One. Call sign Twenty Squad. Eight mammals. I’m putting it together, and I want you on it.”I snorted. “They dissolved Scorpion because one elephant took a .45 to the aorta, and suddenly, door-kickers are a liability. What changed? “What changed is the city’s burning again, and the brass remembered that patrol rifles and good intentions don’t stop carloads of hyenas with fully-auto AKs.” Nick’s ears flicked. “They want a team that can actually finish a raid without half the block going up in flames. I told them I know a coyote who still wakes up pissed off every morning and hits harder than most breaching rams.”I looked at the bag. At the faint blood smear on the canvas where my knuckles had split last week. Then back at him.“Who else are you dragging into this? “Short list so far.” He ticked off names on his claws. “Gina Fangmeyer (she’s still got that chip on her shoulder the size of a freight train). Pete Wolford (yeah, the same Wolford who used to ride with you in Gang Unit). Kion Abdi and Kovu Bankole (both lions, both ex-military, both scary calm when bullets are flying). And…” He paused, smirking just enough to make my hackles rise. “Loona signed her transfer papers this morning.”My sister. Of course. I felt my jaw tighten. “You put her on the same team as me, you’d better be ready for family dinner to include live-fire exercises,” She asked for it, Joe. Said if her little brother was going to get himself killed doing something stupid again, she wanted front-row seats to drag your carcass out herself.”I barked a humorless laugh. “That sounds like her.”Nick stepped closer, voice dropping. “Look. I’m not gonna sugar-coat it. Twenty Squad’s gonna get the calls nobody else wants. Night warrants in the Burrows. Hostage rescues where the bad guys outnumber us ten to one. The kind of jobs where Scorpion’s ghost is gonna be riding shotgun, whether we like it or not.” His green eyes locked on mine. “I need mammals who’ve already stared down that ghost and kept shooting. That’s you. That’s all of them.”I looked past him at the ZPD crest on the wall. Protecting and Serving since 1955, my ass.“When do we start?” I asked. Nick’s grin was all teeth. “Gear up. Range brief at 0600 tomorrow. Try not to punch the qualification target so hard it catches fire.”I peeled off my wraps, the tape sticking to the half-healed scabs on my knuckles.“Wilde “Yeah? “If we’re doing this… we do it right. No more half-measures. No more raids where we knock and pray. We go in like we mean it, or we don’t go in at all.”He gave a short nod. “That’s why you’re my first pick, Darkclaw.”As he walked out, I turned back to the bag and threw one last combination (left jab, right cross, elbow, knee); each strike for Francine, for Scorpion, for every night I woke up smelling gunpowder that wasn’t there anymore. Tomorrow, the Twenty Squad started breathing. Tomorrow, the city was going to remember what real teeth felt like.

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Nick leaned against the locker-room bench, arms crossed, tail flicking lazily while I wrapped fresh tape around my paws. Most mammals were already gone; just the hum of the ventilation and the faint drip of a leaky shower somewhere.“So here’s the actual structure,” he started, voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry. “Not the shiny brochure version they hand out at the academy.”He held up one claw. “ZPD SWAT is split precinct-by-precinct. Precinct One (downtown, Sahara Square, the whole mess) gets the lion’s share because that’s where the worst calls stack up. We have nine full squads, eight mammals each. That’s seventy-two operators total, plus the command element.”He ticked off on his claws as he went.“Three squads per shift: Days, Swings, and Mids. Days: 0600–1800, mostly planned ops, warrants, dignitary protection.
Swings: 1400–0200, overlaps the hot hours when the clubs empty and the crazies come out.
Mids: 2200–0800, pure chaos shift. That’s usually when the real monsters call us.”

I raised a brow. “Nine squads, three shifts… that’s twenty-four teams total across the city?”“No. Each precinct only fields its own nine. Precinct One has nine, Precinct Two (Savanna Central) has nine, Three (Rainforest District) has nine, all the way to Precinct Seven out in the Burrows. City-wide we’re pushing damn near two hundred SWAT-trained bodies when everyone’s healthy, which is never.”He smirked. “But here’s the part they don’t put on the recruitment posters: all nine of Precinct One’s squads fall under one SWAT commander. Right now that’s Commander Grierson (rhino, old-school, hates foxes on general principle). He sits in the big office at 1PP with the gold badge and the direct line to the Chief. I report to him, the three shift lieutenants report to me, and the squad leaders report to their lieutenants. Chain’s short, but it’s steel.”I finished taping my left paw and flexed it. “So Twenty Squad is…?”“Brand-new tenth call sign, permanently attached to Precinct One but outside the normal shift rotation. We’re the ‘Oh shit’ team. When one of the regular nine squads is already tied up, or when the job’s too big for one squad and too politically hot to wait for mutual aid, they spin the bat-phone and we roll. No fixed shift (could be 0300, could be Christmas morning). We live on pager and adrenaline.”I snorted. “So we’re the Chief’s private fire department.”“Pretty much. Grierson fought it (wanted another standard squad so he could brag about ‘full manning’), but Bogo went straight to the Mayor and got Twenty funded as a pilot program. Which means we have nice toys, zero political cover if we screw up, and every other squad leader secretly hoping we eat dirt so they can say ‘told you so.’”He pushed off the bench and looked me dead in the eye.“That’s the sandbox, Joe. Eight mammals. Me, you, Fangmeyer, Wolford, Abdi, Bankole, Loona, and one slot I’m still arguing over. We don’t answer to shift lieutenants. We don’t play musical squads every six months. We stay together until we break or the city does.”I met his stare. “And if Grierson decides he doesn’t like a coyote and a fox running his golden child squad?”Nick’s grin went sharp enough to cut glass.“Then we give him so many solved headlines he’ll be polishing our boots with his tongue by the end of the year.”He offered his fist.“Welcome to Twenty Squad, Officer Darkclaw. Try not to kill anyone before roll call tomorrow.”I bumped it, claws to paw pads.“Only the ones who deserve it, Sarge.”

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The SWAT armory at Precinct One smells like gun oil, neoprene, and bison. Commander Lorne Jackson fills half the room just standing still, horns almost scraping the ceiling lights, arms folded across a chest the size of a ballistic shield. Sergeant Chase Robertson leans against the cage counter, tail still, ears forward, the way German shepherds get when they’re pretending they’re not measuring everyone in the room for body bags.I shut the door behind me. The click echoes.“Evening, gentlemen,” I say, dropping my folder on the table between us. “Or morning. Hard to tell when you live in a concrete box with no windows.”Jackson grunts. Chase just tilts his head.I flip the folder open. Eight personnel jackets fan out like playing cards. My playing cards.“Twenty Squad roster,” I announce. “Before you hear it from the rumor mill and decide to bench me for insubordination.”Jackson’s eyes narrow. “You already poached half the best operators in the building, Wilde. I’m short two medics on Days and Wolford was supposed to take over Squad Three next quarter.”“Wolford volunteered,” I answer. “So did the rest. Nobody’s being Shanghaied.”Chase finally speaks, voice low and precise. “Let’s see who you stole from me, fox.”I slide the jackets forward one by one.“Officer Joseph Darkclaw, coyote, ex-Scorpion tactical. Best door gun I’ve ever seen. Still has nightmares, still hits expert every quarter, still punches heavier bags than most rams kick doors.”Jackson snorts, but it’s not dismissive. He remembers the Scorpion fallout same as everyone.“Officer Gina Fangmeyer, tigress, current Squad Six assaulter. You know her. She outran a cheetah suspect in full kit last year and then suplexed him for laughing at her.”Chase’s ears twitch; that was his squad she embarrassed.“Officer Peter Wolford, wolf, your former point man on Squad Three. Tracking, CQB, and the only mammal I trust to keep Loona Darkclaw from murdering the rest of us when she’s in a mood.”Chase’s tail flicks once. “Wolford asked for the transfer himself. Said he was tired of ‘safe’ warrants.”“Kion Abdi and Kovu Bankole, lions, ex-Rainforest District Marine recon attachments. Quiet, scary accurate past six hundred yards, and both owe me favors I’m cashing in now.”I pause on the next jacket.“Sergeant Loona Darkclaw, grey wolf, currently buried in Precinct Four’s midnight patrol because she decked a lieutenant who called her brother ‘Scorpion trash.’ She’s mine if I want her, and I do.”Jackson’s brow lowers. “Mixing family on the same entry team is a discipline nightmare.”“Already cleared it with her. She told me, and I quote, ‘If Joe’s dumb enough to get shot again, I want to be the one dragging him out.’ I’m not arguing with that logic.”Chase leans in, scanning the last jacket. “One slot open.”“Yeah. Still fighting Medical over the last name. Either Delilah Prowl (panther, trauma surgeon on the side) or Andrés Trujillo (red wolf, EOD tech with a temper). Jury’s out.”Jackson finally unfolds his arms and plants both dinner-plate hooves on the table.“Here’s the deal, Wilde. Twenty Squad is the Chief’s pet project and the Mayor’s photo-op. Which means when (not if) the first round goes sideways, every camera in Zootopia is going to be looking for someone to crucify. And they’ll start with the fox who built a team of loose cannons, angry ex-gang-unit coyotes, and a pair of lions who think rules are suggestions.”He leans forward until I can smell the wintergreen chew on his breath.“So you’d better be right about every single one of them. Because if this blows up, I’m not taking the fall. You are. Both of you are.” He glances at Chase. “Robertson’s co-lead on paper so the department can say ‘See? We put a shepherd in charge too.’”Chase gives a thin, humorless smile. “I’m the diversity hire with fangs.”I meet Jackson’s stare without blinking.“Commander, the day one of my people hesitates because they’re scared of headlines is the day I turn in my plate. Until then, this eight-mammal wrecking crew is the best shot this city has at not burning down before breakfast.”Jackson studies me for a long five seconds. Then he exhales through his nose, a sound like a freight train braking.“Briefing package on my desk by 0600. Full psych evals, weapons quals, and a signed memo from each of them saying they understand Twenty has no fixed TO, no union overtime protection, and no promise they’ll go home with the same number of holes they left with.”He turns to leave, then pauses.“And Wilde… if you turn my SWAT platoon into your personal revenge tour for what happened to Scorpion, I’ll bury you so deep they’ll need sonar to find the body.”The door slams behind him.Chase waits until the echo dies, then pushes off the counter.“You left out the best part,” he says quietly.“Which is?”“Half those mammals you just named would follow you into a meat grinder without body armor. The other half would burn the city down to keep you breathing.” He taps the stack of jackets. “That’s not a team, Nick. That’s a cult with rifles.”I grin, all teeth.“Good. Cults don’t miss.”

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The SVU bullpen is almost dark, just the glow of case boards and the low hum of the vending machine that still owes me three bucks from 2022. Judy’s office door is cracked open, light spilling out like she’s the only mammal still fighting the night.I knock once on the frame and lean in.“Captain Hopps,” I say, drawing it out just to watch her ears twitch.Judy looks up from a mountain of red-flagged case files, violet eyes tired but sharp. The four gold bars on her collar still look wrong—like someone photoshopped them onto the rabbit I used to chase traffic tickets with.“Nick,” she says, leaning back. “If you’re here to flirt with my detectives again, I will tase you and write it up as a training accident.”“Please. Your detectives flirt with me.” I step inside and close the door. “Actually, I’m here to brag.”She raises an eyebrow. “Twenty Squad got approved?”“Signed, sealed, and Commander Jackson only threatened to kill me twice.” I drop into the chair opposite her desk, spin one of my new unit coins across my knuckles. “Roster’s locked except for one slot. Thought my old partner deserved to hear it from me before the rumor mill turns it into ‘Wilde builds private army of murder-beasts.’”Judy folds her paws. “Hit me.”I tick them off like I’m reading charges.“Joe Darkclaw, coyote, ex-Scorpion. Still punches through walls when he’s upset. Which is always.”
“Gina Fangmeyer, tigress. Runs down cheetahs for fun.”
“Pete Wolford, wolf. Could track a ghost through a rainstorm.”
“Kion Abdi and Kovu Bankole, lions. Two of the calmest mammals I’ve ever seen holding sniper rifles.”
“And—” I let the grin creep in, “Loona Darkclaw. Joe’s sister. Grey wolf. Recently suspended for introducing a lieutenant’s face to a locker.”Judy’s ears drop half an inch. “You put both Darkclaws on the same entry team.”“Family bonding through controlled detonations. Very progressive.”She exhales through her nose. “Nick…”“Relax, Carrots. I already got the lecture from Jackson. And Chase. And the union rep. And my mother.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “These aren’t loose cannons, they’re precision cannons. Every one of them has lost someone or something to this city. They don’t want revenge—they want it to stop happening to the next mammal. That’s the difference.”Judy studies me for a long moment, the way she used to when she was trying to figure out if I was lying about eating the last donut.“You’re really doing this,” she says softly. “You’re building the team you always said SWAT needed but were too scared to lead.”“Scared?” I scoff. “Please. I’m terrified. There’s a difference.”She smiles—small, proud, a little sad.“I’m happy for you, Nick. And I’m… keeping a bottle of carrot whiskey in my bottom drawer for the first time one of your operators ends up in my interview room instead of a body bag.”I stand, smooth my vest. “Save it for the celebration, Captain. Twenty Squad doesn’t fail. We just make the other guy fail harder.”As I reach the door she calls after me, quiet enough that only I can hear.“Hey, Nick.”I glance back.“If Joe Darkclaw ever needs to talk—really talk—send him up here. SVU’s got a couch and a rabbit who still remembers what it feels like to lose an entire team in one night.”I nod once.“Copy that, Captain.”Then I’m gone before either of us gets sentimental enough to ruin our reputations.

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Judy’s ears twitch the second she sees the names on the roster page I left open on her desk. She taps one claw on the sheet. “Kion Abdi… and Kovu Bankole.”I pause in the doorway, already halfway out. “Problem, Captain?”She looks up, and there’s that little smirk she used to give me when she’d caught me pocketing evidence donuts.“Kion Abdi is married to Jasiri Abdi (badge 1842, SVU detective, best interrogator I’ve got with hyena suspects because they literally can’t lie to her without laughing). She’s been on my squad for two years.”I blink. Once. “Huh. “And Kovu Bankole,” she continues, voice syrupy sweet, “is married to Assistant District Attorney Kirara Bankole (née Abdi), who just happens to be Kion’s older sister and the prosecutor assigned to every single SVU case we push upstairs. She’s the reason half the predators in this city are doing twenty-five to life instead of walking out on technicalities.”I rub the back of my neck. “Okay, so I accidentally recruited an entire married pride into Twenty Squad. That’s… new.”Judy leans back, folding her arms. “Do you have any idea how many times Jasiri has threatened to ‘accidentally’ discharge her sidearm in my direction because Kirara keeps rejecting her search warrants? And now both their husbands are going to be kicking doors together under your command?”I grin wide enough to hurt. “So what you’re saying is I’ve weaponized family drama into tactical cohesion. “I’m saying,” she sighs, “that when this inevitably explodes, it’s going to take out three separate departments and at least one Thanksgiving dinner.”She stands, walks around the desk, and flicks my ear exactly the way she did when we were in uniform.“Jasiri already texted me the second she found out. Quote: ‘Tell the fox if my husband comes home with so much as a scratch that isn’t from me, I will eat him, and then I’ll eat you for sending him.’ Kirara just sent me a calendar invite titled ‘Preemptive Divorce Consultation – Just in Case.’”I laugh (actually laugh) for the first time all week.“Relax, Hopps. I’ve seen Kion and Kovu run live-fire houses together. They move like they share a brain. And if Jasiri and Kirara want to come at me, they’ll have to get through their own husbands first.”Judy pinches the bridge of her nose.“Nick, you didn’t just build a SWAT team. You built a goddamn soap opera with breaching shotguns. “Ratings will be through the roof,” I say, stepping into the hallway. “Try to keep up, Captain.”Behind me, I hear her muttering, “I need a bigger bottle of carrot whiskey,” as the door clicks shut. I’m still grinning when I hit the elevator. Family ties just became ballistic Kevlar.
This squad’s going to be unstoppable.
I poke my head back through her office door just as she’s reaching for the light switch.“Hey, Carrots, one more thing.”Judy freezes, ears perking. “If this is about adding a honey badger to Twenty Squad, the answer is no. “Nah. Business is done.” I let the grin go soft, the one only she ever sees. “What time do you want me to pick you up tonight? Reservations at Le Lapin d’Or are at nine, but I figured you’d want to change out of the captain suit and into something that doesn’t smell like case files and despair.”Her ears flush pink at the tips (still the easiest tell in the city).“Are you seriously still making me do a fancy dinner after I just learned my best detective and my favorite prosecutor are now married to your door-kickers? “Especially after that,” I say, stepping inside and letting the door close behind me. “You need at least one night where nobody’s talking about warrants, raids, or whose husband might come home with new ventilation holes.”She pretends to think it over, tapping a claw against her chin. “Seven-thirty. Gives me time to threaten Jasiri in person and maybe hide Kirara’s good knives before she decides to sharpen them on your tail.”I walk over, lean down, and brush my muzzle against her ear just enough to make her breath catch.“Seven-thirty it is. Wear the blue dress, Hopps. The one that makes wolves forget how to speak English.”She swats my chest, but her paw lingers there a second longer than necessary.“Get out of my office, Sergeant Wilde. Some of us still have predators to put in cages.”I’m already backing toward the door, hands raised in surrender.“Yes, ma’am, Captain. See you tonight (try not to arrest me when I show up in the tux).”As I disappear down the hall, I hear her call after me, half-laughing, half-warning: “If you’re late, I’m letting Jasiri drive!”Seven-thirty.
Blue dress.
One night, where the only thing we’re taking down is a bottle of wine and half the dessert menu. I can live with that.

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7:28 p.m.
The black 2025 Dodge Charger SRT growls to a stop in front of Judy’s building, matte black paint drinking the streetlights, red strobes tucked discreetly behind the grille (because I’m off-duty, not stupid). The supercharged V8 ticks as it cools, loud enough that half the block is already peeking through their blinds.I step out in the midnight-blue tux (no tie, collar open just enough to look like I tried) and lean against the fender, paws in my pockets.Right on cue, the lobby door swings open.Judy steps out and the whole street forgets how to breathe.The blue dress is backless, hugging every line she usually hides under body armor and good intentions. Silver heels, ears swept up with a few loose strands that catch the light, and the tiniest smirk when she sees the car.“Really, Nicholas?” she says, walking over, hips doing things that should be illegal in three districts. “You couldn’t just take the unmarked sedan like a normal sergeant?”I open the passenger door with a half-bow. “Normal sergeants don’t get to take Captain Hopps to dinner. Besides, the Charger’s got pursuit rating and heated seats. Figured your ears get cold.”She slides in (graceful even when she has to duck the low roof) and runs a paw across the red-stitched leather.“You bought this after the Twenty Squad budget came through, didn’t you?”“Technically the credit union thinks I’m ‘investing in a classic American muscle car.’ I just left out the part where it’ll do 200 miles an hour and has level-IV plates in the doors.”Judy buckles in, arches a brow. “So this is your new patrol vehicle?”“Nope. This is my ‘shut up and hold on’ vehicle.” I drop into the driver’s seat, fire it up. The exhaust barks once, then settles into that low, predatory idle. “Patrol still gets the boring white Tauruses.”She reaches over and flicks the red toggle marked “STROBE.” The hidden lights flash once across her violet eyes.“You’re a child with a very expensive toy.”“Your child,” I correct, pulling away from the curb smooth enough that the tires don’t even chirp. “And tonight the only thing we’re chasing is the best wine pairing in the city.”Judy settles back, one paw resting on my thigh like it belongs there (because it does).“Floor it, Sergeant,” she says, voice low. “I’ve got a 0600 briefing tomorrow and exactly zero regrets to give tonight.”I grin, drop it into Sport mode, and the Charger lunges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for permission.Downtown lights blur.For once, the city can wait.Tonight, the only call we’re answering is each other.
Le Lapin d’Or is everything the reviews promised: candlelight flickering off crystal, waiters who glide instead of walk, and a sommelier who looks personally offended when I order the second-least-expensive bottle because “I’m trying to stay married to a cop, not bankrupt her.”Judy laughs so hard she snorts into her champagne. The couple at the next table (two gazelles in pearls) pretend they didn’t hear it.Three courses, two bottles, and one shared chocolate soufflé later, we’re out on the boardwalk along Marina Pier. The city’s behind us, all neon and noise; ahead is nothing but black water and the low creak of boats. I shrug off my tux jacket and drape it over her shoulders because the wind off the bay is cold enough to make even a rabbit’s ears droop.She leans into me, paws sliding around my waist under the jacket.“Remember the last time we did this?” she asks quietly, nodding at the empty pier.“Which part?” I murmur against her ear. “The part where we argued about case jurisdiction for twenty minutes, or the part where you kneed me in the balls so hard I saw ancestors I didn’t know I had?”She bites her lip, ears flattening in guilt that’s three months old and still fresh.“I panicked,” she says. “You came up behind me while I was changing out of the vest, grabbed my hips, and whispered ‘officer needs assistance.’ My brain went straight to training dummy.”I laugh, low. “Carrots, I was trying to be romantic. You turned it into a use-of-force report.”“I bought you frozen peas and everything,” she protests.“Yeah, and then you spent the next hour apologizing with your mouth in ways that made the pain… complicated.”She hides her face against my shirt. “I still feel terrible.”“Don’t.” I tip her chin up so the moonlight catches her eyes. “Honestly? Hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. I married a rabbit who can drop me in under a second. Every predator in the city should be scared.”Judy’s ears lift again, slow, the way they do when she’s deciding whether to be embarrassed or turned on. Turns out it’s both.She reaches up, fingers curling into my collar. “Take me home, Nick.”“Thought you wanted to walk the pier.”“I’ve changed my mind.” Her voice drops to that dangerous-soft tone that always ruins me. “I want a rematch. Same position, same move… except this time I’ll aim a little higher and use my lips instead of my knee.”The growl that comes out of me is not civilized.I scoop her up (she squeaks, delighted), and we’re moving before her heels hit the boards again.The Charger’s waiting right where I left it, engine still warm.Tonight, the only thing getting kneed is my self-control.And I can’t wait to lose.

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I toe the door shut behind me, drop my duffel by the shoe rack, and the whole apartment smells like Jasiri’s jambazi spice stew (the one that makes the smoke alarm flirt with death). She’s at the stove, tail swaying to whatever chaos playlist she’s got going, wearing one of my old academy T-shirts and nothing else I can see from this angle. Perfect. “Hey, beautiful,” I call, loosening my tie. “Your husband’s officially too dangerous for regular cop work.”She turns, wooden spoon in one paw, eyebrow arched so high it disappears into her mohawk. “Meaning? “Meaning I start SWAT selection Monday. Twenty Squad. Sergeant Wilde’s new baby. ”The spoon stops mid-stir. Her grin spreads slowly and wickedly, all sharp hyena teeth and pride. “About damn time.” She sets the spoon down, pads over, and loops her arms around my neck. “So this is payback for me making you leave Gang Unit and go back to a patrol crate for two years, huh?”I laugh, resting my forehead against hers. “You didn’t make me do anything, Jas. You just looked me in the eye after the last drive-by and said, ‘I’m not burying you in dress blues before you’re thirty.’ Hard to argue with that logic when your wife can bite through rebar. ”She nips my chin, playful. “Still counts as me winning. “Fine. You win. Happy? “Ecstatic.” She slides her paws down my chest, starts unbuttoning my shirt like she’s unwrapping something expensive. “My lion’s gonna be kicking doors with the big dogs. Nick Wilde, Joe Darkclaw, that scary tigress… and you. ”Her voice drops, teasing. “Just promise me when you come home with new scars, you'll let me kiss them before you fill out the paperwork. ”I catch her wrists, pull her flush against me. “Only if you promise to keep wearing my shirts and nothing else while you do it. “Deal.” She rises on her toes, lips brushing mine. “Now go shower. You smell like precinct coffee and bad decisions. Then come eat before I decide the stew needs a lion-sized protein boost. ”I’m already backing toward the hallway, grinning like an idiot. SWAT school starts in four days. But tonight? Tonight I’m just a newly-selected operator coming home to the hyena who made sure I lived long enough to earn it. Life’s pretty damn good.

The hallway outside Courtroom 12 is emptying out, last witnesses shuffling past, reporters packing up their recorders. Kirara Bankole is still at the prosecution table, stacking folders with the precision of a sniper assembling a rifle. Tail lashing, ears pinned back; she just put away a hyena pack alpha for triple life and she’s riding that razor edge between triumph and total exhaustion.I slip in through the side door, quiet as I ever was on patrol. Black tactical pants, plain gray hoodie, badge hidden under the zipper (off-duty, but nobody here needs to see the shield right now).She doesn’t notice me until I’m three steps away.Kirara’s head snaps up, golden eyes narrowing. “Kovu, I swear if you’re here to tell me the defense filed another last-minute motion—”I drop to one knee right there in the aisle, pull the folded sheet from my pocket, and hold it up like evidence.Her gaze flicks to the ZPD letterhead. Then to the single line circled in red:BANKOLE, KOVU – SELECTED – TWENTY SQUAD / SWATThe folders slip from her paws and hit the table with a thud that echoes through the empty courtroom.“You’re serious,” she whispers.“Dead serious.” I stand, slow, and hand her the letter. “Start date same as Kion. Nick Wilde’s building a new team out of Precinct One. He wants both of us.”Kirara stares at the paper like it might vanish. Then her ears flick forward, and the prosecutor mask cracks wide open into the biggest, fiercest smile I’ve seen since our wedding day.She launches herself over the railing (literally vaults the damn thing, skirt and all) and slams into me so hard I have to brace or we both go down.“You absolute bastard,” she laughs against my neck, claws digging into my back like she’s checking I’m real. “You waited until I was in court to do this?”“Figured you’d want the dramatic reveal in your natural habitat.” I catch her face in my paws, thumb brushing the stripe under her eye. “Also wanted every mammal in this building to see the scariest ADA in Zootopia lose her composure for once.”She kisses me (hard, possessive, tasting like coffee and victory) right there between the prosecution table and the jury box. Doesn’t care who’s watching.When she finally pulls back, her voice is low and trembling with pride.“My husband’s going to SWAT,” she says, like she’s testing how the words feel. “My little brother and my husband on the same entry team. Goddess help the criminals.”I grin. “Goddess help Nick if you two ever compare notes.”Kirara loops her arms around my neck, forehead to forehead.“Take me home, Officer Bankole,” she murmurs. “Because tonight I’m celebrating the fact that the two lions I love most in this world are about to become the most dangerous thing on four legs… and I get to kiss both of them when they come back.”I scoop her up (briefcase, folders, heels and all) and carry her straight out the courtroom doors while the bailiffs pretend they didn’t just see the city’s top prosecutor get bridal-carried by a newly-minted SWAT selectee.Best surprise I’ve ever pulled.Worth every second of the paperwork I’m gonna catch tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The gravel lot is already half-full when I nose my black F-150 into a spot near the gate. Matte black, 37-inch tires, a light bar that could land aircraft. I killed the engine, and the coyote in me still feels weird rolling up to SWAT school in something that isn’t a battered Gang Unit Crown Vic. The door creaks open, and the cold morning air hits me like a slap. I’m halfway out when I hear it: “Darkclaw, you mangy desert dog!”Pete Wolford is jogging across the lot in his gray hoodie, tail wagging so hard it’s a blur. Before I can brace, he slams into me, arms around my ribs, lifting me clear off the ground in a wolf hug that rattles my spine.“Easy, you oversized fur rug!” I laugh, pounding his back. “Some of us still need vertebrae!”He drops me, and immediately Kion and Kovu are there (two golden blurs of muscle and mane). Kion grabs my paw and yanks me into a chest-bump that turns into a full embrace.“Thought we lost you to patrol forever, brother,” he rumbles in my ear. Kovu’s next, quieter but no less intense, gripping my forearm the old way (wrist to wrist, warrior style) before pulling me into a one-armed hug.“Look at this,” Pete says, stepping back, grinning ear-to-ear. “Scorpion’s last four assholes, back together like a bad rash. “Minus the elephant in the room,” I say, voice dropping just enough. The mood dips for half a heartbeat (Francine’s ghost always rides with us), then Kion bumps my shoulder.“She’d be pissed if we stood here moping,” he says. “She’d want us to break something expensive on day one. “Preferably the instructors’ egos,” Kovu adds. We all laugh (rough, real, the kind that only comes from mammals who’ve bled in the same hallway). High-fives start flying. Pete tries to slap my paw so hard my arm goes numb. I return the favor. Kion and Kovu trade some complicated lion-brother handshake that ends with both of them pointing at me and Pete like we’re the rookies now.“Twenty Squad, huh?” Pete says, slinging an arm across my shoulders. “Wilde really dragged the whole damn fireteam out of the grave. “Guess some things are harder to kill than the brass wants to admit,” I answer. The gate buzzes open behind us. First call for formation in five mikes. We fall in side-by-side (coyote, wolf, two lions), the same way we used to walk into the Burrows when the sun went down, and every shadow had a gun. Different patch on our shoulders now. The same brothers in front of me.I roll my neck, crack my knuckles, and grin into the dawn. Let’s go remind the city why Scorpion used to be a nightmare.
Twenty Squad’s just the new name for it.
I’m halfway across the yard, still riding the high of the Scorpion reunion, when I spot them leaning against the concrete wall by the kill-house door: Gina Fangmeyer in her usual black tank, arms crossed, stripes gleaming under the floodlights, and my sister Loona right beside her, grey ears perked, grinning like a demon who just found the keys to hell. And Loona’s voice carries. Of course it does.“…so picture this: Joe’s seventeen, thinks he’s hot shit because he just made varsity wrestling, right? He decides he’s gonna sneak into the senior prom with this fake ID that looks like it was laminated at a gas station. Except the bouncer’s a rhino who moonlights as mall security and has literally seen Joe at the food court every weekend.”Gina’s already snorting, tail lashing with delight. I pick up the pace. Nope. Not happening.“So Joe panics,” Loona continues, throwing her paws up for dramatic effect, “and tries to vault the side gate—like a full parkour coyote. Hits the top, tail gets caught in the chain-link, and he just hangs there upside down, pants halfway down his thighs because the belt snagged, howling for help while the entire senior class takes pictures.”Gina throws her head back and roars with laughter. Actual roar. Echoes off the shoot-house.I break into a jog. “Loona—”Too late. She’s on a roll.“Yearbook committee made it the centerfold. Caption: ‘Most Likely to Get Stuck in His Own Escape Plan.’ Mom still has the framed copy above the fireplace.”Gina wipes a tear from her eye. “Oh my god, Darkclaw, you absolute disaster.”I skid to a stop in front of them, ears flat, trying to look dignified in front of a seven-foot tigress and my own flesh-and-blood traitor.“Loona, I will pay you actual money to stop talking.”She grins wider, showing every fang. “Too late, baby brother. Gina needed to know what she’s signing up for. Also, I brought copies of the photo for the team bulletin board.”Gina claps me on the shoulder hard enough to stagger me. “Don’t worry, Joe. I’ve decided it’s adorable. Like a coyote piñata.”Loona leans in, stage-whispering, “He still has the scar on his—”“LOONA I SWEAR TO THE SPIRITS—”She dances out of reach, laughing, while Gina just smirks and hooks an arm around my neck like a furry restraint hold.“Relax, Darkclaw,” the tigress purrs. “We all have embarrassing origin stories. Yours just involves public humiliation and gravity.”The formation whistle blows. Thank whatever gods are listening.I point at my sister as we start moving. “This is why Mom likes me better.”Loona calls after me, sweet as venom: “Mom liked you better until she saw the prom photos, loser!”Gina’s still chuckling as we jog toward the line-up.Twenty Squad hasn’t even started Day One and I’m already bleeding dignity.Great. Just great.
Gina’s still wiping her eyes, shoulders shaking with leftover laughter, when she tilts her head at the two of us.“Okay, okay, serious question,” she says, voice rumbling with amusement. “How much older is the evil mastermind sister than the prom piñata? Because she fights like she’s got a decade on you, Joe.”Loona and I answer at the exact same time:“Eleven months.”“One year.”We glare at each other.Loona crosses her arms, smirking. “Eleven months and three weeks, thank you very much. I’m basically a whole zodiac cycle ahead.”I roll my eyes so hard the instructors probably felt it. “You were held back in kindergarten because you bit the teacher, Loona. That doesn’t count as extra maturity points.”Gina snorts. “So Irish twins who hate each other. Got it.”“Pretty much,” I sigh.Loona flashes a sweet, poisonous smile. “He came out screaming and hasn’t stopped being dramatic since. I was already walking, talking, and plotting world domination by the time he figured out which end was up.”I flick an ear. “And yet I’m the one who learned how to open the child-proof gates before you did.”“Only because I taught you and then you took all the credit, you little—”Gina throws her head back and laughs again, deep and booming, clapping one massive paw on my shoulder and the other on Loona’s.“I give it two weeks before one of you is duct-taped to the hood of the Bearcat,” she says. “My money’s on Loona doing the taping.”Loona bares her teeth in a grin. “Smart bet.”I just groan and start walking toward the formation. Eleven months. Feels like eleven lifetimes some days.
ZPD SWAT Compound – Classroom A, 0630The lights dim. Nick Wilde stands at the front in a black Twenty Squad polo, remote in one paw, the other tucked behind his back like a professor who moonlights as a hitman. The projector throws the old ZPD crest on the screen: shield, claws, motto nobody actually believes.“Morning, degenerates,” he starts, voice calm but carrying to the back row. “Before we start trying to drown you in flashbangs and bad decisions, you’re getting the origin story. Pay attention. There will not be a quiz, but the city will test you on it with bullets.”He clicks. First slide: black-and-white photo, 1972. A rhino in an honest-to-God leather helmet holding a revolver the size of a canoe.“1972. Downtown Race Riots. A pack of wolves barricades themselves in the old First Precinct lobby with fifty hostages and enough dynamite to turn Sahara Square into a crater. Patrol’s armed with six-shooters and prayers. Chief Bogo the First (yes, related) realizes we’re one bad day from losing the city.”Click. Grainy footage of mammals in mismatched armor breaching with a battering ram made from a telephone pole.“Enter Sergeant Harlan Clawson, grizzly, ex-Marine, meaner than a badger with hemorrhoids. He hand-picks ten predators (all volunteers) and calls them the Special Weapons Assault Team. The brass hated the name (too aggressive), so they flipped the words and SWAT was born. First generation ran nothing but revolvers, pump shotguns, and whatever rifles they could borrow from National Guard armories.”Click. 1987 color photo: the infamous Sky-Tram hostage crisis. A snow leopard with an Uzi dangling twenty stories up.“By the eighties we’d grown to four full-time squads, one per major district. We finally got real rifles, first ballistic shields, and the city’s first armored Lenco BearCat (painted baby blue because the Mayor thought black was ‘scary’).”Click. 1999: a grainy shot of a burning apartment tower in the Nocturnal District.“Turn of the century, the Night Howler scare. SWAT responds to forty-three berserk predator calls in one week. We lose three operators in a single hallway to a rhino on Howlers who no-sells twelve bean-bag rounds. After that the department finally admits size matters: we go from four squads to nine per precinct, plus the first dedicated sniper/observer teams.”He pauses, lets that sit.“2016. The Bellwether case. SWAT executes sixty-seven high-risk warrants in seventy-two hours. We lose one operator, save hundreds of lives, and the city decides we’re too effective to disband but too expensive to like. Funding gets frozen for eight years.”Click. Recent photo: Commander Jackson standing in front of the new matte-black BearCat with the Twenty Squad emblem still half-wrapped in plastic.“2025. Present day. ZPD SWAT is 189 sworn operators across seven precincts, nine squads each, three per shift, plus specialty units (snipers, breachers, medics, K9). Every precinct runs its own teams, but Precinct One (here) carries the heaviest load because downtown never sleeps and the Burrows never forgives.”He changes slides to an org chart that looks like a corporate nightmare.“Chain of command you need to memorize:Commander Lorne Jackson: SWAT overall boss. Bison. Hates excuses.
Three shift lieutenants (Days, Swings, Mids).
Nine squad leaders under them.
And then there’s us: Twenty Squad. We don’t belong to any shift. We’re the city’s designated ‘Oh shit’ button. When the regular nine squads are already committed or the job’s too ugly for politics, the Chief hits speed-dial and we roll. No fixed hours, no overtime protection, no promise of tomorrow.”

He clicks to a final slide: a simple black field with white text.SCORPION – 2019-2023
F. PONDS
NEVER FORGOTTENNick lets it sit for five full seconds.“That’s the legacy you’re stepping into. Scorpion was the last time the department tried something like Twenty Squad: small, elite, outside the normal chain. One raid, one wrong door, one dead elephant, and the program got buried. We’re the first team since then to be given the same leash.”He kills the projector. The room lights come up harsh.“So when people say we’re just another squad, remind them: we’re the first ones stupid enough to pick up the torch Scorpion dropped. And we’re not letting it go out again.”He looks across every face (coyote, wolf, tigress, lions, the rest).“Welcome to the hardest family you’ll ever have. Now get your asses to the kill house. History lesson’s over. Practical exams start now.”

ZPD SWAT Range – 0800The sun’s already brutal, bouncing off the concrete bays like a frying pan. Eight lanes, steel targets from fifteen yards out to fifty, and a tower full of instructors who look like they eat nails for breakfast.Range Master Delgado (a scarred jaguar with a voice like gravel in a blender) slams a pelican case on the bench in front of us.“Welcome to Day One, children. Your patrol Glocks are now officially cute. Say hello to your new dance partner.”He pops the lid. Twenty brand-new Kimber Custom TLE II 1911s sit in foam cutouts, stainless slides, black frames, night sights glowing like angry fireflies.“Department went old-school,” he growls. “.45 ACP, single-action, eight-plus-one. Because when the city wants you to knock, it wants you to knock loud.”I pick mine up. Perfect balance, aggressive checkering, the kind of gun that feels like it was born in your paw. Serial number ends in 20-07 (Twenty Squad, seventh member). Someone in armory has a sense of humor.Delgado paces behind us like a shark.“Rules of the day: No safeties on the draw (thumb sweeps it off, just like God and John Moses Browning intended).
You will shoot until the gun is empty, reload until the mag pouch is empty, repeat until your paws bleed or I get bored.
Failure to stop drills at twenty-five yards. Two to the chest, one to the face if the plate doesn’t drop.
Anyone rides the reset like it’s a Glock and I will personally shove that 1911 up your.”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.Nick steps up beside me, already racking the slide on his own Kimber with that buttery snick.“First relay,” he calls. “Darkclaw, Fangmeyer, Wolford, Abdi, Bankole. On the line.”We move.I settle into lane three, ears plugged, glasses on. The 1911 feels heavier than my old duty weapon, but in the good way (like it’s reminding me this isn’t patrol anymore).Delgado’s voice over the speaker: “Threat discs up… Stand by… BEEP!”Five steel plates flip edge-on.I draw (smooth, thumb sweeping the safety down before the gun even clears leather), front sight finds the first A-zone, trigger breaks clean at four pounds.BANG-BANG… BANG-BANG… BANG-BANG… BANG-BANG.Eight rounds, eight hits, all center mass. Plates ringing like church bells on Sunday.Slide locks back empty.I drop the mag, slam a fresh one home, rack the slide, and I’m already scanning for the next threat before the echo dies.Delgado’s growl comes over the headset: “Darkclaw, 2.87 seconds, all alpha. Try not to make the rest of us look bad, Scorpion.”I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.Beside me Gina’s already roaring through her string, each .45 hit sounding like a sledgehammer on steel. Pete’s running his like he’s mad at the gun. Kion and Kovu are surgical (two lions shooting in perfect rhythm, same splits, same holes).Nick just watches from the side, arms folded, small satisfied smirk on his muzzle.First relay done. Mags topped off. Hands steady.The Kimber feels like it was waiting for us.Twenty Squad just introduced itself to the range.And the range blinked first.

ZPD SWAT Range – 0815, same relayRange Master Delgado kicks the pelican case lid again. Second tray. Eight more Kimbers, but these are the real deal.“Eyes up, princesses. These are your assigned guns for the duration of selection and, if you don’t wash out, for the rest of your careers.”He lifts one out like he’s presenting a holy relic.Kimber Custom TLE II .45 ACP, 5" match barrel
Trijicon RMR Type 2 red dot, 3.25 MOA, co-witnessed suppressor-height night sights
SureFire X400 Ultra weapon light/laser combo, 1000 lumens, green visible laser
Extended ambi thumb safety, magwell, 20-lpi front-strap checkering

The frame is laser-engraved on the right side:
ZPD SWAT – TWENTY SQUAD
And under it, each operator’s badge number.Delgado slaps mine into my paw. 20-1422. My old Scorpion number carried over.“Red dot means no more Kentucky windage,” he barks. “You shoot the dot where you want the soul to leave the body. Light means when it’s dark and scary, you get to be the scarier thing. Anyone turns that green laser on a teammate gets to run the Pit until they puke blood.”Nick’s already got his on the line, RMR glowing like a tiny red star. He flicks the X400 and a thousand lumens stab downrange, turning the steel plates into mirrors.“New drill,” he calls. “Low-light transition. Lights on, dots on, failure-to-stop at twenty-five. On my mark we drop the overheads. You’ll have one second of white light before everything goes black except your weapon light and dot.”Gina growls approval, thumbing the X400 on her Kimber. The green laser dances across her target like it’s eager.Pete mutters, “Finally, a handgun that offends people on three different levels.”Kion and Kovu just rack their slides in perfect sync, red dots already alive.Delgado hits the master switch.Fluorescent lights die.Eight green lasers and eight red dots ignite in the darkness like angry fireflies.Nick’s voice, calm and lethal:“Threats front… Light ’em up.”Eight weapon lights snap on, carving tunnels of white fire through the black.BANG-BANG… BANG-BANG… BANG-BANG…The range erupts in controlled thunder.Twenty Squad just went from old-school 1911s to cyberpunk hand-cannons in one heartbeat.And every single one of us is grinning like we were born for this.
I roll the Kimber through my paw again, letting the slide lock back on an empty mag just to feel the weight settle.It’s… different.Not bad different. Just real.The Glock 18 I ran with Scorpion (and later on patrol after they buried the unit) was a polymer brick with a selector switch and a soul made of spite. Seventeen plus one of 9-millimeter paranoia, RMR on top, same SureFire X400 hanging off the rail. It felt like a sewing machine that hated you: light, fast, chattered like a jackhammer on full-auto when the warrants went sideways. You could dump a whole mag before the echo came back, and the recoil was a polite suggestion instead of a conversation.This Kimber?This is a conversation.Eight rounds in the mag, one in the pipe. That’s it. Nine chances to get it right.The .45 pushes instead of snaps. When the slide comes home it feels like someone slamming a car door instead of flicking a light switch. Muzzle rise is a slow, deliberate shove (like the gun’s saying, “Look where you’re pointing me, idiot”) instead of the Glock’s nervous twitch. The red dot barely moves between shots; it just sits there like it owns the real estate, waiting for me to catch up.I thumb the mag release, let the empty Wilson drop into my paw, and seat a fresh one. The magwell funnels it home like it was greased. Slide drops with that heavy, metallic ka-CHUNK that vibr 1911s have been making since World War I.Gina glances over from lane 4, ears perked. “You look like you’re falling in love, Darkclaw.”“Feels like going from a dirt bike to a Harley,” I mutter, racking the slide again just to hear it. “Glock wanted to run away from me. This one wants to fight beside me.”Pete, two lanes down, laughs. “Welcome to the church of John Moses Browning, brother. We have cookies and one-shot stops.”I settle back into my stance, thumb sweeping the safety off as I draw.Dot finds steel.Trigger breaks clean.BANG.The plate flips with a clang that feels personal.Yeah.The Glock was a machine.This Kimber is a promise.And I’ve got eight more promises in the mag.
ZPD SWAT Armory – 1300 hoursThe armory smells like neoprene, cordite, and the faint tang of new Kevlar. Two civilian fitters from Crye Precision (a no-nonsense caracal and a bored-looking serval) have turned the place into a pop-up tailor shop from hell.We’re in PT shorts and nothing else, standing on a raised platform while they wrap measuring tapes around us like we’re getting fitted for tuxes instead of gear that costs more than most patrol cops make in a year.First up: plate carriers.The caracal snaps her tape around my chest. “Forty-four long, coyote. You’re getting the Crye AVS, low-profile cut, because you’re not built like a refrigerator.”She slaps a set of ESAPI Level IV plates into the carrier (front, back, side cummerbunds) and the whole rig drops onto my shoulders like someone just parked a Buick on my torso.Twenty-eight pounds. Instantly.I exhale hard. “Feels like Francine decided to ride piggy-back again.”The fitter snorts. “You’ll thank her when the AK round hits.”Loona’s two stations over, getting the same treatment. She flexes once the plates are in and the carrier cinches tight.“Finally,” she mutters, “something that makes my boobs look smaller instead of bigger.”Gina, already in hers (multicam black, because of course she picked the meanest pattern), rolls her shoulders and grins. “I could bench-press Wolford in this thing and still clear a room.”Pete, getting the side straps yanked tight by the serval, wheezes, “Please don’t.”Kion and Kovu are side-by-side, both in the taller AVS-H (heavy) configuration because lion shoulders are apparently a structural engineering problem. The fitter has to add extender straps just so the cummerbund closes.Next: helmets.They bring out the Team Wendy EXFIL Ballistic SLs (rails, NVG shrouds, the whole tacticool package). The caracal plops one on my head, adjusts the Boa dial until it locks like a vault, then slaps the counterweight pouch on the back.“Twelve pounds fully kitted,” she says. “With NVGs, IR strobe, and a helmet cam you’re pushing twenty. Welcome to permanent neck pain.”She flips the Wilcox NVG mount down in front of my eyes. The world goes green for a second before she flips it back up.Loona’s helmet is already on, ears threaded through the custom slits. She looks like a cyberpunk wolf berserker.“Joe,” she says, voice muffled slightly by the padding, “we look like we rob banks for fun now.”“We kinda do,” I answer, rolling my neck until the helmet settles.Nick walks the line in his own rig (same carrier, same helmet, but his has the Twenty Squad logo already stenciled in subdued black on the velcro).He stops in front of me, flicks my helmet with a claw.“Remember when we were in uniform and thought duty belts were heavy?” he says.“Yeah,” I reply. “Now we’re walking ballistic coffins with Wi-Fi.”He grins. “Get used to it. From here on out, this is your new skin.”The fitter hands me the final touch: a black velcro placard that reads DARKCLAW – 20 in IR-reflective letters.I slap it on the front of the carrier.Feels like putting a target on my chest.Feels like coming home.Twenty pounds of ceramic and spite later, we all look like we were born angry and issued armor at birth.Day One isn’t even over, and we already look like the city’s worst nightmare.I catch my reflection in the armory mirror (coyote ears poking through a helmet, red dot 1911 on a Safariland drop-leg, plates that could stop a freight train). scorpion’s ghost smiles back at me.We’re ready.
The fitter steps back and tells me to move.I do.First thing I notice: the weight isn’t on my shoulders like the old patrol vest. The AVS spreads it across my whole torso (front plate, back plate, side plates, cummerbund locked so tight it feels like a bear hug from someone who really means it). Twenty-eight pounds, but it doesn’t sag. It just sits there, patient, waiting for me to forget it’s there.I raise my arms. The carrier flexes instead of fighting me. No more Velcro shoulder straps digging in, no more nylon riding up under my arms like the old Level IIIa soft armor we used to call “the sweater of sadness.”I draw the Kimber from the Safariland 6354 drop-leg. Smooth. No vest edge catching the grip like the old duty rig used to. The holster’s high enough that the plates don’t interfere, low enough that the gun clears clean even with the side cummerbund locked.I squat, explode up into a sprint across the mat, stop hard. The plates shift maybe half an inch (then the cummerbund sucks them right back into place). Nothing flops. Nothing clanks.I breathe.Deep.The old patrol vest used to ride up and choke me every time I inhaled hard. This one just lets my ribs expand and then squeezes back like it’s saying, “I’ve got you, keep fighting.”Loona watches me from her station, helmet already on, ears poking through the slits like a wolf-shaped satellite dish.“Feel weird?” she asks.“Yeah,” I say, rolling my shoulders again. “Feels like I finally put on the skin I was supposed to have.”Gina walks past, slaps the front plate with two fingers. Rings like a church bell.“Welcome to the big leagues, coyote,” she rumbles. “That’s not a vest anymore. That’s permission to go places nothing else can stop you.”I look down at the carrier (black, low-vis, no shiny badges, just my name and “20” in ghosted letters).It doesn’t feel heavy anymore.It feels inevitable.Like the city finally gave me armor that matches the size of the ghosts I carry.I’m not wearing the plates.The plates are wearing me. And for the first time since Francine hit the floor, I feel like I can take another step forward without looking back. SWAT Compound – Locker room, 2200 hours, Day One doneThe showers are still running somewhere down the hall, but the four of us have claimed the corner benches like we used to claim the back of the old Scorpion van. Armor’s off, muscles screaming, paws bruised from 1911 recoil, but nobody’s in a hurry to leave.Pete’s got his head tipped back against the lockers, ice pack on one shoulder. “Man… what I miss most about Scorpion? The freedom. No shift lieutenants breathing down our necks. We got a target package, a van key, and a ‘see you when it’s done.’”Kion snorts, toweling off his mane. “Facts. And the intel shop actually answered the phone when we called at 0300.”Kovu leans forward, elbows on his knees, golden eyes distant. “For me it was the stack. Same four mammals every single time. You knew exactly where the muzzle was gonna be before the door even opened. No musical-chairs partners.”They all look at me.I’m unlacing my boots slow, letting the memory settle.“Plainclothes,” I say, voice low. “Hands down.”Pete grins. “Slicktops and street clothes, baby.”“Exactly.” I drop the boot, lean back. “Roll up in a beat-to-hell Crown Vic with no light bar, no cage, no markings. Wearing jeans and a hoodie like every other predator on the block. Suspects never saw us coming until the red dot was already on their forehead.”Kion laughs under his breath. “Remember that raid in the Burrows? We parked two blocks out, walked in like we were just buying cigarettes. Target opened the door in his boxers, still holding a forty. Never even reached for the pistol on the table.”“Best part,” I continue, “was after the arrest. Cuff ’em, stuff ’em in the back seat like we’re giving a buddy a ride home, then ghost out before the neighborhood even figured out it was cops.”Pete closes his eyes, smiling like he’s tasting it. “No uniforms. No marked units screaming ‘police’ two miles out. Just four quiet assholes with rifles under trench coats and a trunk full of bad intentions.”Kovu nods slow. “Felt like hunting. Real hunting.”“Yeah,” I say, staring at the Twenty Squad patch still sitting on my open locker door. “Now we’ve got BearCats and marked Suburbans and helmets that cost more than my truck. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll wear the armor, I’ll kick the doors, I’ll do the job.”I meet their eyes (wolf, lion, lion, all of us carrying the same ghost).“But I’ll always miss the days when we moved like shadows. When the only thing that announced us was the sound of a muzzle coming out of nowhere.”Pete lifts his water bottle in a lazy toast.“To Scorpion,” he says.We clink plastic against plastic.“To plainclothes and slicktops,” I add.Silence for a beat. Then Kion grins.“Give it time, brother. Something tells me Twenty Squad’s gonna find ways to disappear when it needs to.”I smile, tired but real.Here’s hoping.

Pete snaps his towel at my thigh like a damn teenager.“Sirens,” he says, already pulling on a clean black T-shirt. “Savanna Central. Ten minutes from here if we hit the lights. First beers on the loser who still owes me from that warehouse foot-chase in ’22.”I raise an eyebrow. “You mean the one where you tripped over your own tail and ate asphalt?”“Details.” He grins, all wolf teeth. “Point is: cold draft, no rookies asking for selfies, bartenders who actually know what a ‘double Jack and leave the bottle’ means, and a jukebox that hasn’t played pop since 2018. Perfect for four washed-up Scorpion relics to lie to each other about how much we miss plainclothes.”Kion’s already lacing his boots. “I’m in. Jasiri’s working SVU mids anyway; she told me if I come home sober tonight she’ll file a missing-persons report.”Kovu snorts, slinging his go-bag. “Kirara’s still at the courthouse burying some poor defense attorney in paperwork. I’ve got at least four hours before she remembers I exist.”Pete looks at me, ears perked. “C’mon, Darkclaw. Your sister’s already texting me threats if I let you ‘sit at home brooding like a goth coyote again.’ Direct quote.”I rub the back of my neck, feeling the ache from the new plates settle in. One beer. Maybe two. Surrounded by mammals who speak the same language of door breaches and bad coffee.“Yeah,” I say finally, grabbing my keys. “Sirens sounds perfect.”Pete whoops and fist-bumps Kion hard enough to echo off the lockers.“First one there gets the corner booth,” he calls, already halfway out the door. “And the tab starts the second Darkclaw walks in, because we all know he’s still the slowest.”I flip him off without heat, the four of us falling into the same easy stride we used to have rolling up on a target house at 0300.Plainclothes are gone.Armor’s heavier.But the brotherhood?Still fits like it was tailored yesterday.Sirens it is.

Chapter Text

Pete’s POV – Parking lot outside the compound, 2225The four of us are leaning against Joe’s F-150, bullshitting about who still owes who for what, when it hits me like a flashbang to the conscience.Joe’s been alone too damn long.Not just “single-coyote-with-a-beer-fridge” alone.
I mean the kind of alone that happens when you lose half your team in one hallway and the department pretends you never existed. The kind that makes you punch heavy bags until your knuckles split instead of answering texts from friends.And I happen to have a sister who’s been asking about “the quiet coyote with the sad eyes” ever since she stitched up his forearm after that warehouse foot-chase two years ago.Kate deserves someone who understands the job.
Joe deserves someone who won’t flinch when he wakes up swinging at ghosts.Match made in trauma-bay heaven.I wait until Joe’s distracted (Kovu’s telling the story about the time Joe got stuck upside down at prom again, bastard), then I slip around the bed of the truck, pull my phone, and thumb Kate’s contact.She picks up on the second ring, voice tired but warm.“Pete. If this is another ‘can you look at my shoulder again,’ I’m billing you double.”“Negative, sis. Quick question: what time you off shift tonight?”A pause, the sound of ambulance doors slamming in the background. “Just handed off at Zootopia General. Paperwork’s done. I’m climbing into my car now. Why?”“Because I’m dragging the old Scorpion crew to Sirens for decompression. Corner booth. First round’s on me.”Another pause. Smarter this time.“Peter Michael Wolford, are you trying to set me up?”“Guilty,” I say, grinning at the dark. “Joe Darkclaw’s coming. He’s been through the wringer and back. You’ve been single since Captain Personality dumped you for a yoga instructor. I’m just… facilitating destiny.”She laughs, soft. “You’re the worst wingman on the planet.”“Yeah, but I’m the only one who knows you think coyotes are cute when they brood.”I hear her car start. “Text me when you’re ten minutes out. And Pete?”“Yeah?”“If he’s not interested, you buy my drinks for a month.”“Deal. But trust me, Katie-bug… he’s interested. He just doesn’t know it yet.”I hang up, pocket the phone, and turn back to the group just as Joe’s flipping Kovu off for the prom story.Perfect timing.Operation “Get Joe out of his own head and into my sister’s passenger seat” is officially a go.Sirens, here we come.
Sirens Bar – Savanna Central, 2251
The place is already loud when we push through the door: classic rock, clinking glasses, the low roar of off-duty cops, firefighters, and medics swapping war stories. Pete leads us straight to the big corner booth like he owns it (he basically does; half the staff went through the academy with him).I’m last in line, still shaking rain off my jacket, when I spot her sliding out of a smaller table near the bar.Kate Wolford.Grey wolf, same ice-blue eyes as Pete, but where he’s all lanky muscle, she’s built like someone took every soft curve the universe ever invented and wrapped them in a ZFD paramedic T-shirt that’s one size too small and dark jeans that look painted on.She turns, spots Pete, and her whole face lights up.Then her gaze slides past him and lands on me.Everything slows down for a second.The first thing I notice (I’m a mammal, sue me) is the way her hips flare out from a narrow waist, the way the shirt hugs the swell of her chest, the soft curve of her stomach that says she eats real food and doesn’t apologize for it. She’s not some gym-sculpted mannequin; she’s real, solid, the kind of body you want pressed against you after a twelve-hour shift that ended with someone else’s blood on your paws.Then my brain catches up and I realize I’m staring like an idiot.Pete claps me on the back hard enough to jolt me forward. “Joe, this is my baby sister Kate. Kate, Joe Darkclaw. He’s the one I told you about (quiet, broods professionally, punches walls for fun).”Kate’s ears flick, amused. She offers a paw (small scar across the knuckles, probably from an IV needle fight).“Nice to finally meet the coyote my brother won’t shut up about,” she says, voice low and warm with just a hint of tease. “He said you were tall. He didn’t mention handsome.”My mouth goes dry.I take her paw (soft, strong grip) and somehow manage words.“Pete lies lied,” I say. “I only punch walls on weekends.”Her laugh is soft, rough around the edges like whiskey and smoke. She doesn’t let go right away.Pete’s already sliding into the booth, grinning like a jackass who just won the lottery.Kion and Kovu follow, both shooting me matching smirks that say welcome to the trap, brother.Kate finally releases my paw but stays standing close enough that I catch her scent (antiseptic, rain, and something sweet underneath).She tilts her head, ears perked. “Pete says first round’s on you, Darkclaw. Hope you brought your credit card, because I rescue people for a living and I drink like I earn hazard pay.”I smile (real, slow, the first one all day that doesn’t feel forced).“Whatever you want, Kate. I’ve got you.”Her eyes flicker with something that makes my tail want to wag.Yeah.Pete’s gonna be insufferable about this. Worth it.

Kate slides into the booth first, then pats the seat right next to her.I hesitate half a second (old habits) before dropping in beside her. Close enough that our shoulders brush, close enough I catch that antiseptic-rain-sweet scent again.Pete’s already at the bar ordering a pitcher and whatever Kate’s drinking, leaving me, Kion, Kovu, and Kate in a little bubble of quiet amid the bar noise.Kate turns toward me, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind my head, tail flicking lazily.“So,” she starts, voice pitched low so only I hear it over the music, “Pete says you just survived Day One of SWAT school. How many times did they try to kill you?”“Only twice,” I answer, relaxing a fraction. “Once with a 1911 that kicks like a mule, once with a plate carrier that weighs more than my truck.”She laughs, soft, and her paw brushes the back of my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.“Try dragging a three-hundred-pound rhino down four flights of stairs after he coded,” she says. “Then we’ll talk about heavy.”I glance at her, take in the easy confidence, the way she fills the space without trying. “Fair point. I’ll stick to kicking doors. You keep saving the ones we break.”Her ears flick, amused. “Deal. But only if you let me buy you the next drink. Paramedic’s discount: anyone who survives selection gets free whiskey.”“Pretty sure that’s not a real rule.”“It is tonight.”Pete comes back with a tray (pitcher of something dark, four glasses, and a double something amber for Kate). He sets the whiskey in front of her, then very deliberately takes the seat across from us instead of next to his sister.Subtle as a brick, Wolford.Kate lifts her glass to me. “To not dying on Day Two.”I clink mine against hers. “To the wolves who drag us back when we do.”Her eyes soften, just a flicker, and she holds my gaze a second longer than necessary.Pete pretends to gag. Kion and Kovu suddenly find the ceiling very interesting.Kate leans in, voice barely above the music, warm against my ear.“For the record, coyote? My brother’s a terrible wingman… but he’s not wrong about you.”My tail thumps the seat once before I can stop it.Yeah.This is gonna be a good night.
The place is down to a handful of die-hards and the bartender wiping tables. Kate’s leaning against me in the booth, warm and soft and laughing at something Kovu said about lion wedding traditions. Pete’s already half-asleep with his head on the table. Kion’s texting Jasiri.I nudge Kate gently. “You good to drive?”She blinks slow, ears drooping in that adorable way wolves do when they’re tipsy. “Left my car at the hospital. Uber’s surge-pricing like crazy.”“I’ve got my truck,” I say. “And exactly two beers all night. Let me get you home.”She studies me for a second, then smiles (small, real). “Yeah. I’d like that.”Pete lifts his head just long enough to mutter, “Keys are on the bar, Romeo. Don’t scratch my sister’s reputation.”Kate flips him off without looking.Outside – 0221The rain’s turned into a lazy mist. I open the passenger door of the F-150 for her (she climbs in with a little boost from my paw on her lower back that lingers maybe a second longer than strictly necessary). The cab still smells faintly of gun oil and pine freshener.She gives me her address in the Rainforest District, then settles in, knees angled toward me, tail curled across her lap.Conversation stays easy (shop talk, dumb calls, the way the job carves pieces out of you and sometimes hands you better ones back). By the time we’re parked outside her little apartment building, the windows are fogged and the rain’s picked up again.Kate doesn’t move to get out.Instead she turns, reaches across the console, and cups the side of my muzzle.“Joe,” she says quietly, “come inside. Just… come inside.”I search her face (no games, no pity, just warm blue eyes and a question she’s brave enough to ask).I nod once.Her apartment – 0247Door barely shuts behind us before she’s on me (paws in my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders, mouth hot and hungry against mine). I back her into the hallway wall, lift her just enough that her legs wrap my waist, and suddenly the world narrows to the taste of whiskey on her tongue and the soft, perfect weight of her curves pressed against me.Boots hit the floor. Her shirt follows. Mine next.She’s everything I noticed in the bar and more (soft where I’m sharp, strong where I’m tired, laughing into the kiss when I growl at the sheer unfairness of how good she feels).We stumble down the hall, knocking over a lamp neither of us cares about, and tumble onto her bed in a tangle of limbs and low, desperate sounds.There’s no rush after that. Just slow, deliberate discovery (scars and stories traded with teeth and tongues, her name in my mouth like a prayer, my name in hers like a promise).Later, much later, she’s curled against my chest, tail draped over my hip, fingers tracing the new bruises from today’s plates.“You’re staying,” she murmurs, half order, half plea.I press my muzzle to her ear. “Try and kick me out, wolf.”She laughs, soft and sleepy, and pulls the blanket over us both.Outside, the rain keeps falling.Inside, for the first time in years, I’m not sleeping alone with ghosts.Just a beautiful paramedic wolf who tastes like whiskey and second chances.
I wake up to the smell of coffee and the soft sound of claws on hardwood. My brain takes a second to catch up: this isn’t my bed, this isn’t my ceiling, and the warm weight curled against my side is definitely not a pillow.Kate’s still asleep, one arm flung across my chest, muzzle tucked under my jaw, grey fur tousled and perfect. The sheet’s slipped down to her hips and I’m suddenly very awake and very aware of every place we’re touching.Last night comes back in flashes (her laugh against my throat, the way she gasped my name, the soft little growl when I found exactly the right spot behind her ear).I shift just enough to keep my tail from falling asleep and she stirs, ears flicking. Blue eyes blink open, sleepy and soft.“Morning, coyote,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.“Morning, wolf.” I brush a strand of fur off her cheek. “Thought paramedics were supposed to be early risers.”“Only when people are bleeding.” She stretches, slow and deliberate, and the sheet slides lower. “Right now the only emergency is coffee.”She pads naked to the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I watch her go (curves and scars and morning light) and decide the view is worth the cold floor.Two mugs later we’re leaning against her counter, shoulders touching, tails occasionally brushing.“So,” she says, blowing across her coffee, “last night. Was that a ‘thanks for the ride home’ thing, or a ‘to be continued’ thing?”I set my mug down, turn her gently by the hips until she’s facing me.“Kate.” I wait until her eyes meet mine. “I’ve got SWAT school at 0530 tomorrow, bruises I haven’t found yet, and a sister who’s gonna lose her mind when she hears about this.”I lean in until our foreheads touch.“I’m still hoping it’s a ‘to be continued’ thing. Like… every day I’m not getting shot at.”Her smile is slow, sunrise-sweet.“Good,” she says, and kisses me soft and certain. “Because I don’t usually bring strays home, and I make a terrible one-night stand.”She pulls back just far enough to grin.“Also, my brother’s never gonna let you live this down.”I groan. “Worth it.”Kate laughs, sets her mug aside, and takes my paw.“Shower’s big enough for two, Darkclaw. And you’ve got,” she checks the clock, “exactly forty-one minutes before I let you leave this apartment.”I let her tug me toward the bathroom, tail wagging like an idiot.Best morning after I’ve had in years.Maybe ever.

Chapter Text

I’m still ten minutes early, but the lot’s already filling up. I hop out of the F-150, sling my go-bag, and the second I slam the door Pete’s leaning against the hood of his Jeep like he’s been waiting for me.His nose twitches once.Twice.Then his ears shoot straight up and his muzzle splits into the most shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen on a wolf.“Well, well, well,” he drawls, loud enough that half the parking lot can probably hear. “Somebody got ridden hard and put away wet.”Heat floods my ears so fast I’m surprised they don’t catch fire.“Shut up, Wolford.”He circles me like a shark, sniffing dramatically. “Nope. No shutting up. That’s Eau de Kate all over you, brother. Like you rolled around in her laundry basket and then took a bath in it.”Kion and Kovu appear out of nowhere (because of course they do), both already grinning like they’ve been briefed.Kion folds his arms. “So the quiet coyote finally howled, huh?”Kovu just raises an eyebrow. “Kate’s got good taste.”I flip all three of them off simultaneously.Pete slaps my back so hard my teeth click. “Proud of you, man. Took you long enough. She’s been asking about you since the night she stitched that gash on your forearm.”I rub the back of my neck, ears still burning. “Didn’t exactly plan it.”“Bullshit,” Pete laughs. “I planned it. I’m the architect of this romance. You’re welcome.”Gina walks past, coffee in one paw, helmet in the other. She takes one look at me, sniffs once, and starts laughing so hard she almost spills her drink.“Darkclaw got laid!” she roars. “The desert dog finally found an oasis!”Loona appears at my elbow like a grey-furred demon summoned by embarrassment. She leans in, sniffs once, and her eyes go wide.“You slept with Kate Wolford?” she hisses. “Pete’s sister? Oh my gods, I’m telling Mom you defiled a paramedic.”“Loona, I swear—”Pete throws an arm around my shoulders and announces to the entire parking lot, “My best friend is dating my baby sister! Official as of last night! Drinks on me when we survive this week!”Half the compound starts clapping and whistling.Nick strolls up, takes in the scene, and just smirks.“Darkclaw,” he calls, “shower’s that way if you need to hose off the evidence. Try not to leave a trail.”I bury my face in one paw.Kate’s scent is still on my fur, my shirt, probably my soul at this point.And I don’t even care who knows.Worth every second of this walk of shame.I flip Pete off one more time, grinning despite myself.“Let’s go get bruised, assholes. I’ve got a girlfriend waiting to patch me up later.”Pete whoops loud enough to wake the dead.Best Monday morning of my life.
Pete’s racking his armor when I finally corner him. The place is mostly empty, just the low hum of the ventilation and the smell of gun oil and sweat.I shut the door behind me.“Wolford. Need to ask you something.”He turns, ears perked. “If it’s about the hickey on your neck, I already took pictures.”I flip him off, then lean against the bench, arms crossed.“Serious for once. That night with Kate… we were careful. Condoms, all of it. But you know how it is (shit happens). If (huge if) something slipped past the goalie and she ended up pregnant… how bad are we talking?”Pete goes still for half a second, eyes narrowing (not angry, just reading me).Then he exhales through his nose, sets the plate carrier down, and steps right up into my space, voice low.“Joe. Look at me.”I do.“If my baby sister came to me tomorrow and said ‘Pete, I’m having Joe Darkclaw’s pup’? I’d lose my goddamn mind… in the good way.”He pokes my chest with one claw.“I watched you carry Francine out of that hallway when the rest of us were still frozen. I watched you put your body between a rifle and a bus full of kids last year without a second thought. You think I’m gonna be mad that the most stand-up mammal I know might’ve accidentally given me a niece or nephew?”He snorts, ears flicking.“I’d be pissed if she picked some deadbeat. She didn’t. She picked you.”I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.Pete’s voice softens, just a notch.“Kate’s a big girl. She’s thirty-two, saves lives for a living, and can kick both our asses before breakfast. If it happened, it happened because two adults decided they wanted each other bad enough to risk the math. And if there’s a pup? That kid’s gonna have the best dad on the planet and an uncle who’ll teach ’em how to hot-wire a BearCat before kindergarten.”He grins, sharp and sudden.“Plus I’ve always wanted to be the cool uncle who lets the kid shoot full-auto before the academy says it’s legal.”I bark a short laugh, tension bleeding out of my shoulders.“So you’re saying don’t panic.”“I’m saying,” he claps both paws on my shoulders, “if it happens, you and I are going crib shopping and I’m teaching you how to install a car seat in a pickup without swearing in front of the baby. And then we’re throwing the biggest damn baby shower Savanna Central’s ever seen.”He steps back, smirking again.“But for the record? Kate’s religious about her birth control and you used protection. Odds are you’re freaking out over nothing.”I nod, slow.“Thanks, man.”“Anytime, brother.” He picks his carrier back up. “Now quit stressing and go text my sister before she thinks you ghosted her. She’s already planning your next date.”I pull out my phone, tail giving one involuntary wag.Pete calls over his shoulder as he heads for the door.“And Joe? If there is a pup, I get to name it something badass. Non-negotiable.”I laugh the whole way to the parking lot.Crisis averted.For now.
The long table looks like a gun magazine’s fever dream.Four weapon systems, each with a stack of fresh mags and a laminated card
:H&K MP5SD 9 mm – suppressed classic
SIG MCX Spear .277 Fury – bleeding-edge
Colt M4A1 5.56 mm – the department darling
H&K 416 5.56 mm – piston-driven perfection

Nick walks the line, paws clasped behind his back.“Pick your poison, people. This is your primary for the next six months and, if you make the cut, probably the rest of your career. No take-backs, no crying to Mommy.”Gina’s already got the Spear in her paws, tiger grin wide. “Finally, something that hits like I do.”Loona’s fondling the MP5SD like it owes her money. “Quiet and stabby. My love language.”Kion and Kovu both reach for 416s at the same time, bump paws, laugh, and each grab one anyway.Pete hefts an M4, shrugs, then eyes me.I don’t even hesitate.I walk straight to the far end and pick up the HK416 (10.4-inch barrel, Geissele trigger, SureFire SOCOM suppressor already mounted, EOTech XPS3 and G33 magnifier combo, AN/PEQ-15 on top).It settles into my shoulder like it never left.Nick raises an eyebrow. “Nostalgia pick, Darkclaw?”“Scorpion ran these,” I say, racking the charging handle. That unmistakable piston clack fills the room. “Same gun that carried us through every Burrows warrant, every hostage rescue, every night we walked out when we shouldn’t have.”I thumb the selector from safe to semi, feel the weight, the balance, the way the grip fits my paw like it was molded there.“MP5’s fun, Spear’s sexy, M4’s fine. But this?” I slap the side of the 416. “This is the rifle that kept Francine’s blood off the rest of us more times than I can count. I’m not switching now.”Pete nods slow, respectful. “Then run what you know, brother.”Nick just smirks. “Fine. 416 gang in the back. Everyone else, quit drooling and get your rifles zeroed. We’re on the 300-yard range in twenty mikes.”I drop a mag in, slap it home, and rack the bolt.The 416 locks open on an empty chamber, hungry.Feels like shaking hands with an old friend who never once let me down.Scorpion’s ghost is riding shotgun again.And this time, we’re doing it right.
Pete’s POV – Armory, 0615
I’m still cradling the M4 I grabbed earlier when Nick crooks a finger at me like I’m a kid who just got called to the principal’s office.Except the principal is a fox with a clipboard and the deadliest smile in the department.“Wolford. Step up here, hotshot.”He jerks his head toward a separate table that wasn’t there five minutes ago. Three rifles sit on it like they’re waiting for a coronation.Knight’s SR-25 ACC (suppressed, 20-inch barrel, Leupold Mark 5HD 5-25×56, already wearing my old cheek weld)
Remington M700 in a McMillan A-5 stock, chambered in .300 Win Mag, Nightforce ATACR on top
Barrett M107A1 .50 BMG, because apparently someone wants me to shoot through buildings

Nick taps the table with one claw. “Highest qualification scores in the entire selection class. Three times running. Congratulations, you’re Twenty Squad’s primary designated marksman and long-range problem solver.”My tail actually wags. Once. Traitor.“SR-25 for anything inside eight hundred,” Nick continues. “Remington for precision past that. Barrett when the city decides it needs a new skylight in somebody’s safe house. All three are yours. You break ’em, you pay for ’em. You miss with ’em, I break you.”I set the M4 back on the rack like it just got demoted and run a paw down the SR-25’s rail. The rifle already has my name stenciled under the optic in subdued letters: WOLFORD – 20-DM.“Guess I’m the guy who gets to sit on rooftops and ruin people’s whole day now,” I mutter.Joe, standing behind me with his 416, snorts. “You’ve been ruining days since kindergarten, sniper boy.”Gina leans over, eyes the Barrett, and whistles low. “That thing shoots .50? Pete, you could sneeze on a target at a mile and still get the kill.”Kion and Kovu both give me the respectful nod (the one lions save for mammals who can drop them before they hear the shot).Nick hands me a black pelican case already marked with the Twenty Squad logo and a tiny skull sticker someone definitely added without permission.“Welcome to the lonely part of the team, Wolford. While the rest of us are kicking doors, you’ll be kissing wind and praying the bullet gets there before the lawyer does.”I grin so wide my face hurts.“Lonely’s fine,” I say, picking up the SR-25 like it’s a newborn pup. “I work best when nobody’s talking to me anyway.”Joe claps my shoulder. “Just don’t shoot me when I’m running late to the party. “No promises,” I answer, already sighting down the Leupold.Three rifles. Three different ways to end an argument from very far away.I think I’m gonna like this job.
ZPD SWAT Range – Transition Drills, 1100

The sun is a hammer, the plates are cooking us alive, and Delgado is in full demon mode.“PRIMARY TO SIDEARM! PRIMARY TO SIDEARM! MOVE!”The command echoes across the bays.We’re running the gauntlet: five IPSC steel torsos at fifteen yards, one in the head box at twenty-five. Start with the 416 (or Spear, or MP5) slung across the chest, mag empty, bolt locked back.On the buzzer you draw the Kimber .45, engage all six threats, reload once, finish strong-hand only.Delgado’s riding the timer like it owes him money.“Darkclaw, GO!”BEEP!I drop the empty 416 so it hangs tight on the single-point sling, right paw rips the Kimber from the Safariland drop-leg, thumb sweeps the safety off before the gun even clears the holster.Red dot finds steel.BANG-BANG
BANG-BANG
BANG-BANG
BANG-BANGEight rounds, eight hits. Slide locks empty.Left paw slaps the mag release, empty drops, fresh mag from the belt pouch slams home, thumb punches the slide release.Four more rounds into the head box at twenty-five, all inside the eight-inch circle.Slide locks again.I holster, bring the 416 back up, and slap the bolt release to chamber a round.Delgado’s voice over the speaker: “Darkclaw, 3.41 seconds, all alpha. Scorpion muscle memory still works.”I grin behind the helmet.Gina’s next (Spear to Kimber, her transitions are smooth but the .45 still bucks harder than her 9 mm patrol Glock ever did). She growls on the reload but smokes the drill anyway.Pete runs it like he’s mad at the targets. Kion and Kovu move like mirror images (lions transitioning so fluid it’s almost unfair).Loona curses when her thumb safety sticks for half a heartbeat, then makes up for it by pasting the head box with four rounds you could cover with a quarter.Nick stands off to the side, arms folded, stopwatch in one paw.“Again,” he calls when the last shooter finishes. “And again. And again. Until the switch from rifle to pistol is faster than your heartbeat.”We reload mags in silence, sweat dripping off our muzzles, tails drooping.The 416 hangs heavy on my chest. The Kimber rides high on my thigh.Primary down, sidearm up.Just like the old days.Just like we never left.
ZPD SWAT Compound – Vehicle Bay, 1400
The beast sits in the middle of the bay like a matte-black dinosaur: Terradyne Gurkha MPV, 20 Squad stencil freshly painted on the doors, run-flat tires taller than Loona, and a roof turret that looks like it could spit hate in full auto.Nick hops up on the running board and slaps the armored flank. The sound is a dull thud, like hitting a bank vault.“Meet Twenty Squad’s new ride,” he announces. “Sixteen thousand pounds, V8 turbo-diesel, Level B7 armor (stops everything up to .50 BMG), seats ten in full kit, and zero to sixty in ‘please don’t ask in front of the insurance adjuster.’”He tosses a key fob the size of a hockey puck to me first.“Darkclaw, you drove slicktop Crown Vics like a maniac with Scorpion. You’re up. Everyone else, pile in the back and try not to cry.”I climb into the driver’s seat. It’s like sitting in a tank that went to finishing school: ballistic glass an inch thick, monitors everywhere, and a steering wheel that feels comically small for something built to survive the apocalypse.Pete whistles from the gunner’s hatch. “I call dibs on the turret when we actually get to shoot something.”Gina’s already strapped into the left rear, grinning like a kid on Christmas. “If you roll this thing, coyote, I’m haunting you.”I fire it up. The diesel rumbles to life with a growl that vibrates in my teeth.Nick drops into the commander seat, buckles in, and points out the windshield toward the obstacle course they’ve set up on the back forty: concrete barriers, tire stacks, a fake IED crater, and a ramp that looks suspiciously like a ski jump.“Rules,” he says. “Don’t die. Don’t scratch the paint. Try to keep all four wheels on the ground at least fifty percent of the time.”I ease it into gear. The Gurkha lurches forward like it’s offended by anything under twenty miles an hour.First corner (hard left around Jersey barriers). The truck leans like a cruise ship, but the suspension just laughs and keeps all four tires planted.Loona whoops from the back. “This thing corners like a drunk elephant and I love it!”I punch it down the straightaway. Speedo climbs past sixty faster than something this heavy has any right to. Wind whistles through the gun ports.Ramp ahead.Nick braces one paw on the roof. “Easy—”I floor it.The Gurkha launches. For one glorious second we’re airborne, sixteen thousand pounds of armored fury defying gravity.We land with a bone-rattling CRUMP that makes every plate carrier in the truck jump an inch. Nobody’s coffee survives.Pete’s laughing so hard he almost falls out the turret.I slam the brakes, swing us into a J-turn that leaves black streaks across the asphalt, and slide to a perfect stop exactly on the painted box.Engine idles like a satisfied predator.Nick exhales slowly. “Remind me never to ride shotgun with you again.”I grin, tail thumping the seat. “Scorpion never had toys this nice. Had to make up for lost time.”Gina leans forward, stripes practically glowing. “My turn next.”Nick just points at the obstacle course. “Again. All of you. Until you can drive this thing one-handed while shooting out the window and reciting the Miranda rights.”I drop it back into gear.The Gurkha growls in agreement.We’re just getting started.

Chapter Text

ZPD SWAT Kill House – 0630, Day 9The lights inside are already dimmed to “midnight raid” red. The kill house smells like burnt gunpowder, broken drywall, and fresh fear.Nick stands at the door with a stopwatch and the expression of a fox who’s about to ruin our whole week.“Four-mammal stack,” he says. “Twenty Squad Alpha element only: Darkclaw, Fangmeyer, Wolford, Loona. Entry team Bravo (Kion, Kovu, Abdi, me) will follow as overwatch and second breach. Pete, you’re on the roof with the SR-25 in case someone tries to rabbit out a window.”Pete gives a lazy salute and disappears up the external ladder.Nick slaps a fresh 30-rounder into my 416, then hands Gina the ram. “First door is steel outward-opening. Second is wood inward. Third is surprise. Hostages in room four, armed tangos mixed in. Live role-players, simunition only. You shoot a hostage, you buy the whole compound beer for a month.”Loona racks her MP5SD. The bolt makes almost no sound.Gina just grins, fangs gleaming under the red light. “Try to keep up, puppies.”Nick points at the breach point. “Threats front. On my mark.”We stack.I’m point (416 up, red dot glowing), Gina right behind me with the ram, Loona third, Nick flowing in behind her to take my left side the second we’re through.Feels exactly like Scorpion again. Same heartbeat in my ears.Nick’s voice drops to a whisper that cuts through the noise in my head.“Three… two… one… BREACH!”Gina swings the ram like Thor’s hammer. The steel door explodes outward on its hinges.I’m moving before the echo dies (pieing the corner, dot finds a tango with a blue training AK).BANG-BANG.
Sim rounds smack center mass. Role-player drops, cursing.“Clear left!”Gina’s already flowing past me, massive tiger frame low and fast. “Clear right!”Loona slices the next corner like a ghost, MP5 whispering death. Two more tangos down before they finish raising their guns.Second door (wood). I hit it with a mule kick that rips it off the top hinge. Gina shoulders through beside me, shotgun breaching round ready in case it’s locked.We flood the room like water. Four threats, two hostages on their knees. I put two sims into the closest tango’s chest while Gina’s already transitioned to her Kimber and double-taps another at seven yards.Loona tags the last one in the face shield so hard the role-player actually staggers.“Room clear! Hostages secure!”Third door (surprise). It’s a ballistic shield with a tango behind it and a flashbang taped to the handle.I see it a half-second before it cooks off.“Bang out!”I spin away, eyes closed, mouth open. The flashbang detonates with a brain-rattling CRACK and a white sun in my skull.But muscle memory is faster than vision.I’m already moving again, 416 up, finding the red dot through the afterimage. Two rounds into the shield tango’s foot (only thing exposed). He drops the shield screaming.Gina finishes him with a sim round to the chest.Nick’s voice behind me, calm: “House clear. Zero hostages hit. Forty-seven seconds door to door.”We lower muzzles, breathing hard, adrenaline singing in our veins.Pete’s voice crackles over the radio from the roof: “Nice foot shot, Joe. Real sportsmanlike.”Loona slaps my back plate. “You owe me earplugs, jerk. My ears are ringing like a church bell.”Gina just laughs, deep and satisfied. “That’s how you clear a house, kids.”Nick steps into the kill house, surveying the carnage (blue paint splattered everywhere, role-players groaning on the floor).He looks at the four of us, sweat-soaked, tails high, eyes still scanning for threats that aren’t there anymore.“Again,” he says, reloading his own 416. “Faster this time.”I rack a fresh mag and grin under the helmet.Scorpion never died.It just got better armor and a bigger truck.Let’s run it back.

Chapter Text

ZPD SWAT Compound – Training Tower, 0500, Day 12
The tower is sixty feet of cold steel and bad intentions, floodlights cutting through the pre-dawn dark. A light rain slicks everything, making the rails gleam like wet knives.Nick stands at the top platform in a black flight suit, rope coiled over one shoulder like it’s a pet snake.“Fast-ropes first, then Australian rappel. Full kit: plates, helmets, rifles slung muzzle-down. You slip, you fall, you eat concrete and buy everyone steak dinner. Questions?”None.We’re already sweating under the armor.Nick kicks the thick 1½-inch manila rope over the edge. It drops with a heavy slap that echoes off the tower.“Darkclaw, you’re first. Show these kids how Scorpion used to slide into hell with a smile.”I step to the edge, clip the D-ring of my harness to the rope, wrap it once around my right hip, once across my chest, glove the rope with both paws.Sixty feet below, the mat looks comically small.I lean back, boots on the lip, tail tucked tight.Nick grins. “Try not to set the rope on fire, coyote.”I push off.Gravity grabs me like an old friend. The rope burns through my gloves (controlled, perfect friction). I’m dropping ten, fifteen feet per second, boots skimming the tower wall, rifle bouncing against my chest.Three seconds and I’m hitting the mat hard, knees bent, rolling out smooth.I pop up, muzzle up, scanning like I just landed on a hot LZ.“Clear!”Gina’s next (seven feet of tiger dropping like a striped meteor). She lands with a roar that rattles windows.Loona slides down so fast her ears flatten against her skull. Kion and Kovu follow in perfect sync, lions moving like they were born with ropes between their legs.Pete (because of course) adds a mid-air spin just to be dramatic and still sticks the landing.Phase Two: Australian RappelNow we’re face-down, running down the tower wall like it’s flat ground.I hook up again, lean forward until I’m parallel to the ground, boots planted on the wall, rope running between my legs and over my shoulder.Nick’s voice from the top: “Walk it like you mean it!”I start jogging backward down the sheer face (ten feet, twenty, thirty). The world flips upside-down, rain in my face, rifle dangling below me.Halfway down I let go with one paw, draw the Kimber, and fire three sim rounds into a swinging target without breaking stride.Land, holster, unsling the 416.Nick’s already clapping slow from the platform.“Scorpion ghosts are proud today,” he calls down. “Again. All of you. Until you can do it blindfolded and drunk.”I look up at the rope, then at the team (wet, grinning, alive).I grab the line.“Let’s go.”
ZPD SWAT Compound – Breaching Range, 0800, Day 15
The rain stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the air thick and the concrete steaming. Three doors stand in a row like condemned prisoners:
1Outward-opening steel security door, deadbolted
2Heavy inward-opening solid-core wood with reinforced frame
3Double steel commercial fire door with panic bar and magnetic lock

Nick walks the line with a clipboard and zero mercy.“Today you learn how to make anything open when it doesn’t want to. Manual first, shotgun second, explosive last. If you break the door but not the hinges, you did it wrong. If you break yourself, you’re buying beer for a year.”Manual Breach
Gina steps up to Door #1 with the 40-pound Hooligan tool and a grin that could cut glass.“On me,” I call, 416 up. Loona behind me, Kion and Kovu ready to flow.Gina drives the fork end between frame and door, levers once (metal screams), then rams the adze into the gap and pries. The entire frame rips out in one violent yank.We flood through the hole like water.“Clear!”Nick nods once. “Good. Next time faster.”Shotgun Breach
Door #2. My turn.I rack the Remington 870P Max with the shorty breacher barrel (already loaded with Hatton ceramic rounds).Stack: me on the knob, Gina behind with the ram as backup, Loona and Pete ready to enter.I put the muzzle two inches from the top hinge.BOOM.
Ceramic dust explodes, hinge disintegrates.BOOM. Bottom hinge gone.One kick and the door folds inward like wet cardboard.We’re inside before the echo dies.Nick’s voice over the radio: “Acceptable. Try not to enjoy it so much, Darkclaw.”Too late.Explosive Breach
Door #3. The monster.Nick hands Loona the charge (linear flex, 200 grains per foot, already pre-cut with det cord and a pressure switch).She slaps it along the frame in a perfect rectangle, tapes the initiator, and gives the thumbs-up.We stack thirty feet back, rifles up.Loona hits the clacker.CRACK-BOOM.The door doesn’t open. It ceases to exist.Frame, hinges, panic bar (everything turns into shrapnel and smoke).We charge through the cloud, boots crunching on twisted metal.“Room clear!”Nick steps through the smoking hole, ears flat against the ringing, and looks at the devastation.Then he smiles (small, sharp, proud).“That,” he says, “is how Twenty Squad knocks.”He slaps a fresh charge into Loona’s paw.“Again. All three methods. Until you can do it blindfolded, one-handed, and hungover.”I rack the 870 and grin.We’re just getting warmed up.
ZPD SWAT Compound – Gas Chamber, 1330, Day 18
The concrete box looks exactly like it did the day we graduated the academy: same faded “OC/CN Chamber” stencil, same rusted door, same smell of dread leaking out from under it.Only now we’re doing it in full kit: plates, helmets, 416s slung, balaclavas rolled up like beanies.Nick and Chase Robertson (the German shepherd co-lead) stand outside in pro-masks like twin grim reapers.Chase’s voice is muffled but still terrifying. “Rules are simple. You enter with your mask in the carrier, not on your face. You will don it under contamination. You will recite your badge number, squad designation, and the full Miranda warning without puking. Then you exit. Anyone rips their mask off early runs the Pit until sunset.”He opens the door. A visible cloud of CN and OC mist rolls out like it’s been waiting for revenge.“Scorpion veterans first,” Nick says, eyes glinting. “Show the kids how it’s done.”Joe, Pete, Kion, Kovu, and I step forward.I haven’t done this since I was twenty-two and still thought I was invincible.Feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.InsideThe door slams. The cloud swallows us.First breath without the mask is liquid fire poured straight into your lungs. Eyes slam shut, tears instant and blinding. Snot rockets out of my nose like someone turned on a hose.Pete’s already coughing so hard his helmet rattles. Kion’s growling through it like he can intimidate the gas. Kovu’s just silent, jaw clenched, tears streaming.“MASKS!” Chase barks.We rip them from our carriers with shaking paws, slam them on, clear them with one sharp exhale (hurts like hell), then inhale the sweet, sweet filtered air.Vision clears. Sort of. Still crying like someone kicked my puppy.Chase’s voice over the speaker: “Badge numbers, go!”I step forward first, voice nasal through the mask.“Officer Joseph Darkclaw, badge one-four-two-two, Twenty Squad! You have the right to remain silent—”By the time I get to “attorney,” Pete’s already bent over dry-heaving, but he powers through his Miranda like a drunk reciting poetry.Kion’s growling the words like a war chant. Kovu finishes clean and calm, the bastard.Chase finally opens the door. We stumble out into sunlight that feels like salvation.Nick’s waiting with a garden hose and a smirk.“Strip tops, eyes open,” he orders.Cold water hits us full blast. We stand there shirtless, armor in piles, letting it wash the burning away.Gina’s next group goes in. We hear her roar the second the gas hits, then laugh-cry her way through the Miranda like it personally offended her.Loona comes out last, mask fogged solid, snot pouring, but she’s grinning like a demon.“Still worse than the academy,” she rasps, spitting OC. “But at least now I get to shoot people afterward.”Nick shuts the hose off.“Welcome back to the suck, mammals. You just survived the easiest part of today.”I wipe my face with a towel that immediately turns orange from residue.Burns like hell.Feels like baptism.Twenty Squad: officially re-certified in pain.
ZPD SWAT Compound – Mat Room, 1600, Day 18
(right after the gas chamber)We’re still pink-eyed and snot-crusted from the CN/OC chamber when Chase Robertson kicks open the double doors with a folding table and a box full of X26P Tasers.Nick’s grin is pure evil.“Surprise number two,” he announces. “Taser exposure. Full five-second ride, just like the academy. Only now you’re doing it in full kit with rifles slung and plates on. Anyone safes their weapon or drops it gets to ride again.”The room groans like one organism.Last time most of us did this we were twenty-one, wearing PT shorts, and thought we were tough.Now we’re thirty pounds heavier, half of us have old shrapnel scars, and every muscle already feels like it lost a fight with a truck.Chase slaps the mat. “Line up, heroes. Same order as the gas chamber. Scorpion old-timers first.”Pete steps up like he’s walking to the gallows.“Wolford, you volunteered to be the example last time,” Chase says, clipping the leads to Pete’s carrier straps (one in the back plate, one lower). “Try not to piss yourself on camera again.”Pete flips him off, spreads his stance, and growls, “Hit me, shepherd.”Chase pulls the trigger.TZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.Pete locks rigid, every muscle turning to concrete. His 416 stays perfectly shouldered (good marine), but the howl that comes out of him is half wolf, half dying chainsaw.Five seconds feels like five years.He drops to his knees when it ends, gasping, tail straight as a board.“Still… worse… than academy,” he wheezes.My turn.I step forward, legs already shaking from the gas chamber aftermath.Chase clips me in.“Darkclaw,” Nick says, filming on his phone because of course he is, “try not to cry this time.”“Eat shit, Sarge.”TZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.The world becomes pure electricity and regret.Every nerve lights up at once. My jaw clamps so hard I taste blood. The 416 stays in my paws (barely), but my knees buckle and I hit the mat like a sack of armor plates.Five seconds of feeling my soul leave my body and get kicked on the way out.When it stops I’m on all fours, drooling, vision sparking at the edges.Chase unclips me. “Still standing after that, coyote. Scorpion bred tough.”Kion takes his ride like a statue (lions, man). Kovu actually growls through the entire five seconds.Gina drops to one knee but keeps her Spear shouldered and roars the whole time.Loona? Loona laughs. Full-on manic laughter while 50,000 volts cook her nervous system.When we’re all done we look like we just survived a war crime.Nick finally shuts off the camera.“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re all officially too stupid to quit.”I wipe spit off my muzzle and croak, “Worth it.”Pete, still on his back, lifts one shaky thumb.“Twenty Squad,” he rasps. “We don’t do anything halfway.”Chase tosses us bottles of water.“Drink up. Tomorrow we do it again, but you’ll be holding a live flashbang.”We all groan in unison.Pain is just the membership fee.We already paid in full.

Chapter Text

ZPD SWAT Compound – Final Exam Kill House, 0400, Graduation WeekThe lights are red, the air is cold, and every instructor in the department is watching from the catwalks with clipboards and zero sympathy.Nick’s voice over the loudspeaker is calm steel.“Final practical. Live-fire, full kit, no sims. Fourteen armed threats, seven hostages wearing blue vests. You will engage only red vests. You will use your primary weapon for the first six threats, reload after exactly three rounds, then transition to secondary. Six more threats with the Kimber dominant hand, reload once, then the final two non-dominant hand only. Miss a hostage and you fail. Hit a hostage and you’re gone. You have ninety seconds from first round to last casing on the floor.”The kill house is four rooms, two hallways, one stairwell. Hostages mixed in with threats like a nightmare deck of cards.Twenty Squad lines up in two elements: Alpha (Joe, Gina, Loona, Pete) and Bravo (Nick, Kion, Kovu, Abdi).I’m point for Alpha.Nick gives the nod.“Twenty Squad… execute.”Room 1 – Primary (HK416)Breach.I flow in low, red dot already hunting.Threat one: red vest, rifle up.
BANG-BANG.
Center mass, down.Threat two: red vest behind hostage.
Controlled pair to the face.
BANG-BANG.Threat three: red vest charging.
Three rounds expended.
Mag drops, fresh one in, bolt slams home in one motion.Threat four, five, six: hallway sprint.
BANG-BANG, BANG-BANG, BANG-BANG.
All down.Transition416 on safe, sling it.
Right paw rips the Kimber, thumb sweeps safety off.Room 2 & 3 – Secondary (Dominant hand)Six threats in two rooms, hostages mixed tight.BANG-BANG (chest)
BANG-BANG (head)
BANG-BANG (pelvis on a moving target)Mag empty.
Reload one-handed against my plate, thumb racks slide.Last three threats drop before they clear leather.Stairwell & Final Room – Non-dominant hand onlyLeft paw only now. Kimber transferred, awkward but locked.Two threats at the top of the stairs, one holding a hostage by the throat.I raise the 1911 left-handed, red dot steady.BANG.
Threat drops, hostage untouched. BANG.
Second threat’s head snaps back. Final room: one last red vest, pistol already up.I step in, left paw only, dot on T-zone.BANG.Silence.Casings tinkle on concrete.Stopwatch hits 87.4 seconds. Nick’s voice finally comes back over the speakers.“House clear. Zero hostages hit. All threats neutralized.”He pauses.“Twenty Squad… passes.”We stand there in the smoke and cordite, rifles down, chests heaving.Gina roars once, triumphant.Loona punches my arm so hard the plate shifts.Pete’s tail is wagging like a metronome on meth.Nick walks in, no clipboard now, just a small black box in his paw.Inside: eight silver Twenty Squad badges.He hands me mine first.“Officer Joseph Darkclaw,” he says, voice quiet but carrying, “welcome to the team. For real this time.”I pin it next to my regular shield.Feels heavier than the plates.Feels right.Scorpion’s ghosts are finally at peace.Twenty Squad is born.
ZPD SWAT Compound – 0630, morning after graduation
I’m sitting on the tailgate of my F-150, still in sweaty kit, Twenty Squad badge clipped to my carrier like it’s afraid to let go. The sun’s barely up, the lot’s quiet except for gulls and the low rumble of the Gurkha cooling down.My phone buzzes against my chest plate.One new message – Kate Hey hero.
Heard you passed final exam (Pete won’t shut up about it).
Proud of you doesn’t cover it.
Second date: tonight. My place. I’m cooking actual food (steak, real potatoes, no hospital cafeteria bullshit).
Bring your appetite and that smile you wore when you dropped me off last time.
Also bring an overnight bag. I’m off for 48 hours and I’m not done celebrating you yet.
–K
I read it twice. Then a third time, tail thumping the tailgate so hard the truck rocks.A second text pops in before I can answer. P.S. I’m wearing the shirt you like. And nothing else after dessert.
Don’t be late, Officer Darkclaw.
My ears are on fire and I’m grinning like an idiot.I thumb back fast:Copy that, beautiful.
1900. Bringing flowers, whiskey, and the overnight bag.
Already counting the hours.
Three little dots appear, then:Good boy.
See you tonight, coyote.
I pocket the phone, hop off the tailgate, and damn near float toward the locker room.SWAT badge on my chest.Kate waiting at home.Life’s pretty damn perfect right now.
Twenty Squad Group Chat – 0800,
the morning after graduation (me):
Alright, degenerates. Kate’s cooking me dinner tonight for the official second date and told me to “bring an appetite and ideas.”
She’s already handling the food (steak, real sides, the works). I’m on flowers and whiskey (easy).
But she wants something extra. Surprise, romantic gesture, whatever. Something that says “I’m really into you” without being cheesy or over the top.
Hit me with ideas before 1600 or I’m blaming all of you when I screw this up.Loona : Sky-write “Property of Kate Wolford” over the city
Too expensive? Fine. Get a custom ZFD challenge coin made with her badge number on one side and your bite mark on the other.

Gina :
Frame your new Twenty Squad badge next to a photo of you two from last night and leave it on her kitchen counter before she wakes up. Simple. Classy. Shows her she’s part of the family now.Pete (literally her brother): She loves stargazing. There’s a spot up in the Rainforest District overlook with zero light pollution. Pack blankets, that whiskey, and a portable speaker with her favorite playlist.
Bonus points: name a star after her (yes it’s cheesy but she secretly loves that shit, don’t tell her I told you).

Kion :
Get a thin blue-line bracelet engraved on the inside:
“To the wolf who patches what I break –J”
She’ll wear it under her uniform sleeve every shift and think of you when she’s elbow-deep in someone else’s blood.Kovu :
Cook her dessert yourself. Something you suck at making so she has to help/fix it and you end up covered in flour and kissing. Works every time.Nick :
All of the above are solid. But if you want the kill-shot:
After dinner, take her up to the overlook Pete mentioned. Give her the engraved bracelet. Then hand her your spare Twenty Squad challenge coin and say, “This one doesn’t go on the shelf. It goes in your pocket every shift, so when you’re holding someone’s heart together, you’ve got mine too.”
She’ll melt. Trust me. I’m married to a captain.Joe:
…damn it, Wilde. Why are you always right about this crap?
Overlook + bracelet + coin combo it is.
You’re all buying the first round when I tell you how it goes.Loona:
We’re buying anyway. You’re getting laid tonight, hero.Pete:
Just remember: whatever you do, do NOT let her cook breakfast tomorrow wearing your duty shirt and nothing else unless you want me to bleach my brain.Gina:
Too late. Already picturing it. You owe us therapy, Darkclaw.Joe:
Noted.
Thanks, family.
Twenty Squad out. I lock the phone, tail wagging hard enough to rattle the locker.Time to go make a paramedic wolf cry happy tears.
Kate’s POV – 18:57,
my apartment’ I'm standing at the stove flipping the second albacore steak when I hear it: that low, familiar rumble rolling up the street like distant thunder.His F-150. I’d know that exhaust note anywhere (deep, throaty, a little mean, exactly like the coyote who drives it).My tail starts wagging before my brain even catches up. I set the tongs down, wipe my paws on the apron (black, says “Kiss the Cook” in red letters, because I’m not subtle tonight), and feel my ears flick toward the window.The engine cuts off right below my balcony. A door slams. Boots on the stairwell (measured, unhurried, but I can feel every step in my chest).I smooth my shirt (his shirt, actually, the soft gray ZPD academy one I stole from his truck last time) and check the mirror quick: fur fluffed, a little lip tint, the thin blue-line bracelet he doesn’t know I already bought for myself glinting on my wrist.Knock. Three measured taps.I open the door and there he is (Joe Darkclaw in dark jeans, black button-down rolled to the elbows, holding a bouquet of midnight-blue irises and a bottle of Blanton’s like he was born to ruin me in the best way).The new Twenty Squad badge catches the hallway light on his belt, silver and proud.He smiles (slow, warm, a little shy) and my heart does something ridiculous.“Hey, beautiful,” he says, voice low. “Told you I’d bring an appetite.”I step aside to let him in, tail swishing against his leg as he passes.The door clicks shut behind him.Second date officially starts now… and from the look in those amber eyes, neither of us is going to get much sleep tonight.
Kate’s POV – the entire night19:05
He steps inside, fills my little apartment with the scent of pine, gun oil, and coyote. I take the irises from his paw, bury my muzzle in them for a second just to breathe him in through the flowers.“These are perfect,” I murmur.
“Figured they matched your eyes when you’re happy,” he says, ears flicking like he’s embarrassed he admitted it.I’m already done for.19:20 – Dinner
The steaks come out medium-rare and perfect (he moans on the first bite, actually moans, and I have to grip the table to stay in my chair). We talk over mashed potatoes and whiskey: his final exam stories, my last cardiac call, the way we both pretend we’re not counting the minutes until we can touch each other again.20:30 – Dessert
I bring out the chocolate torte I definitely did not bake myself. He pulls a small velvet box from his jacket instead of a fork.Inside: a thin, brushed-steel bracelet engraved on the inside.To the wolf who patches what I break –JMy breath catches hard enough that he reaches across the table and wipes a tear I didn’t know fell.20:45 – The coin
He sets something else on the table: a Twenty Squad challenge coin, matte black with silver edges. He turns it over (on the back, laser-etched in tiny letters: KATE – ALWAYS.“I carry one,” he says quietly. “Want you to carry the spare. So every time you’re holding someone else’s life together, you’ve got a piece of mine in your pocket.”I’m across the table and in his lap before he finishes the sentence.21:15 – The overlook
We never actually make it to dessert.
He drives us up to the Rainforest District overlook Pete told him about, windows down, my paw on his thigh the whole way. The city spreads out below us like spilled diamonds.He kills the engine, spreads a blanket in the truck bed, pulls me down beside him. We lie on our backs, shoulders touching, watching satellites crawl across the stars.I trace the new badge on his belt. “Proud of you, Joe Darkclaw.”He turns his head, amber eyes glowing in the dark. “Terrified of screwing this up, Kate Wolford.”I roll on top of him, straddle his hips, brace my paws on his chest.“Then don’t,” I whisper, and kiss him slow and deep until the only sound is our breathing and the cicadas.
Joe’s POV – 23:51The second the apartment door slams shut behind us, it’s over.I drop the overnight bag somewhere near the mat, kick the door closed with my heel, and Kate’s already on me (paws fisted in my shirt, pulling me down into a kiss that tastes like whiskey, chocolate, and pure want). My back hits the wall hard enough to rattle the pictures.Her growl vibrates against my mouth. “Been thinking about this since you left my bed this morning.”I answer by sliding both paws under her thighs and lifting. She wraps her legs around my waist like she was built to fit there, claws raking the back of my neck.We’re moving (sort of), stumbling down the hallway, mouths fused, her hips grinding against mine in a rhythm that’s making thought impossible.Bedroom’s the plan.We don’t even make it past the living room.Her couch appears out of nowhere. My knees hit the armrest, we topple sideways, and suddenly I’m on my back with a very determined paramedic wolf straddling me, ripping my shirt open so hard buttons ping off the coffee table.“Fuck the bedroom,” she pants, teeth grazing my throat. “Right here.”I couldn’t agree more.

Joe’s POV – still on the couch, maybe 23:57
We’re a tangle of limbs and heat, her on her back beneath me, my weight braced on one elbow so I don’t crush her. My shirt’s history, her top is somewhere across the room, and the only thing left between us is this stubborn scrap of black lace that’s apparently been engineered by NASA.I slide my paw up her back (perfect curve, warm fur), find the clasp, and… nothing. The damn thing refuses to surrender.Kate breaks the kiss, breathless, laughing against my muzzle.“Having trouble, Officer?” she teases, voice husky.“Little bit,” I growl, nipping her lower lip. “This bra’s got better security than a precinct evidence locker.”She arches deliberately, pressing herself closer, which does not help my concentration.“It’s a front clasp, genius,” she whispers, guiding my paw from her back, down between us, right to the little plastic hook nestled between the best view I’ve ever had.One flick of my claw and the whole thing springs open like it was waiting for permission.The lace falls away and I forget how to breathe for a second.Kate’s grin turns wicked. “See? Was that so hard?”I answer by burying my face in her neck, growling something that definitely isn’t words, and finally, finally, there’s nothing left between us but want.The couch creaks in protest.Round one officially starts now.
Joe’s POV – sometime after 0200, still on the couchThe room is quiet except for our breathing and the low hum of the city outside. We never made it to the bedroom (again). The couch is a war zone: cushions on the floor, blanket half-draped over us, one of my boots somehow hanging off the ceiling fan.Kate’s curled against my chest, head tucked under my chin, one of her legs thrown over mine like she’s claiming territory. My tail is wrapped loosely around her waist, ears flicking every time she shifts and sighs.She’s warm. Soft in all the right places, strong everywhere else. Her fur smells like us now (sweat, sex, and that faint hint of antiseptic that never quite leaves her).I run my paw slowly up and down her back, tracing the line of her spine. She makes this little contented noise (half growl, half purr) and presses closer.“You still with me, wolf?” I murmur into her ear.“Barely,” she mumbles, voice drowsy and wrecked in the best way. “You broke me, coyote. I’m filing a complaint.”I huff a laugh, nuzzle the top of her head. “I’ll write the report myself. ‘Subject rendered useless by excessive affection and multiple—’”She slaps a paw over my muzzle, but she’s smiling against my chest.Her fingers find the new Twenty Squad badge still clipped to my belt (somehow it survived the chaos) and she traces the number with one claw.“This looks good on you,” she whispers.“You look better on me,” I answer, tightening my arm around her.She snorts, but her tail thumps once against my thigh.We stay like that (tangled, sweaty, hearts slowing together) while the fan spins lazily above us and the city keeps its distance.Eventually she murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “Bed’s twenty feet that way… tomorrow, maybe.”I pull the blanket higher over us both.“Tomorrow,” I agree, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Right now this couch is the best place in the world.”She hums, already drifting, and burrows closer.I close my eyes, her heartbeat steady under my paw, and realize I’ve never felt safer than I do right now (naked, wrecked, and completely owned by a paramedic wolf on a Tuesday night).Yeah.I’m keeping her.Forever starts right here.

Joe’s POV – 0638, Kate’s apartmentSunlight’s sneaking through the blinds in thin gold stripes, painting warm lines across the couch, across her fur, across the absolute chaos we made of the living room.Kate’s still asleep, sprawled half on top of me, one leg hooked over mine, tail draped across my stomach like a fuzzy seatbelt. Her breathing is slow and deep, muzzle tucked against my neck, warm little puffs of air every time she exhales.I woke up ten minutes ago and haven’t moved an inch.Because I’m still at full mast (painfully, ridiculously hard) and have been since the second I opened my eyes and remembered where I was. Who I was with. What we did (multiple times) on this exact piece of furniture.She shifts in her sleep, makes this tiny, contented sound, and her thigh slides higher. The movement brushes me in all the right-wrong places and I have to bite back a groan.My paw is resting on the small of her back, claws tracing lazy circles in her fur. I’m trying (failing) to be noble and let her sleep, but every time her hips rock even a fraction in her dreams, my tail thumps the couch cushion like an idiot.Kate stirs again, ears flicking. Her eyes open slowly (those ice-blue wolf eyes still heavy with sleep) and the first thing she does is feel exactly what’s going on under the blanket.Her muzzle curves into a slow, wicked smile against my chest.“Morning, Officer,” she murmurs, voice rough and perfect. “Someone’s awake before his alarm.”I huff a laugh that comes out more like a growl. “Been awake. Very awake. Your fault.”She stretches (deliberately, the little minx), arching her back so every inch of her presses against me, then props her chin on my sternum and looks up.“Poor coyote,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Want me to call a medic?”“Only if the treatment involves you staying exactly where you are,” I manage.Her paw slides down my stomach, slow and teasing, until her fingers wrap around me under the blanket.“Like this?” she whispers.I lose the ability to form words.The next thing I know she’s kissing me (lazy, deep, morning-sweet) and shifting so she’s straddling my hips again.Round… four? Five? I lost count after the bedroom finally happened.Doesn’t matter.The sun climbs higher.The couch definitely needs re-upholstering.And I’ve never been happier to be late for anything in my life.

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Joe’s POV – ZPD Precinct One locker room, 1845, two days after graduationThe place is mostly empty. Just the low hum of the vending machine and the faint smell of gun oil. Loona’s sitting on the bench in front of her open locker, staring at her phone like it owes her money. Ears flat, tail still. Not normal for her.I drop my go-bag and sit next to her, close enough that our shoulders bump.“Hey, big sis.”
I keep it light at first. “How’re you and Rachel doing? Been a while since I saw the maned wolf glued to your hip.”Loona exhales through her nose, long and slow.
“We’re not.”
She sets the phone face-down. “Done. Two weeks ago. She’s already transferred to Narcotics over in Precinct Four so we don’t have to look at each other every shift.”The words hit harder than I expected.I remember being seventeen, sitting on the tailgate of Dad’s old truck, bawling my eyes out because Amber broke up with me the day before prom. Loona (eighteen, already accepted to the academy) climbed up next to me, handed me a warm beer she stole from the garage, and let me cry into her shoulder until the stars came out. Didn’t say “you’ll get over it” once. Just stayed.Turnaround time.I bump her shoulder again, softer.“Talk to me, Loona.”She rubs a paw over her face. “It just… stopped working. We wanted different things. She wanted the white-picket-fence, two-kids-and-a-labrador life. I’m still trying to figure out how to come home with all my parts attached every night. Couldn’t give her the version of me she needed.”Her voice cracks on the last word (tiny, almost nothing), but I hear it.I sling an arm around her shoulders and pull her in until her head’s resting against mine, the same way she did for me all those years ago.“Hey. Listen.”I wait until she meets my eyes.“You gave her everything you had right now. That’s not failure; that’s just where the road split. And it hurts like hell, yeah. But you’re still the toughest, smartest, most loyal wolf I know. Anyone who gets you next is gonna be the luckiest mammal on the planet.”She snorts, wet. “You have to say that. I’m your sister.”“Nah. I say it because it’s true.” I nudge her with my muzzle. “And because I still owe you for letting me snot all over your favorite hoodie when I was a heartbroken idiot puppy.”A shaky laugh escapes her.I reach into my locker, pull out the spare Twenty Squad hoodie I keep folded there, and drop it in her lap.“Fresh one. No snot stains. You can cry on this one if you need to.”Loona clutches it for a second, then leans into me hard enough I have to brace so we don’t topple off the bench.“Thanks, Joey,” she whispers (uses the little-kid nickname only when she’s really hurting).“Anytime, big sis.” I rest my chin on top of her head. “I’ve got way more hoodies. And all the time in the world.”We sit like that (two grey wolves in a quiet locker room) until the overhead lights click off and the emergency strips come on.She finally straightens, wipes her eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie, and punches my arm (light, for her).“Kate’s good for you,” she says, voice steadier. “Don’t screw it up.”“Working on it.”“Good.” She stands, squares her shoulders like she’s putting armor back on. “Now buy me tacos. Comfort food is your job tonight.”I grin, sling my arm around her neck as we head for the door.“Tacos, extra hot sauce, then we go to the range and shoot something expensive. My treat.”Loona leans into me as we walk.“Best little brother ever.”“Only little brother you’ve got.”She huffs a laugh.“Yeah. Lucky me.”And for the first time in two weeks, her tail wags (just once).That’s enough for now.
Loona leans against my locker, arms crossed, one brow arched like she already knows the answer but wants to hear me say it anyway.“So,” she starts, tail flicking, “you and Kate. How’s that going?”I rub the back of my neck, ears heating up faster than a flashbang.“Good. Really good.”
I pause, then figure screw it; she’s my sister. “Like… every single time I’ve taken her home (both dates now), we haven’t even made it to the bedroom before we’re all over each other.”Loona’s ears shoot straight up. Then she snorts so hard it echoes off the concrete.“Twice?” She grins like a demon who just won a bet. “First date was the couch massacre Pete won’t shut up about, and second date you didn’t even make it past the living room again?”“Technically the second time we eventually made it to the bedroom,” I mutter. “After the couch surrendered and we broke the coffee table.”Loona throws her head back and laughs (loud, delighted, zero sympathy).“Oh my gods, my baby brother is finally getting regular sex and he can’t even walk straight to a bed. I’m so proud.”I flip her off, but I’m grinning too.“It’s not just the sex, Loona.” I lean beside her on the hood, looking up at the garage lights. “It’s… her. I’ve never felt this stupid-happy after a shift. Like I actually want to go home to someone instead of just crashing alone with a beer and bad memories.”Loona’s laughter fades into something softer. She bumps my shoulder with hers.“Good,” she says quietly. “You deserve that, Joey. After everything.”She pauses, then smirks again.“But seriously, two dates, two living-room takedowns? You two need to work on your hallway navigation skills or invest in sturdier furniture.”“Noted,” I laugh. “Next date I’m carrying her straight to the bedroom. Fireman style. No detours.”Loona makes a gagging sound. “Gross. Do not give me visuals. I already have to live with the knowledge that my little brother is apparently a sex coyote now.”She pushes off the truck, slings an arm around my neck, and starts walking me toward the exit.“Come on, stud. Tacos still on you. And you’re telling me zero more details or I’m dumping hot sauce in your lap.”I drape my arm over her shoulders, tail wagging.“Deal. But you’re buying the first round of margaritas. I’ve earned it.”She snorts. “Yeah, you have.”And just like that, everything feels right again (Twenty Squad on my chest, Kate waiting at home, and my big sister razzing me exactly the way it’s supposed to be).
Loona’s halfway to her locker when she suddenly stops, turns, and fixes me with the smuggest grin I’ve seen since the prom photo incident.“You know,” she says, voice dripping with evil big-sister energy, “I seem to remember a certain coyote getting grounded for a month because Dad found his stash of Playfur magazines under the mattress. And who took the fall and told Dad it was her magazine the whole time?”I groan so loud it echoes off three levels of concrete.“You swore we’d never speak of that again.”“Never is a long time, Joey.” She leans against her Harley, tail swishing. “I distinctly remember covering your scrawny teenage ass. Told Dad it was mine because ‘girls can look too.’ Saved you from a summer of lawn-mowing slavery.”I drag a paw down my face. “Yeah, well, that was also the exact week you realized you were super gay, because you stole the damn magazine from my room that same night and spent three hours ‘studying’ the centerfold of that lioness firefighter.”Loona’s ears flick back, but she’s laughing now (loud, delighted, zero shame).“Her name was Captain Sasha,” she says, pointing a claw at me. “And those suspenders did things to fifteen-year-old me that I still think about in the shower.”I bark a laugh. “You kept that magazine hidden in your air vent for two years. I know because I went looking for it the next day and found nothing but your claw marks on the vent cover.”She shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Research purposes. Very important gay awakening material. You’re welcome for the sacrifice.”I walk over, sling an arm around her neck, and knuckle her head like we’re pups again.“Thank you for saving my tail, you pervert,” I say into her ear.She elbows me in the ribs (gently, for her).“Anytime, little brother. Just remember: I’ve got decades of blackmail material. You and Kate keep breaking furniture, I’m sending Dad the receipts.”I let her go, grinning.“Fair. But I’m telling Mom about Captain Sasha and the air-vent shrine.”Loona flips me off with both paws.

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Precinct One – Captain’s Office, 1923Nick’s phone buzzes on the desk next to a half-eaten carrot-cake donut. The caller ID just says HOPPS .He answers on speaker so the rest of us still in the squad room can hear.“Captain Hopps-Wilde, to what do I owe the pleasure? If this is about the dent in your cruiser, I swear it was like that when I borrowed it.”Judy’s voice comes through crisp, all business, but we can hear the smile underneath.“Save the charm for court, Sergeant. I need Twenty Squad for a plainclothes op. Tonight if you can swing it.”Nick leans back, boots on the desk. “Define ‘need.’”“Serial assault suspect. Male hyena, 6′4″, spotted mohawk, tribal tattoos on both arms. Four attacks in the last ten days, all in the Rainforest District after dark. Victims are all smaller female mammals walking alone. Last one was a sixteen-year-old red panda (broke her jaw, put her in the hospital). Patrol’s too obvious, marked units scare him off, undercover vice is stretched thin on a sting downtown.”She pauses.“I need predators who can blend, move quiet, and look like they belong on the street at night. Your team literally wrote the book on plainclothes raids with Scorpion.”Nick’s eyes flick to the five of us still hanging around the squad room (me, Gina, Loona, Kion, Kovu). We’re already reaching for go-bags.“Suspect name?” Nick asks.“Believed to be ‘Kasi’ (street name). No priors we can pin, but informants say he’s bragging about the attacks. We’ve got a two-block area he’s been hunting. I want him off the board before he kills someone.”Nick drops his boots to the floor, all business now.“Give us forty-five mikes. Slicktops, street clothes, no marked anything. We’ll run two two-mammal teams and one overwatch. Darkclaw and I take the north block, Gina and Loona south, Kion and Kovu on the rooftops with suppressed 416s. Pete’s already on his way in with the SR-25.”A beat of silence, then Judy exhales like she’s been holding her breath for days.“Thank you, Nick.”“Don’t thank me yet, Carrots. Thank me when this bastard’s in cuffs and the victims get to sleep without nightmares.”He hangs up, stands, and claps once (sharp, final).“Plainclothes night, people. Jeans, hoodies, no badges showing. We’re ghosts again.”I’m already pulling my old Scorpion hoodie out of my locker (black, faded, perfect).Loona grins like a wolf who just smelled blood.“Been too long,” she says.Gina cracks her knuckles. “Let’s go remind the city why predators used to be afraid of the dark.”Nick slaps a fresh mag into his 416.“Twenty Squad rolls in forty. Move.”We move.Plainclothes is back on the menu.And Kasi just ran out of time.
Precinct One – Roll-call room, 1955 (Nick’s POV)
Commander Jackson’s already waiting, arms folded, horns almost scraping the ceiling. Judy stands beside him with a thick case folder and a look that could freeze lava.Jackson doesn’t waste words.“You’re cleared hot for plainclothes. No marked units within three blocks. Lethal force authorized if the suspect presents an immediate threat. Bring him breathing if you can; bring him in a bag if you have to. Just bring him.”He signs the ops order with a pen the size of a baseball bat and slides it across the table.Judy spreads the file like a deck of bad cards.“Victim statements and photos from the rape kits,” she says, voice flat and furious. “Read fast, then burn it into your brains.”Jasiri (hyena, SVU detective, Kion’s wife) steps up beside her partner, Rani Jackson (lioness, mane braided tight, eyes burning).Jasiri taps the first eight-by-ten: a sixteen-year-old red panda with a jaw wired shut.“He laughs while he does it,” she growls. “Tells them if they scream he’ll make sure no one ever finds the body. Uses a striped bandana as a gag (same one every time). Leaves it tied around their necks like a trophy.”Rani flips to the next set (bruising photos, close-ups of claw marks, torn clothing).“Height and weight estimates match across all four. Tattoos: tribal flames on both forearms, ‘Kasi’ in Old Hyenish script across the back of his neck. Smells like cheap clove cigarettes and that god-awful ‘Predator Pride’ cologne. Carries a straight-blade knife with a red handle (shows it off, never actually cuts them, just likes the fear).”She drops the last photo: a grainy still from a bodega camera two nights ago (spotted hyena, mohawk, tribal ink, red knife hilt visible at his hip).Jasiri’s voice drops to a whisper that somehow fills the whole room.“Last victim heard him say, ‘Number five’s gonna be special.’”The room goes predator-quiet.Judy looks straight at me.“End this tonight, Sergeant.”I nod once.“Copy that, Captain.”I turn to the team (five mammals already dressed like the street itself: hoodies, jeans, claws hidden, eyes glowing).“Gear check in the cage. Suppressors, extra mags, trauma kits. We roll in ten.”Loona’s already sliding her MP5SD into a gym bag like it’s a yoga mat.Gina’s cracking her neck.Kion and Kovu are checking zero on their rifles with the calm of lions who’ve done this before.I look at the photo one last time (Kasi laughing at the camera like he owns the night).Not anymore.Tonight the night belongs to Twenty Squad.And we’re coming quiet.
Precinct One – Roll-call room, 2002 (still Nick’s POV)
I’m about to turn for the door when Joe’s voice cuts through the silence, low and sharp.“Connection between the vics?” he asks. “There has to be a pattern. He’s hunting, not random.”Rani Jackson doesn’t even blink. She taps the four victim photos pinned side-by-side on the board.“Every single one is a small feline species. Margay, ocelot, Geoffroy’s cat, and the last one was an oncilla. All female. All aged nineteen to twenty-three. All walking alone between 2200 and 0200 in the same six-block radius.”She lets that sink in.“He’s not just a rapist,” she continues. “He’s a collector. Small cats are his type. He’s escalating because he’s building a set.”Joe’s ears flatten. His claws flex against his thigh (old Scorpion reflex when someone mentions hunting prey that can’t fight back).Gina growls something too low to make out, but the sentiment is clear.Loona’s tail is dead still. “So tonight he’s out looking for number five,” she says. “Another small cat, another trophy.”Rani nods once.Joe looks at me, amber eyes burning.“Then we give him something he’s not expecting,” he says. “Six predators who hunt back.”I check my watch.“Wheels up in eight mikes. Jasiri, Rani (thank you). We’ll bring him in.”Jasiri’s smile is all teeth.“Bring him in pieces if you have to.”Jackson grunts approval from the doorway.We file out.Twenty Squad just went from protective detail to hunting party.And the prey just became the predator.

Rainforest District – 2237 (Nick’s POV)
We’re running three slicktop vehicles tonight, matte-black Chargers and Tahoes, no light bars, no decals, just dark windows and quiet radios.I’m riding shotgun in Charger One with Joe driving. Loona and Gina are in Charger Two a block south. Kion and Kovu are ghosting the rooftops with Pete on overwatch in the Tahoe two streets over, SR-25 already dialed in.The air is thick, humid, every streetlight haloed by mist. Perfect night for hunting.Joe’s eyes are everywhere, scanning every mammal that moves.“Contact,” he says suddenly, voice low. “Ten o’clock, alley mouth. Spotted hyena, mohawk, tribal tats, red knife hilt on the right hip.”I lean forward. The guy steps under a streetlamp (six-four easy, mohawk striped with red dye, flames on both forearms, clove cigarette dangling from his lip).“Looks perfect,” I mutter. “Too perfect.”Joe’s already slowing, pulling to the curb like we’re just another ride-share. The hyena clocks us, smirks, and starts walking toward a lone Geoffroy’s cat waiting at the bus stop (small, early twenties, earbuds in, exactly his type).Joe’s paw is on the door handle.“Hold,” I say.I key the radio. “All units, possible sighting. Stand by.”Pete’s voice comes back calm. “Negative ID. Tattoo on the neck is wrong. Real Kasi has Old Hyenish script. This guy’s got a paw-print. That’s ‘Jaro’ (known poser, likes to dress like Kasi to scare people). Harmless wannabe.”The hyena (Jaro) gets within five feet of the cat, flashes the red knife, and tries the laugh.The cat yanks out her earbuds, hisses, and maces him square in the face.Jaro drops the knife, screaming, clawing at his eyes.Joe exhales through his nose. “Well. That’s one way to handle it.”I’m already laughing. “Stand down, Twenty. Suspect is still in the wind. And apparently the small cats are fighting back tonight.”Joe eases off the curb, shaking his head.“False alarm,” he says. “But if the real Kasi’s watching, he just got a warning.”I key the mic again.“Keep eyes up. Real target’s still hunting. And he just saw what happens when prey bites back.”We roll deeper into the district.Clock’s ticking.Kasi’s out here somewhere.And we’re still the bigger monsters.
Rainforest District – 2319 (Joe’s POV)
I’m rolling slow in Charger One when the passenger-side window fogs with my own breath.There.Half a block ahead, under the busted neon of a closed pawnbroker.Spotted hyena. Six-four. Red-striped mohawk slick with rain. Tribal flames crawling down both arms. Clove cigarette glowing like a targeting laser.He’s just stepped out of the shadows and is tracking a tiny margay (barely five feet, college hoodie, tail flicking nervously) as she hurries toward the subway stairs.And on the back of his neck, clear as day under the streetlight: Old Hyenish script spelling KASI.My paw’s on the door handle before Nick even finishes inhaling.“That’s him,” I say, voice flat. “One hundred percent.”Nick keys the radio, calm as ice. “All units, positive ID on primary target. Darkclaw is going foot-mobile. Overwatch, get eyes. Do not lose him.”I’m already out of the car, door shutting with a soft thunk. Hood up, hands in pockets, I melt into the flow of late-night mammals like I belong here.Kasi’s thirty yards ahead, moving lazy, enjoying the hunt. The margay’s speed-walking, ears flat, clutching her phone like a lifeline.I close the gap in measured steps, weaving through pedestrians, keeping a parked van, then a street vendor, then a cluster of drunk wallabies between us.Radio earpiece, whisper-quiet: Pete from a rooftop three stories up. “Got him. Red knife hilt visible right hip. Margay is thirty seconds from the subway entrance. You’ve got a clean line if he lunges.”Kasi speeds up. The margay glances back, spots him, and bolts.He grins (all teeth) and starts jogging after her.I’m already moving.I cross the street at a diagonal, cutting the angle, boots silent on wet pavement. Twenty yards. Fifteen.Kasi’s reaching for the red knife.I close to ten yards, slide the Kimber from my waistband under the hoodie, thumb sweeping the safety off.“Twenty Squad,” I breathe into the mic. “I’m taking him now.”Nick’s voice, deadly calm: “Green light. Bring him.”I step out of the shadows directly into Kasi’s path, ten feet away.He sees the gun, sees my eyes, and the grin dies.“ZPD,” I say, voice low enough only he hears. “Hands. Now.”For one heartbeat the street holds its breath.Then the hunt ends.
Rainforest District – 2322 (Joe’s POV)
The second Judy’s voice crackles in my ear, “All units in position. Take him,” the night explodes.Red and blue lights strobe from every direction. Two marked Tahoes screech in from the cross-street, cutting off the east escape. Charger Two and Three slam to a halt behind me. Doors fly open, Gina and Loona pile out with rifles up.Kasi’s head snaps left, right, realizes the trap just closed.He bolts.Straight down the alley to my left, red knife flashing as he yanks it free.I’m already moving.“Suspect fleeing westbound on foot!” I bark into the mic, boots pounding wet pavement.I round the corner into the narrow service alley behind the shops (trash cans, steam vents, flickering security lights).Kasi’s fast, but I’m faster.Fifty yards ahead he hits a T-j動junction, skids left.I follow, lungs burning, Kimber already in my paw.I come out the other end of the alley and slam to a stop.Dead end.Brick wall on three sides, dumpsters blocking the only way back.Kasi spins, knife raised, eyes wild.And there’s Pete (dropped from the fire escape above), SR-25 slung, X26P Taser already up and red dot dancing on Kasi’s chest.I raise the Kimber two-handed, red dot steady on his center mass.“Drop the knife!” I snarl. “Hands up, on your knees, right fucking now!”Pete’s voice, calm and cold from ten feet away: “You run again, you get fifty thousand volts and then a .45 just for fun. Your choice, asshole.”Sirens and lights flood the mouth of the alley behind us (marked units sealing the box).Kasi’s ears flatten. The knife clatters to the ground.He sinks slowly to his knees, paws laced behind his head, shaking with rage or fear (I don’t care which).I move in fast, kick the knife away, drive a knee into his back, cuffs out.“You are under arrest for four counts of aggravated sexual assault,” I recite, ratcheting the steel tight. “You have the right to shut the hell up…”Pete holsters the Taser, steps forward, and helps haul the bastard to his feet.“Nice corner, sniper,” I mutter.“Nice foot chase, coyote,” he answers, grinning.Judy’s voice in my earpiece, calm now: “Good copy. Suspect in custody. All units Code 4.”Kasi snarls the whole way to the wagon, but the fight’s gone out of him.Four small cats get to sleep a little safer tonight.Twenty Squad just reminded the city what plainclothes really means.And Scorpion’s ghosts are finally smiling.

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Precinct One – Booking, 2358 (Joe’s POV)
The cage smells like bleach, fear, and cheap clove cigarettes.Kasi’s cuffed to the bench, mohawk drooping, eyes burning holes in the floor. The red knife sits in an evidence bag on the counter, next to the striped bandana we pulled from his pocket (still smells like the last victim’s perfume).Judy’s standing at the desk with Jasiri and Rani, watching the fingerprints roll across the live-scan screen.AFIS pings in under tenorce seconds.“Kasir ‘Kasi’ Mwenye,” the tech reads. “Four priors for assault, two sexual-battery warrants out of Precinct Four he never showed for. DNA from the kits is uploading now. Ninety-nine-point-nine match on all four victims.”Judy’s ears are flat, but her voice is pure ice. “Add four counts aggravated sexual assault, four counts kidnapping, one count felony evasion, one count possession of a deadly weapon during a felony.”The booking sergeant starts typing.Kasi finally looks up, spits blood on the floor, and locks eyes with me.“You predators always stick together, huh?” he snarls.I step close enough that he can smell the rain and gun oil on me.“No,” I say quietly. “Tonight we stuck up for the ones you thought couldn’t fight back.”Pete leans against the wall, arms folded, Taser still in his hand like a promise.Gina and Loona stand behind me, silent, radiating the kind of calm that comes right before something breaks.Jasiri slaps the evidence bag with the bandana.“This goes to the lab tonight,” she says. “By morning you’ll be charged in every attack. And when those four small cats see your face in court, they’re gonna watch you disappear for the rest of your life.”Kasi’s ears flatten. For the first time, the smirk is gone.Judy signs the booking sheet, hands it to the sergeant.“Cell Three,” she orders. “Solitary. No phone call until the DA’s done piling on charges.”Two uniforms grab his arms and drag him toward the hallway.As they pass me, Kasi mutters under his breath, “This ain’t over, cop.”I lean in just enough for him to hear.“It is for you.”The heavy steel door slams.Judy turns to us, exhaustion and relief mixing in her eyes.“Good work, Twenty Squad,” she says. “Go home. Shower. Hug someone you love. You earned it.”I look at my team (wet, filthy, tails high).We don’t say anything.We don’t need to.Four small cats are safe.One monster is in a cage.And the city just remembered what happens when predators decide to protect instead of prey.Shift’s over.Time to go find Kate.
Precinct One – Interview Room 2, 0046 (Rani’s POV)
The room is cold, concrete, and smells like old blood no amount of bleach ever quite kills.Kasi sits chained to the table, wrists raw from the cuffs, mohawk plastered to his skull with sweat and rain. The overhead light carves every snarl line into his face.Jasiri stands to my left, arms folded, spotted tail lashing slow and dangerous. I take the lead.I slap the Miranda form on the table in front of him, pen on top.“Kasir Mwenye,” I begin, voice flat and formal, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them?”He lifts his head, yellow eyes glittering with pure hate.“Yeah,” he spits. “I understand.”I slide the form closer.“With these rights in mind, do you wish to waive your right to an attorney and speak with us now?”Kasi leans forward as far as the chains let him, lips peeling back in a grin that shows every fang.“Attorney?” He laughs, low and ugly. “I don’t need some suit telling me what to say. I’ll talk. I want every one of those little cats to hear exactly how much they screamed, how easy they broke.”Jasiri’s claws dig into her own arms; I hear the leather of her jacket creak.I don’t flinch.I pick up the pen, turn the form toward him.“Sign here, then.”He snatches the pen, scrawls a jagged signature across the waiver line like he’s carving it into someone’s skin.I take the form back, date and time it, slide it into the evidence folder.Jasiri hits record on the wall camera. Red light blinks on.“Interview start,” I say. “Detectives Jasiri Abdi and Rani Jackson present. Suspect has waived counsel.”Kasi leans back, chains rattling, still grinning.“Go ahead, lioness,” he says. “Ask me anything. I’ve got nothing to hide.”I meet his stare and let the predator in me answer for once.“Good,” I say quietly. “Because we’re just getting started, and you’re never seeing daylight again.”The grin falters.Just for a second.But I see it. And it’s enough.
Precinct One – SVU Bullpen, 0251 (Rani’s POV)
The lab tech (an exhausted serval in a white coat) practically runs in with the printed report still warm from the printer.Jasiri and I are waiting by the whiteboard, coffee long gone cold.He slaps the sheet into my paw like it’s on fire.“CODIS hit. One hundred percent match across all four SA kits. Buccal swab from Kasir Mwenye confirms semen, saliva, and epithelial DNA on every victim. Probability of random match: one in ten-to-the-thirty-second.”I don’t need to translate that for anyone in the room.Jasiri’s ears pin back, but her grin is razor sharp.“Four-for-four,” she says, voice trembling with relief and fury. “He’s done.”I pin the report to the board right under Kasi’s smug booking photo.Judy steps in behind us, arms folded, eyes scanning the final nail in the coffin.“Lock it down,” she orders quietly. “Full confession on tape, signed waiver, DNA slam-dunk. No plea, no bail, no parole board ever sees his face. Life without, minimum.”She turns to the room (Jasiri, me, the tech, a couple of uniforms who helped process).“Tell the victims,” she says. “Tell them it’s over. Tell them he’s never getting out.”Jasiri already has her phone out, thumbs shaking as she pulls up the first victim’s contact.I look at the board one last time (four small feline faces, four sets of bruises, four lives he tried to break).Then at the DNA report that just shattered his forever.I allow myself one slow, satisfied breath.Case closed.Monster caged.Four small cats can finally start healing.And tomorrow morning, when the sun comes up over Zootopia, the streets will be a little safer because Twenty Squad and SVU just made sure of it.
Zootopia Courthouse – Felony Arraignment Prep Room, 0347 (Kirara’s POV)
The room is quiet except for the scratch of my pen and the low hum of the copier spitting out indictment pages. Kasi’s file is spread across the table like a crime scene: DNA reports, victim statements, the signed Miranda waiver that just sealed his fate for life.I’m highlighting a line in the sentencing recommendation (LIFE, no parole) when two familiar lion arms slide around my waist from behind.I don’t even flinch. I’d know that scent (rain, gun oil, and warm lion) anywhere.Kovu’s muzzle finds the spot just below my ear, presses a soft kiss that makes my tail curl involuntarily.“Thought prosecutors weren’t supposed to look this good at four in the morning,” he murmurs against my fur.I lean back into him, letting his warmth chase away twelve hours of fluorescent lights and rage.“Thought SWAT lions weren’t supposed to sneak into secure courthouse wings without buzzing in,” I counter, but there’s zero heat in it.He chuckles, low and rumbling, arms tightening just enough to remind me he’s still in tac-gear from the takedown.“I come bearing gifts,” he says, and sets a paper cup of midnight-dark coffee and a still-warm cheese danish on top of the DNA report.Then he kisses my neck again (slower this time, deliberate).“And to tell my wife the city’s safer because of the work you’re doing right now.”I turn in his arms, loop mine around his neck, and finally let myself smile for the first time all night.“Tell me you got him,” I whisper.“Got him, cuffed him, booked him. Joe and the team ran him down like the prey he is. DNA’s a slam-dunk. He waived counsel and tried to brag. Rani and Jasiri just finished burying him.”I close my eyes, exhale sixteen hours of tension.“Good,” I breathe. “Then tomorrow morning I get to stand up in court and watch the judge read the charges while those four girls finally get to feel safe again.”Kovu rests his forehead against mine.“And tonight,” he says, voice dropping to that growl that still melts me, “you come home with me, let me run you a bath, and fall asleep on my chest so I can remind you why all of this is worth it.”I kiss him (slow, deep, tasting coffee and relief).“Deal, Officer Bankole,” I whisper against his lips. “But only if you carry me out of here. These heels are killing me.”He laughs softly, scoops me up bridal-style without hesitation, and heads for the door.The arraignment files can wait ten more minutes.Tonight, the lion who helped catch the monster gets to take his prosecutor home.And tomorrow, we finish putting evil in a cage.

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** Abdi Apartment – 0412 (Jasiri’s POV)
I kick the door shut behind me, drop my duty bag by the shoe rack, and the whole place smells like gunpowder, courthouse coffee, and victory.Kion’s already home (still in his plainclothes hoodie, tail flicking lazy circles while he unloads mags on the kitchen counter like they’re dirty dishes).I prowl up behind him, slide my arms around his waist, and nip the back of his neck just hard enough to make his ears twitch.“Hero lion,” I purr. “City’s safer, monster’s caged, DNA’s a lock. You did good tonight.”He turns in my arms, golden eyes soft, and kisses me slow (tastes like adrenaline and relief).“Couldn’t have done it without my favorite detective feeding us the intel,” he murmurs against my muzzle.I grin, all teeth.“Flattery noted. But before you get too comfortable on that ‘husband of the year’ pedestal…”I poke his chest with one claw.“Our anniversary is in nine days. I’m talking fancy dinner, flowers, the whole thing. Forget it and you’re on the couch for a week. And I will change the Wi-Fi password to ‘SleepsOnCouch2025’ just to drive the point home.”Kion laughs (deep, warm, the sound that still makes my tail curl) and pulls me closer.“Already taken care of, beautiful,” he says. “Reservation’s booked at The Prideland (rooftop, sunset table). Flowers are on auto-delivery. And I’ve got the day off cleared with Nick three weeks ago.”He kisses my forehead.“I only forget two things: where I parked the Tahoe and anything that isn’t you.”I pretend to think about it, tapping my chin.“Hmm. Acceptable. This time.”Then I drag him down into a proper kiss (the kind that says thank you, I love you, and we both survived another night).When we break apart, I smirk.“Couch threat still stands for future offenses.”Kion just scoops me up, carries me toward the bedroom like I weigh nothing.“Noted, Detective Abdi. Now let me remind you why the couch never stood a chance.”Nine days until our anniversary.But tonight? Tonight we’re celebrating early.Because we made it home.Together.

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Precinct Four – EOD/Bomb Squad HQ, 0630 (Commander Lorne Jackson’s POV)
The bay doors are already rolled up when my cruiser pulls in. Inside, the bomb truck (a matte-gray Lenco BearCat with “EXPLOSIVES” stenciled in reflective letters) sits like a sleeping dragon. The walls are lined with disruptors, robots, and enough C4 containment vessels to make any sane mammal nervous.Sergeant Elena Sánchez is halfway inside the belly of the truck, tail sticking out, cursing in rapid-fire Spanish at a stubborn hydraulic line.I clear my throat (deep, bison rumble that usually makes rookies drop their coffee).Her head pops up, ears swiveling, golden eyes narrowing when she spots me.“Commander,” she says, wiping grease off her paws with a rag that’s seen better decades. “If you’re here about the overtime budget again, I swear on my mother’s whiskers—”“Relax, Sánchez.” I step into the bay, horns barely clearing the doorframe. “Just checking in. City’s been quiet on the boom-boom front for three weeks. Starting to think you scared every bomber into retirement.”Elena snorts, hops down from the truck, and leans against the fender (five-foot-ten of mountain lion muscle wrapped in a black bomb-tech jumpsuit that’s seen more fires than most firefighters).“Quiet’s good,” she says. “Means I get to train instead of digging shrapnel out of my team. But quiet never lasts.”She jerks a thumb toward the back wall where a fresh incident board is already half-covered with new photos.“Got a credible threat yesterday (anonymous tip, burner phone). Claims there’s an IED cookbook being passed around the old Night Howler cells. Nothing concrete yet, but my gut says we’re two weeks from the first device.”I grunt, folding my arms. “You need bodies or toys?”“Both,” she answers without hesitation. “Need two more techs who aren’t terrified of their own shadows, and the city still owes us a new total-containment vessel after the last one got turned into modern art by that fertilizer bomb in the Burrows.”“Consider it flagged. I’ll lean on the Chief today.”Elena nods, then tilts her head, studying me.“You look like you haven’t slept since the Scorpion fallout, sir.”“Twenty Squad just bagged a serial rapist last night,” I say. “Plainclothes op. Clean takedown. City’s sleeping safer, but I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”She smirks. “You gave Wilde and those lunatics their own armored truck and plainclothes authority. The other shoe’s gonna be a size twenty with claws.”I huff (closest thing to a laugh I manage before coffee).“Keep your suits ready, Sergeant. If the city decides to start blowing up again, I want you rolling before the smoke clears.”Elena salutes with two greasy fingers.“Always, Commander. Bomb squad motto: we’re never late; we just arrive precisely when everything’s already on fire.”I turn to leave, ducking under the doorframe.“Stay sharp, Sánchez.”“Born sharp, sir.”The bay doors rumble as I head out.Quiet never lasts.But at least when the boom comes, Elena and her cats will be ready.And so will I.

Precinct Four – EOD/Bomb Squad Bay, 0645 (Elena Sánchez’s POV)
Commander Jackson’s cruiser is barely out of sight when I hop back into the BearCat’s belly to finish what I started.The truck is my office, my church, and occasionally my therapist.I run the checklist out loud like always (old habit from my first EOD instructor who swore if you talk to the truck, it won’t kill you).“Hydraulic ram (pressure good).
Hook-and-line kit (full spools).
TALON robot (battery 98%, camera crystal).
Disruptors (water, 12-gauge, and PAN all loaded and safetied).
Containment vessel (old one still looks like Swiss cheese, new one still says ‘back-ordered’).”I crawl deeper, tail flicking, checking the X-ray cabinet, the real-time chem sniffer, the spare suits hanging like black ghosts.Everything’s where it should be.Except one thing.I pop my head out the side door and yell across the bay.“Ramirez! Where the hell is my lucky detonator key?”A rookie armadillo in a bomb suit big enough to camp in squeaks from behind the tool cage.“Uh… I put it on the peg with the others, Sarge!”“There’s only one key with the Virgin de Guadalupe sticker, rookie! Find it or you’re wearing the suit with the leaky neck seal for a month!”He scrambles.I finish the walk-around outside: tires good, run-flats intact, all four remote weapon stations online, bomb blanket in the roof rack, extra O2 bottles secured.Ramirez comes running, holding the key like it’s the Holy Grail.I snatch it, kiss the little sticker for luck, and slide it into my pocket.Truck’s ready.Team’s ready (mostly).City’s quiet for now.But when the call comes (and it always does), this beast and I will roll out before the first echo fades.Until then, I pat the BearCat’s flank.“Stay mean, beautiful,” I mutter. “We’ve got work coming.”Then I crank the stereo (some old-school corridos) and get back to making sure nothing in this truck can kill us before the bomber does.Just another morning in the bomb squad.Never a dull one.

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Pete’s POV – Precinct One gym, 1100, mid-set on the bench press
My phone buzzes on the floor mat. Kate’s name on the screen. I rack the bar, sit up, and answer on speaker so I can keep toweling off.“Katie-bug! What’s up, favorite sister?”“Only sister, dumbass,” she laughs. “Quick question: when do you think I should drag Joe home to meet Mom and Dad? He’s already survived you and one family dinner with Loona making sex eyes at him across the table. Figured it’s time for the parental gauntlet.”I snort so hard I almost choke on my water.“Oh man. You ready for that circus?”“Define ready.”I lean back against the bench, already picturing it.“Dad’s gonna take one look at Joe’s Twenty Squad badge, the coyote ears, and the fact he chased down a serial rapist last night, and immediately start cleaning his service pistol on the kitchen table while asking Joe about his five-year plan. Mom’s gonna hug him so hard his ribs creak, feed him three plates of tamales, and by dessert be calling him mijo and asking when he’s giving her grandpups.”Kate groans. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”“Meanwhile,” I continue, grinning like an idiot, “Dad will corner me in the garage and go, ‘Peter Michael Wolford, you better not have set my baby girl up with some gang-unit cowboy who’s gonna break her heart,’ and I’ll have to swear on my badge that Joe’s the real deal or he’ll ground me at age thirty-four.”Kate’s quiet for a second, then: “So… too soon?”“Nah. Next Sunday dinner. Mom’s already asking why you’re smiling at your phone like a lovesick pup. Rip the band-aid.”Another pause (longer this time).“Speaking of pups…” she says, voice softer. “Who’s supposed to bring up the whole ‘when are you two giving us grandchildren’ thing first? Because I swear if Dad does it over flan I’m going to die.”I laugh so loud the rookie on the treadmill almost falls off.“That’s gonna be Mom, guaranteed. Ten minutes after Joe finishes his second helping she’ll pat his cheek and go, ‘Such strong shoulders, perfect for carrying nietos.’ Joe will choke on his horchata, you’ll turn the color of a stop sign, and Dad will just grunt approval because the coyote didn’t flinch.”Kate whimpers. “You’re enjoying this too much.”“Immensely.” I wipe my face with the towel. “But for real, Kate: bring him. Mom and Dad are gonna love him. He’s a good mammal. Best one I know, actually.”She exhales, and I can hear the smile through the phone.“Okay. Next Sunday. I’ll tell him tonight.”“Tell him to wear the good jeans and bring his appetite,” I say. “And maybe a bulletproof vest for Dad’s interrogation.”Kate laughs. “Love you, jerk.”“Love you more, baby sis. Now let me finish my set before Gina comes in here and laps me.”I hang up, already picturing Joe walking into the Wolford house holding Kate’s paw while Mom stuffs him with food and Dad sizes him up like he’s applying for the job of son-in-law.Yeah.He’s doomed.And I can’t wait to watch.
Kate’s POV – ZFD Station 3, 1500,
between calls I duck into the quiet room (really just a closet with a couch and a “Shh, people are sleeping” sign) and hit Mom’s contact before I can chicken out.She picks up on the first ring.“Mija! ¿Qué pasó? Are you hurt? Is Pete hurt?”“No, Mom, everyone’s fine.” I can’t help laughing. “Actually… I’m calling because I want to bring someone to Sunday dinner.”Silence. Then a squeal loud enough to make me pull the phone away from my ear.“¡Ay, Dios mío! A boy? You’re bringing a boy? Tell me everything!”I take a breath.“His name is Joe Darkclaw. Coyote. ZPD SWAT, Twenty Squad. He’s… really special, Mom. I want you and Dad to meet him. Properly. Like, sit-down dinner, meet-the-parents special.”Mom’s already crying (happy crying, I can tell by the pitch).“Kate Maria Wolford, you’re bringing a SWAT coyote home? Your father’s going to clean the grill and his revolver at the same time.”“That’s what Pete said,” I laugh.Dad’s voice rumbles in the background: “¿Quién es ese coyote? ¡Dile que llegue con hambre y con buenas intenciones!”Mom shushes him, then comes back to me, voice soft and teary.“Next Sunday,” she declares. “I’m making carnitas, mole poblano, and that flan you like. Tell Joe to wear something nice and be ready to eat until he can’t move.”I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.“Will do. And Mom? Go easy on the grand-pup talk the first night, okay? We’re… taking it one step at a time.”She gasps dramatically. “I make no promises. Your father already has the baby name list ready.”I groan, but I’m laughing.“Love you both. See you Sunday.”“Love you more, mija. And tell that coyote we’re very much looking forward to meeting the mammal who finally stole our daughter’s heart.”I hang up, lean against the wall, and feel my tail wag so hard it thumps the door.Next Sunday.Joe Darkclaw is about to survive the scariest mission of his life: Wolford family dinner.I cannot wait to watch.
Precinct One – Armory cage, 1730 (Pete’s POV)
I finally corner Joe while he’s cleaning his 416. Place is empty except for the hum of the ventilation and the smell of Hoppe’s No. 9.I lean against the cage door, arms folded, and just rip the band-aid off.“So… funny story about Sunday dinner.”Joe looks up, one ear cocked. “Do I need bail money or just body armor?”“Little of both, probably.” I grin. “I forgot to mention a couple tiny details about the Wolford family tree.”He sets the upper receiver down, suddenly paying full attention.“Mom (Maria Wolford) spent twenty-eight years as lead dispatcher for Bunnyburrow County Sheriff’s Office. She’s the voice every deputy in three counties still hears in their nightmares when they forget to call in a 10-28.”Joe blinks. “Your mom is the legendary ‘Dispatch Maria’ who once made a rookie cry over the radio for calling a cow a ‘bovine suspect’?”“The very same.”I keep going.“Dad? Current Chief Deputy, Bunnyburrow CSO. Thirty-five years on, still runs the range qualification for the whole department and can out-shoot half the SWAT guys with his off hand. Carries the same stainless Colt Python he qualified expert with in 1989. Still wears the original Stetson. Still calls everyone ‘son’ right before he tears them a new one.”Joe’s ears slowly flatten.“So you’re telling me I’m walking into a house where the mom can run an entire pursuit from the kitchen table and the dad can probably put six rounds in a quarter at fifty yards while telling me to keep my paws off his daughter.”“Pretty much,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “But the good news? They already like you.”He stares at me like I just grew a second head.“They’ve never met me.”“Mom listened to the whole takedown last night on the scanner (yes, she still has one in the kitchen). Heard you call out the foot pursuit, heard the cuffs go on, heard you read that piece of shit his rights without losing your breath. She told Dad, and I quote, ‘That coyote’s got ice water in his veins and good manners. I like him.’”Joe exhales like someone just took a brick off his chest.“Dad’s exact words,” I continue, “were ‘If he can run down a hyena twice his size in the rain, he can probably keep up with Katie on her worst day. Bring him to dinner.’”Joe actually smiles (small, relieved, tail giving one hopeful wag).“So… they’re not gonna hate me because I’m a city cop dating their little girl?”“Nah. They’re gonna grill you about response times, use-of-force policy, and whether you prefer flour or corn tortillas. Pass those tests and you’re golden.”He nods slow, then looks me dead in the eye.“Thanks for the heads-up, man.”I pull the small velvet bag out of my pocket and toss it to him.He catches it one-handed, opens it (inside is a polished Bunnyburrow CSO challenge coin, Dad’s old one from when he made sergeant).“Dad said give you this,” I tell him. “Told me, ‘If the coyote’s got the stones to walk into my house after the week he just had, he’s already one of us.’”Joe turns the coin over in his paw like it weighs a thousand pounds.“Sunday,” he says, voice steady. “I’ll be there. Good jeans, full stomach, and answers ready.”I grin and punch his shoulder.“That’s all they want, brother. Well, that and eventual grand-pups, but we’ll let Mom break that news over flan.”Joe groans, but he’s smiling.Welcome to the family, Darkclaw.You’re gonna fit right in.
Precinct One – Armory cage, 1745 (Pete’s POV
)I’m still laughing about the grand-pup talk when Kion appears in the doorway, arms folded, mane still damp from the shower, one brow raised so high it disappears into his fur.“Okay, hold up,” he says, voice low and amused. “You just told Joe your mom was Dispatch Maria and your dad’s the Chief Deputy out in Bunnyburrow, and somehow in the three years we’ve been bleeding together you never once dropped that little detail?”I shrug, slotting the last cleaned mag back into my plate carrier.“Never came up, man. You don’t walk around announcing your parents are basically law-enforcement royalty unless someone asks.”Kion steps closer, tail flicking.“Pete. Your mom is the voice that used to scare the piss out of every deputy in three counties when they forgot to 10-25. My first week on patrol I heard her rip a sergeant a new one for calling a traffic stop a ‘routine stop’ when it was clearly a pursuit. I thought she was God.”I snort. “Yeah, she gets that a lot.”“And your dad,” Kion continues, “Chief Deputy Wolford? The wolf who still qualifies expert every quarter with a wheel gun older than I am and once made a fleeing felon surrender by just staring at him through the windshield?”“Dad’s… intense,” I admit, grinning.Kion shakes his head, laughing under his breath.“So all this time I thought you were just some random wolf with good aim and a death wish, and you’re actually law-enforcement blue-blood?”“Blue-fur, technically,” I correct.He punches my shoulder (light, lion affection).“Next time we’re on a call in Bunnyburrow, you’re buying the coffee, rich kid.”“Deal,” I say. “But fair warning: Dad’ll probably try to recruit you. He’s got a thing for lions who can shoot.”Kion’s grin turns predatory.“Tell him I’m already taken by Twenty Squad… but I’ll let him try.”He heads for the door, still chuckling.I call after him: “And don’t tell Jasiri yet! She’ll want Mom’s dispatcher stories and we’ll never hear the end of it!”Too late. Kion’s already typing on his phone, tail swishing like a metronome.Great.By tonight the entire married-into-the-squad club is gonna know I’m law-enforcement nepotism in a gray-fur suit.Thanks, Kion.

Pete’s POV – Precinct One parking lot, 1805
Joe’s leaning against his F-150, keys dangling from one claw, looking like he’s about to face a firing squad instead of Sunday dinner.He finally asks the question he’s clearly been sitting on all day.“So… your dad. Big whiskey guy?”I snort. “Define ‘big.’”Joe raises an eyebrow.I grin.“Dad’s whiskey collection takes up an entire custom cabinet in the den. We’re talking Pappy 23 he won in a charity auction, a couple of bottles of Redbreast 27 he brought back from Ireland, and one ancient bottle of Wild Turkey ‘Cheesy Gold Foil’ from 1978 that he swears he’ll only open when the Cubs win the World Series again or one of his kids gives him a grand-pup (whichever comes first).”Joe’s ears droop a little.I keep going.“But here’s the trick: he doesn’t flex. He’ll pour you two fingers of whatever you want, then watch you like a hawk to see if you sip it or shoot it. Sip it slow and talk about the nose and the finish? You’re golden. Throw it back like it’s tequila? He’ll smile politely and never pour you the good stuff again.”Joe nods slow, processing.“So… bring a bottle?” he asks.“Already handled,” I say, reaching into the back seat of my Jeep and pulling out a plain brown paper bag. Inside: one bottle of Blanton’s Single Barrel, the one with the horse and jockey stopper marked “B”.“Dad’s favorite daily drinker,” I tell him. “Picked this barrel myself last year when we visited the distillery. Tell him it’s from you (he’ll know I picked it, but the gesture counts). Then let him pour you whatever he wants to share. You’ll be his favorite coyote by the time Mom brings out the flan.”Joe takes the bottle like it’s made of nitroglycerin.“Thanks, man.”“Anytime, brother.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Just remember: sip, don’t chug, compliment the vanilla notes, and you’ll have Chief Deputy Wolford eating out of your paw in ten minutes.”Joe exhales, tail giving one nervous wag.“Vanilla notes. Got it.”I grin.“You’re gonna do fine, Darkclaw. Dad’s gonna love you.”(And if the whiskey doesn’t seal the deal, the way you look at Kate like she hung the moon definitely will.)Sunday’s gonna be fun.
Kate’s POV – Sunday, 17:42,
pulling up to the old Wolford house in BunnyburrowThe gravel crunches under Joe’s tires as he parks his F-150 next to Dad’s meticulously waxed Sheriff’s Tahoe. The porch light is already on, Mom’s carnitas smell drifting all the way to the street, and I swear I can hear Dad sharpening his stare from here.Joe kills the engine, takes one look at the house (wrap-around porch, American flag, the little wooden sign that says “Home of a Bunnyburrow Deputy – Enter at Your Own Risk”), and his ears flick back half an inch.I reach over and squeeze his paw.“Breathe, coyote. They already like you. Pete made sure of that.”He huffs a laugh, grabs the bottle of Blanton’s from the back seat like it’s body armor.Pete’s Jeep is already here (of course he showed up early to “help” Mom and probably stir the pot).The front door swings open before we’re even out of the truck.Mom barrels down the steps in her favorite red apron, arms already open.“¡Mija! ¡Y tú debes ser Joe!”She engulfs him in a hug so fierce his tail puffs. Joe freezes for half a second, then melts and hugs her back with one arm (the other still clutching the whiskey for dear life).Dad follows slower, Stetson in one paw, reading glasses tucked in his shirt pocket, measuring Joe with that calm wolf stare that’s ended more careers than any review board.Pete’s leaning in the doorway, grinning like the traitor he is.Mom finally releases Joe and cups his cheeks. “Ay, so handsome! Come, come, you’re too skinny. I have carnitas.”Dad steps forward, offers a paw the size of a dinner plate.“Joe Darkclaw,” he rumbles. “Heard a lot. Good things.”Joe shakes it (firm, respectful). “Chief Deputy Wolford. Pleasure’s mine, sir.”Dad’s eyes flick to the Blanton’s bottle, then to Pete, then back to Joe. One corner of his mouth twitches (Dad’s version of a smile).“Call me Mike. And you brought the good stuff. Smart coyote.”Pete pushes off the doorframe, slings an arm around Joe’s shoulders.“Told you he’d like the whiskey bribe.”Mom swats Pete with a dish towel. “¡Adentro, todos! Food’s getting cold and I want to know everything about the mammal who finally got my Katie to stop working double shifts.”Joe glances at me, ears perked, tail giving one hopeful wag.I lace my fingers through his and tug him toward the porch.“Welcome to the madness, Officer Darkclaw. Try to keep up.”Dad claps him on the back as we pass (hard enough to rattle plates).“Son, you’re in for the best meal and the longest interrogation of your life.”Joe laughs (real, warm, not even nervous anymore).“Wouldn’t miss it, sir.”And just like that, the coyote who kicks doors for a living walks into the Wolford den holding my paw and the good whiskey.I squeeze his fingers.He squeezes back.Yeah.He’s gonna fit just fine.
Precinct One – Squad bay, 0645 Monday morning (Joe’s POV)
I walk in with two boxes of donuts and a coffee tray like I’m paying protection money.The entire team is already waiting, circled up like wolves around a fresh kill.Gina’s perched on the edge of a table, tail flicking.
Loona’s got her phone up, recording.
Kion and Kovu are shoulder-to-shoulder, arms folded, matching grins.
Nick’s leaning against the whiteboard with his “tell me everything” smirk.
Even Pete (traitor) is filming on his phone with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen.I barely set the boxes down before the ambush starts.Gina: “Scale of one to ten, how many times did Mom cry?”Loona: “Did Dad do the revolver-cleaning thing on the kitchen table?”Kion: “Did she feed you until you had to unbutton your jeans?”Kovu: “Were there baby pictures? Because Pete swears there’s one of Kate in the bath with a fire helmet on.”Pete, loud enough for the whole floor to hear: “Did Mom break out the ‘when am I getting grand-pups’ speech before or after the flan?”I raise both paws.“Okay, okay! Hostage situation noted. I’ll talk, just… lower the weapons.”I take a long drink of coffee for dramatic effect.“Short version: Mom hugged me so hard I felt my spine reorganize. Called me mijo within five minutes.
Dad shook my paw, saw the Blanton’s, grunted approval, then spent twenty minutes talking ballistics and barrel selection while cleaning his Python (yes, on the kitchen table).
I ate three plates of carnitas, two bowls of mole, and so much flan I’m still full.
Mom did the grand-pup hint exactly once (over dessert, very smooth, something about ‘strong shoulders for carrying babies’). Kate turned redder than the salsa.
Dad ended the night by giving me one of his old challenge coins and saying, ‘You hurt her, we’ll never find the body.’ Then clapped me on the back hard enough to stagger me and added, ‘But you won’t. Welcome to the family, son.’”

The entire bay goes dead quiet for half a second.Then Gina whoops. Loona actually cheers. Kion and Kovu fist-bump. Nick slow-claps like he’s proud of his evil creation.Pete just grins wider.“Told you the whiskey would work.”I flip him off with the hand still holding the coffee.Nick finally speaks up.“So when’s the wedding?”I choke on my donut.Loona throws her head back and howls laughing.Gina wipes a fake tear. “Our little boy’s all grown up and getting adopted by the Wolfords.”I look around at my team (my family) and can’t even pretend to be annoyed.“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, but I’m smiling so wide my face hurts. “Laugh it up. Next one of you who brings someone home gets the exact same treatment.”Kion and Kovu both point at their wedding rings at the same time.“Already survived it, coyote.”Pete raises his paw. “Still single and planning to stay that way, thank you.”Loona just smirks. “If I ever bring a girl home, Mom’s gonna lose her mind in the opposite direction.”I grab another donut and point it at all of them like a baton.“Just remember: payback’s a bitch, and I now have an entire Wolford family recipe book to weaponize.”The bay erupts again.Best Monday briefing ever.Twenty Squad: 1
My dignity: technically still breathing.Kate: totally worth it.

Chapter Text

Precinct One – Roll-call room, 0655 (Joe’s POV)
Patrol Day is the one day every quarter when the brass decides SWAT needs to remember what traffic stops feel like. The room is already packed with regular patrol blues (shiny badges, crisp shirts, boots you can see your face in). Then we walk in: Twenty Squad, Thirty Squad, Ten Squad (all of us looking like kids who just got told we have to wear school uniforms again). Nick leads the way in his dress blouse, sergeant stripes gleaming, looking annoyingly perfect. Loona’s behind him, tail flicking like she’s personally offended by the polyester blend. Gina’s shirt is so tight across the shoulders, I’m waiting for a button to launch into orbit. I slide into a seat next to Pete, who’s wrestling with his clip-on tie like it’s a chokehold.“I forgot how much I hate this shirt,” he mutters. “Feels like I’m wearing a plastic bag. “Tell me about it,” I say, tugging at the collar that’s already trying to strangle me. “Last time I wore blues, Kate laughed so hard she snorted coffee.”Loona leans over the back of my chair. “You look like a very serious coyote boy scout. Does Kate make you wear the hat in bed?”I flip her off without looking. The watch commander (Lieutenant Grierson, the rhino who still hates Nick on principle) clears his throat at the podium.“Today, all specialty units are back in patrol blues. That means Twenty, Thirty, and Ten are on regular sector cars—no BearCats, no plainclothes, no rifles bigger than your duty shotgun. You write tickets, you handle domestics, you remember what sunshine feels like. Questions?”A collective groan ripples through the specialty rows. Grierson’s horn twitches (rhino version of a smile).“Good. Sector assignments: Twenty Squad, you’re taking Sector 7, Rainforest District, Car 1-Adam-20. Thirty gets Downtown, Ten gets the Burrows. Try not to scare the citizens.”Nick raises a paw. “Permission to keep the Kimber .45s? Department-issue Glocks feel like toys after SWAT school.”Grierson snorts. “Denied. Standard duty gear only. Welcome back to the Stone Age, Wilde.”Pete leans over. “Ten bucks says Nick finds a way to sneak his 1911 anyway. “Twenty says he already has it in an ankle holster,” I whisper back. We stand for the pledge, the anthem, and the daily spiel about pursuits and de-escalation. As we file out, Gina flexes, and one of her shoulder seams makes an ominous ripping sound. Loona pats her on the back. “Don’t worry, big cat. If you hulk out, we’ll just tell dispatch it’s a use-of-force incident.”Kion and Kovu are already comparing how ridiculous their short-sleeve blues look with their manes sticking out of the collar. I catch my reflection in the glass door (coyote in patrol blues, Twenty Squad patch on the shoulder, Kate’s thin blue-line bracelet still on my wrist under the sleeve). I look like a uniform again. Feels weird.Feels right.One day of writing parking tickets and breaking up bar fights in the rain. Then tomorrow we go back to being the city’s boogeymen. I adjust my duty belt, settle the eight-point hat, and follow the team out to the motor pool. Patrol Day.Time to remind the streets we started here. And we never really left.
The lot smells like wet asphalt and burnt coffee. A whole row of black-and-white 2019 Dodge Charger Pursuits sits waiting, light bars dark for now. Pete and I get assigned 1-Adam-20, a Charger with 89,000 hard miles and a faint coffee stain on the passenger seat that nobody’s ever managed to clean. Pete heads straight for the armory cage while I pop the trunk and start the pre-shift dance. Trunk check: flares, traffic cones, first-aid trauma bag, spare cuffs, AED
Back seat: prisoner screen intact, no contraband from last shift
Push bar, spotlight, wig-wags all responding
Body cam on and synced
MDT boots up, logs me in as DARKCLAW/J
LPR cameras (four of them) come online, green across the board
Radar head in the windshield pings 000.0 (calibrated and happy)

Pete comes back loaded like it’s Christmas: Remington 870 with rifle sights and side-saddle
Penn Arms 40mm bean-bag shotgun
Patrol M4 with ACOG and weapon light

He racks the 870 once, safety checks it, then drops it into the vertical lock between us.“Figured we’d at least pretend we’re still dangerous,” he grins, sliding the bean-bag gun into the trunk rack. I finish the MDT log-in and hit the en route button. Across the lot, Gina and Loona are arguing over who gets to drive (Gina wins by sheer size). Kion and Kovu are already in their Charger, both lions somehow fitting in the front seat without looking ridiculous. I slide behind the wheel, adjust the seat forward (whoever had this car last was built like a bear), and fire it up. The 5.7L Hemi rumbles to life like it’s offended it’s not chasing felons at 140. Pete drops into the passenger seat, buckles up, and slaps the dashboard.“Remember,” he says, “if we get a pursuit call, I’m driving. You still owe me for that time you took out three mailboxes in the Crown Vic. “That was one mailbox and a very aggressive shrub,” I mutter, pulling out of the spot. He snorts. “Tell it to the city insurance adjuster.”We roll toward the gate, light bar still dark, windows down, patrol blues feeling both foreign and familiar. Pete keys the mic.“1-Adam-20, show us in service, Sector 7.”Dispatch comes back instantly: “1-Adam-20, in service at 0728 hours. Welcome back to the road, Twenty.”Pete looks over at me, grinning.“Patrol Day, baby. Let’s go write some parking tickets and pretend we’re normal cops for eight hours.”I flick on the wig-wags just to watch them flash in the rear-view. Normal is overrated.But cruising with my best friend in a Charger that smells like gun oil and stale coffee? This I can do.
Sector 7 – Rainforest District, 0941 (Joe’s POV)
The call comes over the air while Pete’s halfway through a powdered donut.“1-Adam-20, respond Code 2 to a possible 459 in progress, 1427 Vine Street, single-story residence. RP states they heard glass breaking at the rear and saw a figure in dark clothing go inside. Neighbor is watching from across the street.”Pete wipes sugar off his muzzle. “And there goes the quiet morning.”I hit the en route button. “1-Adam-20, Code 2, 459 in progress, 1427 Vine.”I flip on the lights and siren, drop the hammer, and the Charger leaps forward like it’s been waiting for this all day. Three minutes later, we roll up silent, kill the lights a block out, and coast to the curb. The house is a modest bungalow (green paint, overgrown ferns, back gate hanging open). A nervous red panda in a bathrobe is waiting on the neighbor’s porch, pointing frantically toward the rear. Pete’s already out, shotgun in hand. I grab the patrol M4, rack a round, and we move. We split at the gate: Pete low along the left fence, me right. I can hear glass crunching under boots inside. I key my shoulder mic, whisper-quiet: “1-Adam-20 on scene, one possible suspect inside, rear entry. Request backup and K-9 if available.”Dispatch: “Copy, additional units en route, ETA four minutes.”Four minutes is a lifetime in a hot burglary. Pete meets my eyes across the yard, nods once. We flow to the back door (sliding glass, shattered, curtain flapping in the breeze). I pie the corner, M4 up. Living room’s trashed: drawers dumped, TV knocked over. Pete signals: he’ll take left, I'll take right. We step inside.“Zootopia PD! Show yourself!”Movement (kitchen, fast). A raccoon in a black hoodie bolts out the side door, grocery bag full of electronics in one paw, a pry bar in the other. Pete’s already moving. “Suspect fleeing eastbound on foot!”I’m right behind him. We explode out of the side gate into the alley. Raccoon’s fast, but panic makes him sloppy. He trips over a trash can, spills half the loot, and scrambles up. Pete raises the bean-bag shotgun. “Stop or eat this!” Raccoon keeps running. Pete fires (THUMP).
Orange bag hits him square in the back. He goes down like a sack of bricks, groaning. I’m on him in two seconds (knee in the back, cuffs out).“Hands behind your back! Stop resisting!”He’s done. Breathing hard, swearing, but done. Pete keys the mic while I finish cuffing.“1-Adam-20, one in custody, 459 suspect. Need a wagon and a supervisor for the scene.”Two minutes later, Gina and Loona roll up hot, lights flashing, both grinning like wolves who just heard the dinner bell. Gina hops out. “Patrol Day, and you two already caught a burglar? Show-offs.”Loona takes the suspect from me, hauls him up by the scruff.“Nice tackle, little brother,” she smirks. “Kate’s gonna love the body-cam footage.”Pete slaps my back. “Told you the Charger wanted action.”I look at the raccoon now face-down in the alley, then at the shotgun still smoking in Pete’s paw. Patrol blues, traffic stops, and now a foot chase and a bean-bag takedown before 1000.Welcome back to the street, Twenty Squad.Feels like we never left.

Chapter Text

1427 Vine Street – 0952 (Joe’s POV)
The burglar is cuffed in the back of Gina’s car, still whining about his back, when I decide to do one last walk-through to make sure nothing else is missing. The back bedroom door is closed.
I push it open with my boot. The smell hits first: copper, rot, and something sweet underneath. Then I see it. A body on the floor, face down in a pool that’s long since dried black.
The face… There is no face left.
Just pulp.
Skull caved in, jaw shattered, teeth scattered like dice.
So much damage I can’t even tell if it was a mammal, what species, male, female, anything. My stomach drops straight through my boots.“Pete,” I call, voice flat. “Get in here. Now.”He’s behind me in three seconds, shotgun still in hand. One look and the color drains from his muzzle.“Jesus Christ…”He steps past me, careful not to disturb the scene, and crouches.“Blunt force. Repeated. Whoever did this wasn’t stopping until there was nothing left to hit.”I key my shoulder mic, force my voice steady.“1-Adam-20 to Dispatch, start me a supervisor, homicide detectives, and the coroner to 1427 Vine. We’ve got a deceased party, extensive trauma. This just went from burglary to murder.”Dispatch comes back clipped and urgent: “Copy, all units hold the scene, perimeter now.”Gina and Loona are already stringing tape. Kion and Kovu roll up a minute later, faces going hard the second they see us standing guard at the bedroom door. Pete stands up slowly, ears flat.“I’ve seen war zones with less rage than this,” he mutters. I stare at what used to be a face and feel the old Scorpion chill crawl up my spine. Our quiet patrol day just became something much darker. And somewhere out there, the mammal who did this is still walking free. Not for long. Twenty Squad’s on the clock now.
And we don’t stop until monsters are in cages (or graves).

The circus arrives. First the coroner’s van, then the crime-scene wagon, then two unmarked sedans that scream “detective” even without the lights. Out of the first sedan steps Detective Amanda Lang (clouded leopard, petite, grey-and-black rosettes, eyes like winter steel). She’s wearing a dark blazer and the kind of expression that says she’s already three steps ahead of everyone in the room. Her partner, Detective Frank Wilson (snow leopard, bigger, white fur with charcoal spots, shoulders that fill a doorway), follows with a camera bag and a roll of evidence tape. Lang takes one look at the perimeter, the cuffed burglar in the back of Gina’s car, and then at Pete and me standing guard at the bedroom door.“Twenty Squad on a patrol day,” she says, voice dry. “Of course it’s you two who find the floater.”Wilson grunts agreement, already snapping on nitrile gloves. Pete gives them the quick version: “Burglary-in-progress call. Suspect in custody for the B&E. We cleared the house and found… this.”Lang steps past us into the bedroom, pauses just inside the threshold. Even she flinches (barely, but I catch it).“Sweet mother of…” Wilson mutters behind her, camera already up. Lang crouches near the body, careful not to touch anything.“Blunt-force trauma, overkill level. Face is obliterated. Whoever did this wanted to erase identity.”She looks up at us. “You touch anything? “Negative,” I answer. “The door was closed. We opened, saw, backed out, called it in.”Wilson starts photographing from every angle, flash strobing off the blood-spattered walls. Lang stands, tail lashing once.“The coroner’s gonna need dental or DNA. No wallet, no phone in plain view. Looks like the killer took anything that could ID the vic fast.”She turns to the uniformed sergeant who just arrived.“The house is now a homicide scene. Full lockdown. I want every neighbor canvassed, every camera in a five-block radius pulled.”Then back to us.“Darkclaw, Wolford, good eyes. We’ll take it from here. Write your supplement and send it to me directly.”Pete nods. “Copy, Detective.”As the forensics techs start laying down markers and stringing lights, Lang pauses beside me.“Off the record,” she says quietly, “whoever did this is still keyed up. Overkill like that doesn’t cool off fast. Keep your heads on swivels.”I meet her eyes. “Always do.”She gives a short nod and disappears back into the bedroom with Wilson. Pete and I step outside into the sunlight that suddenly feels too bright. From burglary to murder in under thirty minutes. Patrol Day just became something else entirely. And somewhere out there, a killer thinks they got away clean. They really, really didn’t.
1427 Vine Street – 1032 (Nick’s POV)I roll up in my assigned patrol Charger (1-Adam-21), lights off, blues still feeling like borrowed skin. The scene’s already locked down tight: yellow tape flapping, uniforms on every corner, a forensics van blocking the driveway. I spot Joe and Pete standing by their unit, both looking like they just swallowed something sour. I hop out, flash my sergeant’s badge to the perimeter uniform, and stride straight to them.“Alright, you two,” I say, keeping my voice low enough that the reporters can’t hear. “Walk me through it. Dispatch said burglary, then suddenly we’ve got a homicide call with Twenty Squad tags. What the hell happened?”Joe’s ears are half-flat, jaw tight. Pete’s got that thousand-yard stare he only gets when things go sideways fast. Joe speaks first.“Possible 459 in progress. Neighbor heard glass break, saw a raccoon in a hoodie go in the back. We roll up, take the burglar down in the alley (bean-bag shotgun, clean). Start clearing the house to make sure no one else is inside. The back bedroom door was closed. Opened it and…”He stops, tail still. Pete picks it up, voice flat. “Body on the floor. Face beaten so badly you can’t even tell the species. Blunt force, overkill. Looks personal.”I glance past them to the open front door where Amanda Lang and Frank Wilson are already working the room.“Coroner’s estimate?” I ask.“Decomp says at least thirty-six hours,” Joe answers. “Burglar probably stumbled onto it while scavenging. Wrong place, wrong time.”I exhale through my teeth.“So on the one day the brass makes us play beat cop, we walk into a murder that makes the Night Howler case look tidy.”Pete huffs a humorless laugh. “Welcome to Patrol Day.”I clap them both on the shoulder.“You two did well. Held the scene, preserved evidence, didn’t puke on my crime scene. I’m proud.”Joe finally cracks a tired half-smile. “Thanks, Sarge.”I glance back at the house, then at them.“Write it clean, send it to Lang. Then go get coffee and something greasy. This one’s theirs now.”Pete nods. “Copy that.”I start to walk away, then turn back.“And boys? Next time the brass wants us in blues, remind me to call in sick.”Joe snorts. “Already planning it.”I head toward Lang and Wilson to get the official hand-off. Patrol Day: where the universe reminds us nothing’s ever routine.Especially not for Twenty Squad.

Chapter Text

Sector 7 – Rainforest District, 1048 (Gina’s POV)
The call comes in while Loona and I are grabbing coffee at the gas station.“1-Adam-22, respond Code 2 to a 647(b) in progress, male streaker running south on Palm Boulevard. RP says he’s completely nude and yelling about ‘cleansing negative energy.’”Loona doesn’t even look up from her phone.“Yax,” she says, deadpan. “Seventh time this year.”I groan so loud the cashier flinches. We pile back into the Charger (me driving, because I’m bigger and I called it), lights and yelp on, and two minutes later we roll up on the scene. There he is. Yax the yak, stark naked, dreadlocks swinging, running down the sidewalk like he’s late for enlightenment. A crowd of tourists is filming, a barista is screaming, and traffic has stopped just to watch the show. Loona keys the mic. “1-Adam-22 on scene. Suspect in sight. It’s Yax. Again.”Dispatch actually laughs before acknowledging. I throw the car in park, hop out, and (oh gods, why). Full frontal yak. Everything just… dangling in the breeze. I shield my eyes with one paw. “Yax! ZPD! Stop running and cover up!”He spots us, throws both arms in the air like he’s greeting the sun.“Officers! The universe has blessed me with freedom!”Loona circles behind him, cuffs already out. I grab the emergency blanket from the trunk (we keep one specifically for this idiot now) and try to throw it around him like a toreador cape. He spins, hugs me instead, and I get a face full of wet yak fur and patchouli.“Gina! Your aura is so tense! You need to release—” I shove the blanket into his chest and step back fast.“Hands behind your back, Yax. You know the drill.”Loona snaps the cuffs on while reciting the same speech she’s given him six times before.“You have the right to remain naked, anything you say can and will be used to mock you in roll call…”He just smiles the whole way to the car. I slam the door, wipe yak smell off my uniform, and look at Loona.“Seventh arrest,” I mutter. “I’m filing a complaint with the universe.”Loona grins, already typing the report title on the MDT.Subject: Yax, Y.
Charge: 647(b) PC – Indecent Exposure (Chronic Offender)
Narrative: “Suspect claims clothing blocks chi. Court disagrees. Seventh occurrence.”She hits submit.“Next time,” I say, starting the car, “we’re letting Joe and Pete handle him. Let them see something I don’t want to look at.”Loona laughs the whole way back to the station. Patrol Day:
Joe and Pete get a murder.
We get naked yak. Welcome to Zootopia.
Precinct One – Booking, 1123 (Gina’s POV)
Yax is still humming some mantra when we march him into the cage. The booking sergeant takes one look, sighs like a mammal who’s seen it all, and just hands us the same pre-filled 647(b) form he keeps in the top drawer for this exact yak. Yax tries to hug the sergeant. The sergeant sidesteps, points to the bench.“Sit. No lotus position. No downward dog. Just sit.”Loona finishes the paperwork while I bag the blanket as evidence (because yes, we have to). Once he’s printed, photographed, and given his orange jumpsuit (he tries to refuse it for spiritual reasons, gets told “spirituality doesn’t beat PC 647”), we finally get him into a holding cell. Loona leans against the wall, arms folded.“Seventh arrest,” she mutters. “Judge is gonna start charging him rent.”I pull out my phone, already dialing SVU. Jasiri picks up on the second ring.“Detective Abdi. “It’s Gina. We’re booking Yax again (indecent exposure #7). But that’s not why I’m calling.”I glance down the hall to make sure no one’s listening.“Joe and Pete just found a body on their burglary call. Back bedroom. Face beaten beyond recognition. Lang and Wilson are on scene. Thought you and Rani would want first look before the coroner wheels it out.”Silence for half a beat.“We’re ten minutes out,” Jasiri says, voice suddenly all business. “Keep the scene locked down until we get there. “Copy that.”She hangs up. Loona raises an eyebrow.“SVU inbound? “Yeah. Whatever happened in that house wasn’t random.”I look back at the holding cell where Yax is now trying to meditate in an orange jumpsuit. Patrol Day: from naked yak to homicide in under four hours.Never a dull moment in Sector 7. And the day’s not even half over.
Precinct One – Captain’s Office, 1155 (Judy’s POV)
I close the door behind Rani and Jasiri and gesture to the chairs.“Sit. Both of you.”They exchange a quick look (half curiosity, half dread), then drop into the seats. I lean against my desk, arms folded.“First, excellent work on the Kasi case. Arraignment’s tomorrow, and the DNA plus his confession means he’s never seeing daylight again. You two closed that one clean.”They both nod, waiting for the other shoe. I let it drop.“Second… I just got a call from Booking. They’ve got Yax in holding (seventh indecent exposure). Gina and Loona brought him in.”Jasiri groans. Rani actually snorts (then tries to cover it with a cough). I raise an eyebrow. “Something you want to share, Detective Jackson?”Rani’s ears flick back, but her grin is pure teenage mischief.“Captain… senior year of high school, homecoming game against Savannah Central. I lost a bet to my cousin. Had to streak across the field at halftime wearing nothing but my letterman jacket and a lion mask.”Jasiri loses it (full hyena cackle, slapping the armrest).“YOU? Miss ‘By-The-Book’ Jackson?” she wheezes. Rani shrugs, cheeks dark but defiant. “I was seventeen, fast, and the band was playing ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ Seemed like a good idea at the time. Got three days suspension and legendary status.”I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting a laugh.“So what you’re telling me is the lead detective on my serial rapist case once streaked for a dare, and now we have a chronic naked yak in holding who thinks clothing is oppression. “Pretty much,” Rani says, still grinning. Jasiri wipes her eyes. “Ma’am, permission to never let her live this down? “Granted,” I say, finally letting the smile win. “But only in private. In public, we maintain the illusion that SVU detectives have always been dignified professionals.”I push off the desk.“Now go process your murder scene before the coroner starts complaining. And try not to arrest anyone for public nudity on the way.”Rani stands, salutes with two fingers.“No promises, Captain. The full moon’s coming.”They file out, Jasiri still giggling. I shake my head, ears twitching. Only in Zootopia.Only on Patrol Day.

Chapter Text

Precinct One – Armory cage, 1745, end of Patrol Day (Pete’s POV)
Joe’s got the Remington 870 from our Charger laid across the cleaning bench like it’s a science project. The tube’s empty, the chamber’s open, and he’s got that look (the same one he used to get in Scorpion when he was about to do something either brilliant or banned by the range manual). I lean against the cage door, arms folded.“What fresh chaos are you cooking up, Darkclaw?”“Ghost-loading,” he says, not looking up. “Been meaning to try it with the duty 870. Figure if we ever have to run a breaching shotgun in uniform, I want to know it works.”He grabs a handful of 00 buck from the ammo can. Standard tube capacity: four in the mag, one in the chamber. Five total. Joe drops four into the tube (normal).
Racks the action (chamber empty, first shell feeds onto the carrier).
Then, instead of racking again, he thumbs a fifth shell straight into the open chamber and eases the fore-end forward until the bolt closes on it. Five in the tube now, plus one in the chamber. Six+1.He gives the fore-end a little wiggle (shell latch holds, no double-feed).“Ghost load,” he says, grinning like a kid who just discovered fire. “One extra round without extending the tube. Works perfectly on the 870P.”I whistle low.“Range master catches you doing that during quals, you’re buying coffee for a month.”“Range master isn’t here,” he answers, already practicing the motion again (smooth, fast, muscle memory building). “And if we’re ever in a hallway with five tangos and only four in the tube, I want that sixth round ready to go.”He racks it again (shell on the carrier pops up clean, no crunch). Then unloads on the table: six shells in a neat row.“Works every time,” he says, satisfied. I grab my own 870 off the rack and try it (same motion). Takes me two tries to get the timing right, but when the bolt closes on that sixth shell, it feels like cheating in the best way.“Scorpion would’ve loved this,” I mutter. Joe’s ears flick (just once) at the name.“Yeah,” he says quietly. “They would.”We both stand there for a second, two wolves in patrol blues, holding shotguns that suddenly feel a little more dangerous. Then Joe slaps my shoulder.“Come on. Let’s clean these before someone sees us and writes a new policy.”I grin.“Too late. I’m teaching the whole team tomorrow.”He laughs the whole way out of the cage. Patrol Day might’ve been hell, but at least we leave it with one more trick up our sleeves.Six+1.Just in case.
Downtown Zootopia – “The Velvet Burrow” cartel brothel raid, 0308 (Joe’s POV)
Twenty Squad hits the front and side doors at the exact same second. Flashbangs cook off, suppressed 416s bark, zip-ties snap on wrists. It’s controlled chaos, exactly how we like it. I’m third in the stack for the second-floor hallway. Gina kicks the last door; I flow in low. Room’s dim, red lights, velvet everything. Four cartel gunmen are already down from Kion and Kovu’s entry. One working girl (a red vixen in lingerie and too much perfume) is still on the bed, screaming.“ZPD! Hands up, get on the floor!”She bolts instead, straight at me, claws out, eyes wild. I drop the muzzle, step in to grab her wrist (non-lethal, trying to keep this from turning into a bloodbath).Bad call. Her knee comes up fast, perfect angle, dead-on into my cup. Even with the level-III groin protector, it feels like someone hit me with a cinder block at Mach 2. Air leaves my lungs in a sound I didn’t know I could make. I fold like cheap furniture, 416 clattering to the carpet, both paws instinctively going to protect what’s left of my future children. She tries to vault over me. Pete’s already there, scoops her mid-air, plants her face-down, zips her wrists.“Easy, ma’am. Assault on an officer just added five years to your night.”I’m on my knees, trying to remember how breathing works, vision tunneling. Pete glances down, fighting a grin.“You good, brother?”I wheeze something that might be English. Loona steps in, sees me curled on the floor, and loses it.“Oh my gods, she got you right in the baby-maker!”Gina’s laugh echoes down the hallway. Nick’s voice in my earpiece, calm as ever: “Darkclaw, status?”I manage a strangled, “Suspect… detained. Need… ice.”Pete hauls me up by the drag handle on my carrier.“Walk it off, Dad-of-the-year. Kate’s never gonna let you live this down.”I limp toward the door, still cupping the family jewels.“Worth it,” I croak. “At least… she didn’t have stilettos.”The entire stack is laughing now (even the arrested Johns in the hallway look sympathetic).Twenty Squad: 1
My reproductive future: questionable, successful.Dignity… optional.
Precinct One – SWAT locker room, 0620 the next morning (Joe’s POV)
I limp into the locker room still moving like I’ve got a cracked pelvis (because I basically do). My groin’s one giant bruise under the cup I never, ever plan to take off again. I open my locker. Sitting front-and-center on the top shelf is a brand-new hockey-style protective cup (the big, hard-shell kind goalies wear), painted matte black with “DARKCLAW – NUTCRACKER SURVIVOR” stenciled in white block letters. Attached is a sticky note in Loona’s handwriting: “For your next dance with a hooker. Love, the entire squad
P.S. Kate helped pick the color.”Below that, in Pete’s scrawl:
“We all chipped in. You’re welcome, future dad.”There’s also a tiny bag of frozen peas taped to the inside of the locker door and a printed photo of last night’s vixen being loaded into the wagon (someone drew a red circle around her knee and labeled it “Weapon of Mass Destruction”). I hear snickering from the benches. Gina’s filming on her phone. Kion and Kovu are fake-crying with pride. Nick’s just sipping coffee like a proud dad. Even Commander Jackson walks by, glances at the cup, and grunts once (which, from him, is basically a standing ovation). I flip them all off with one paw, grab the new cup with the other, and can’t help the grin. Twenty Squad: always got your back.
And now, apparently, my front too. I swap out the old cup for the new one (bigger, meaner, and now officially department-issue by popular vote). Kate’s never letting me forget this. Worth it.
Joe’s apartment – 2209, Friday night (Joe’s POV)
The credits are rolling on whatever action movie we half-watched, the takeout boxes are stacked on the coffee table, and Kate’s curled against my side on the couch in one of my ZPD T-shirts and nothing else. She’s been quiet for the last ten minutes, tracing idle circles on my chest with one claw. That usually means she’s working up to something. I kiss the top of her head. “Out with it, wolf.”She takes a slow breath, ears flicking pink.“So… I’ve been thinking,” she starts, then sits up so she can look me in the eye. “I want to try… anal. With you.”The room temperature jumps about twenty degrees. I blink, make sure I heard that right.“You sure?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle. “We’ve never—”“I know,” she cuts in, soft but steady. “And I trust you. I’ve been… reading up, bought some stuff, been prepping on my own a little. I just… really want to try it with someone I love and who won’t make me feel weird about it.”Her tail wags once, nervous but determined. I cup her cheek, thumb brushing that soft spot under her jaw that always makes her melt.“Kate, nothing you want is ever weird with me. We go as slow as you need, we stop the second you say stop, and if it’s not fun, we forget it ever came up. Deal?”She nods, ears still pink but eyes shining.“Deal.”I pull her into a slow kiss, then stand, scoop her up (she squeaks, legs wrapping my waist automatically).“Bedroom,” I murmur against her lips. “Lights low, music on, and about an hour of me making you relax before we even think about the main event.”She buries her face in my neck, laughing softly.“Yes, Officer.”An hour later, candles flickering, her moaning my name into a pillow, every muscle loose from two orgasms and the best massage I’ve ever given…We take it slow, carefully, talking the whole way. And when it finally happens (when she’s ready, when she’s pushing back against me herself, when she comes again with a broken, perfect growl of my name), I know two things for sure: I’m the luckiest coyote alive.
That new protective cup in my locker is definitely getting a “Kate-Approved” sticker tomorrow.
Twenty Squad can roast me all they want. Worth it. Every second.

ZFD Station 3 – Ambulance bay, 0715 Monday morning (Kate’s POV
I’m trying to walk normally (really trying), but every step reminds me exactly how thoroughly Joe took care of me all weekend. My tail’s sore, my hips are loose, and I’m pretty sure I’m glowing like a neon sign. I’m loading the trauma bag into the rig when Echo Donovan (my partner, painted dog, zero filter) leans against the bumper, arms folded, ears perked, and that shit-eating grin already in place.“Alright, Wolford,” she says, voice dripping with mischief. “You’re walking like you just rode a horse for three days straight. Either you and the SWAT coyote finally did the butt thing, or you’ve been secretly training for the rodeo.”I drop the bag, ears flaming so hot I could toast bread on them.“Echo!”She cackles, tail wagging like a helicopter.“I’m right, aren’t I? Look at you (limping, blushing, and wearing that ‘well-loved’ grin). Spill, girl. How was it? Scale of one to ten? Did he cry? Did you cry? Details!”I shove the trauma bag at her chest to shut her up.“It was… ten,” I mutter. “Eleven. He was perfect (patient, sweet, made sure I came first twice before we even got to the main event). And yes, I’m sore in places I didn’t know had muscles, and I’d do it again tonight if I wasn’t on shift.”Echo whoops so loud the captain pokes his head out of the office.“Atta girl!” She slings an arm around my shoulders. “Proud of you. First-time anal, and you picked a coyote who apparently knows what he’s doing. Respect.”I hide my face in my paws, tail wagging despite myself.“Shut up before the whole station hears. “Too late,” she says, steering me toward the driver’s seat. “I’m telling everyone you finally got properly railed by Officer Dreamboat. But don’t worry (your secret’s safe with me, the entire rig, and probably dispatch by lunch).”I groan, but I’m laughing. Worth every step of the funny walk.Joe Darkclaw, you absolute menace. I owe you big time tonight.

Chapter Text

ZPD Training Compound – Joint SWAT/Bomb Squad/CNT Exercise, 0800 (Joe’s POV)
The entire compound is locked down for today’s full-scale scenario: a multi-site hostage crisis with IEDs, armed suspects, and a ticking clock. Twenty Squad is in full kit (plates, 416s, suppressors, the works).
Bomb Squad (Elena Sánchez and her team) is in their black bomb suits that make them look like armored beetles.
CNT (Crisis Negotiation Team) is set up in a trailer fifty yards back, headsets on, ready to talk the “suspects” down. The scenario: three role-players (former Marines playing cartel hardcases) have taken over a mock office building. They’ve wired the entrances with simulated pressure-plate IEDs, taken six hostages (training dummies with heart-rate monitors), and are demanding a helicopter and ten million in diamonds. Nick briefs us in the staging area.“Rules of engagement: Bomb techs clear the doors.
CNT has ten minutes to talk.
If negotiators fail, we breach and neutralize.
One wrong move and the whole building ‘detonates.’ Fail, and we all buy Commander Jackson steak for a month.”

Elena Sánchez steps up, helmet under one arm.“Pressure plates are live sims (inert explosives, real detonators). Step off the cleared path, and the range safety officer hits the siren. Then you’re all dead, and I get to say ‘told you so’ for the next year.”The CNT lead (a calm female red fox named Mara) raises a paw. “Suspects are wired hot. If you go loud before we give the green, the hostages die automatically.”Nick nods. “Copy. Let’s see if talking works first.”We watch from the monitor feed as Mara’s voice comes over the bullhorn, smooth and steady. The role-players scream back demands, threaten to start executing hostages in five minutes. Clock ticks. At 00:04:57, Mara keys her mic: “Negotiation failed. Go loud.”That’s our cue. Elena’s team rolls the TALON robot to the main entrance, X-rays the door, and confirms the pressure plate.“Linear charge, stand by.”BOOM (controlled breach). Door folds inward. We flow in behind them (me, Pete, Gina, Loona, Kion, Kovu), moving like water around the bomb techs who are already disarming the simulated devices. Room one: two suspects, one hostage.
Kion and Kovu take precision shots (simunition headshots).
Hostage safe. Room two: tripwire across the hallway.
Elena’s tech freezes us with a raised fist, cuts the wire with a remote tool. We keep moving. Final room: the last suspect holding a dead-man switch wired to a “vest bomb” on the final hostage. Pete (already on overwatch from the second-floor catwalk) puts one suppressed round through the role-player’s hand. Switch drops, inert. I rush in, secure the hostage, and clear the vest. Range safety officer’s voice over the loudspeaker: “Scenario complete. Zero casualties. All devices neutralized. Time: 00:08:41.” We lower muzzles, safeties on. Elena pulls off her helmet, sweat-soaked but grinning.“Not bad, door-kickers. You only almost blew us up twice.”Nick claps her on the shoulder. “We’ll take it.”Commander Jackson steps out of the observation tower, horns gleaming.“Twenty Squad, Bomb Squad, CNT (good run). Debrief in twenty. Then we do it again, this time with real flash powder and no robot safety net.”We all groan in unison. Joint training day: where SWAT learns patience, Bomb Squad learns speed, and CNT learns we’re all just one bad decision from a very loud afternoon. I catch Pete’s eye.“Next time,” I say, “I’m letting you carry the ram.”He laughs. “Deal. As long as you keep ghost-loading the shotgun.”We bump fists. Another day in paradise. And the city’s just a little safer because of it.

Chapter Text

Zootopia University – 1347 (Nick’s POV, mobile command post)
The call hits like a gut punch.“Shots fired, Zootopia University campus. Multiple victims down at the Kappa Delta Phi sorority house. Suspect believed to be one Lily Moreau, a 20-year-old snow leopard, a former pledge. Armed with a hunting rifle, set up in the clock tower. At least six wounded, two critical.”We’re already rolling (BearCat, three slicktop Chargers, rifles hot) before the second sentence is finished. I’m on the command channel the second we cross campus perimeter.“Twenty Squad on scene. Give me everything.”Dispatch and campus PD patch us straight into the incident commander (a shaken wolf lieutenant).“Moreau was cut from the sorority last week after a hazing incident went bad. She left threatening messages. We just found her vehicle behind the library (rifle case missing). The clock tower door was forced. She’s up there now. Shots every thirty to forty-five seconds, deliberate. She’s picking targets wearing Kappa letters.”Joe’s voice in my ear, ice cold: “Sniper nest, elevated, 360-degree view. She’s got the whole quad zeroed.”Pete’s already climbing out of the BearCat with the SR-25.“Distance to tower base: 380 yards. Top platform: 420. I can take her from the library roof, but I need eyes inside first.”Kion and Kovu are checking the wind call on their phones. I turn to the campus lieutenant. “CNT? “Already dialing her cell. She’s not picking up.”I look at the team (faces hard, tails still). Options: Talk (unlikely).
Wait her out (more bodies).
Go loud and climb 180 steps with a sniper overhead.

No good choices. Only fast ones. I key the mic.“Twenty Squad, we’re going dynamic. Pete, library roof, get eyes and a firing solution. Kion, Kovu (second-story overwatch, suppress if she moves). Joe, Gina, and Loona, we’re climbing the tower from the inside. Bomb squad’s rolling with flashbangs and a drone to the top platform.”Joe’s already racking a round into his 416.“Rules of engagement? “Positive ID only. She points that rifle at anyone else, we end it.”We move. Pete disappears toward the library with two campus officers. I led the stack to the tower door (forced open, claw marks on the frame). We start climbing (fast, quiet, boots soft on stone steps).Radio chatter:
Pete: “In position. Thermal shows one heat signature top platform. Rifle prone, facing the quad.”Campus PD: “Another victim down. Female cheetah, Kappa letters. She’s still moving.”My jaw tightens.“Twenty actual to overwatch: green light on my command.”We hit the final landing. The hatch to the platform is cracked open, wind whistling through. I can hear her crying (low, broken sobs between shots). Joe meets my eyes. I nod. We flow. Flashbangs cook off.
I kick the hatch. Smoke and thunder. Lily Moreau spins, rifle up (eyes red, fur matted, pure rage and pain). Joe’s 416 is already on her center mass.“Drop it!” I shout. For one heartbeat, the world hangs. Then Pete’s voice, calm over the radio: “Center hold. Wind left two. Send it if she twitches.”She looks at us (really looks) and sees five predators who’ve already decided. The rifle clatters to the platform. She collapses, sobbing. We take her. Crisis over. Six wounded.
Zero dead after we arrived. But as we cuff the broken snow leopard who just wanted the pain to stop, I can’t shake the feeling that the system failed long before we got the call. Twenty Squad saved lives today. Didn’t feel like winning.
Zootopia PD Headquarters – Forensic Psych Ward, 48 hours later (Nick’s POV)
Dr. Miriam Leapor (badger, PhD, thirty years evaluating the worst Zootopia has to offer) sits across from me and Judy in the small conference room. The report in her paw is thick.“She’s not insane,” Leapor says flatly. “She’s not psychotic, not hearing voices, not delusional. Lily Moreau is a textbook high-functioning sociopath with confirmed Antisocial Personality Disorder and strong narcissistic traits.”Judy’s ears twitch. “Meaning? “Meaning she feels zero genuine remorse. The crying on the tower? Rage and self-pity, not guilt. During the evaluation, she smiled while describing the sound the first victim made when the bullet hit. Said it felt ‘fair.’”I lean forward. “So the hazing story? “Trigger, not cause,” Leapor says. “The hazing was real and brutal (sleep deprivation, forced drinking, public humiliation). Most mammals would’ve broken or lashed out small. She fixated, planned for weeks, built a kill list, and executed it with the emotional involvement of someone debugging code. The disorder was always there; the sorority just handed her a justification.”Judy’s voice is quiet. “Danger to others if released? “Extremely high. Zero empathy, grandiose sense of justice, skilled manipulator. She already tried to charm two orderlies and threatened a nurse with ‘future retribution’ when she didn’t get extra dessert.”Leapor closes the folder.“Recommendation: indefinite commitment to North Peak Secure Psychiatric Facility under predator-restraint protocols. With treatment, she might stabilize enough for minimum security in fifteen to twenty years. Without it? She’ll kill again the first chance she gets.”I exhale slowly. Judy signs the commitment order without hesitation.“Approved. Notify the university, the victims, and the sorority. They need to know this wasn’t random evil; it was calculated evil with a smiling face.”Leapor nods and leaves. Judy looks at me, eyes tired.“We saved lives,” she says. “But we didn’t stop the monster. We just put it somewhere it can’t hunt for now.”I rest a paw on her shoulder.“That’s still a win, Carrots. Some monsters don’t get cured. They get caged. We did our job.”She nods, but the weight stays. Another scar on the city.Another file that’ll never fully close.Twenty Squad: 1
The darkness: still batting a thousand. But we keep swinging.

Chapter Text

ZPD Indoor Range – Sidearm Requalification Day, 0730 (Joe’s POV)
The entire department’s firearms staff is here, plus half the brass who just want an excuse to shoot. The line is a sea of patrol blues and SWAT black.Chief Bogo lumbers in last, carrying a long, padded case like it’s the Holy Grail.Conversation dies.He sets the case on the bench, flips the latches, and lifts out his personal Colt Python (6-inch barrel, royal-blue finish, custom ivory grips with the ZPD crest carved in them). The revolver gleams under the range lights like it was forged yesterday, not 1985.Every eye in the room is on that gun.Bogo racks the cylinder open, checks it’s empty, then looks down the line at us.“Department allows personal sidearms for qualification if they meet standards,” he rumbles. “Mine does. So today, I shoot with you.”He loads six rounds of .357 Magnum from a custom leather loop on his belt (hand-loads, brass polished to a mirror).The range officer (a nervous rabbit) calls the first string.“Ten yards, six rounds, strong hand only, six seconds.”Bogo steps to lane one, Python hanging at his side like it weighs nothing.“Shooters ready… Stand by… BEEP!”The Chief’s paw moves once (smooth, deliberate).
Six shots, six holes you could cover with a quarter, dead center X-ring.Cylinder flips open, brass rains on the floor like church bells.Total time: 2.87 seconds.Dead silence.Then the entire range erupts in whistles and applause.Bogo just reloads, calm as ever.Nick, next to me, mutters, “Show-off.”Bogo hears it, turns, and fixes Nick with the buffalo stare.“Wilde. You still shooting that 1911?”“Yes, sir.”“Good. Maybe one day you’ll be half as fast with twice the rounds.”He steps back, nods to the range officer.“Continue.”We all shoot better the rest of the day, because nobody wants to follow that act and look slow.Even our Kimbers feel like toys after watching a .357 Python sing in the Chief’s hands.End of the day, Bogo posts the top score sheet on the wall.Chief Bogo – 300/300 (Python)
Pete Wolford – 300/300
Joe Darkclaw – 299/300 (one flyer I’m still mad about)

Bogo catches me staring at the sheet.“Darkclaw,” he grunts, “next time you drop one point, you’re running the range in full kit.”“Yes, sir.”He walks off, Python back in its case.Legend status: confirmed.And yeah… I’m definitely practicing one-handed tomorrow.