Post by ocfuchs121 on Apr 6, 2016 5:57:59 GMT
It's still very much a work in progress, with about... Maybe 5 or 7 chapters possible, but in keeping in tune with the movie's commentary, I've been writing something.
Kitsunegari can be considered an X-Files reference, but I used it first and foremost for it's literal meaning. Kitsunegari is japanese for Fox Hunt.
The premise is this: Owen Conrad Fuchs has survived the world's prejudices into his 20s, but not without injury. After a road rage incident, his lashing out at someone becomes a viral video, becomes a news story, becomes a police warrant.
He must run. He must hide. He must covet and display the vulpine's greatest strength: Survival. Against all odds.
But his darkest hour will be eclipsed by Zootopia's own, wherein OC Fuchs will find himself at the epicenter of the city's greatest turmoil.
....Or something like that.
I'll be posting this story to fanfiction.net, here: www.fanfiction.net/s/11862965/1/Kitsunegari
But in the meantime, I think it may help me to post little updates here and there, tidbits, as I work on each chapter.
Let's call this that first tidbit:
I shuffle out of the tent panting like crazy, grabbing at the lid of the water flask and blinded by the mid-day sun. This is the problem with camping out in a desert. The only benefit is it's a fairly consistent wake-up call, when the heat gets too much to keep sleeping. As I drink, I look to my left at the hole I dug out to relieve myself in. I wonder when I'm gonna have to move camp from under this thin rail bridge. It's not like I can squat in any of the places I've stashed my goods, because that'd raise too much attention, and I'd just end up losing what I hid there AND I'd be in county lock up. As it is, I still risk losing something if someone finds a stash, but then that's why I don't put my eggs in one basket. I'm still panting, as my blueberry beeps, but it's calmed down. I check it, and I see about 20 texts from Buffy. The number 20 says enough. I'm not checking them. Lola texted me with a NEVER BRINGING EMMA TO A PARTY AGAIN ps she's got your number ALSO DO NOT EVEN DO THAT AGAIN uuuuuughasdfkhfkjal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, and I'm holding back the laughs. Andrew sent me a thx for the 50 bucks. That pawnshop broker shortchanged me, but I can lord it over him at a later point. Jager sent me a bunch of terrible puns and I can just see him laughing while he was typing them. And then there's Toby. Group message to me, Andrew & Wally. 4821 Herd Street, by the station. Ramen Brahmin. Andrew asked an hour ago if that was the same place that caught on fire a month ago. Same one, Toby replied. It opened back up a few days ago, he elaborates. Andrew texted back with an I'm there, and Wally replied back with How Does A Soup Shop Catch On Fire? No replies. Everyone's on board, though, they're just waiting for a Yay or Nay from me. 3:30 PM. It's 1:21 right now. I start tapping on the blueberry's keys with a Guess who's gonna get there first? THE RACE IS ON *cue horse race trumpet* and hit the enter the enter button. Andrew is gonna get there at 3:32 or 3 because he always takes the subs. Wally's gonna do a bus and Toby's got a preyus, so they're both gonna be stuck in traffic. Me? I'm gonna lanesplit the heck out of it and dodge bicycle couriers. They don't stand a chance. There's no such thing as Traffic on the Dunes I'm gonna be flying gliding over. The roads leading up to them don't have much traffic, and from there on, it's gonna be bursts of 10 miles over the speed limit with everyone around else doing 10 miles per hour at best. Another drink from the flask, my eyes squinting from the mid-day sun. No cloud cover is wandering over from Tundra Town, and it's too far south from the Rainforest District. I'm gonna need goggles.
Several minutes later, and I'm blasting the sand to kingdom come. The dunes of the sahara district soothe me so much. Whenever I needed a set path for a challenge, it was South Canyon Road. But here? Limitless dunes that I could ride the crests of for what seemed like forever. And you dare not stop. Not in the sand. Not if you don't want to get stuck in the sand. It's like mud. It's everything you can do to keep from sinking. In a way, it's just like like life itself: You can only go forward. And with so little background noise, the Vulpon's own rang so much louder. Authoritative, but manic. Rabid even. Every tick and putter and pop and crackle and rattle rang true and resonated like a muse's gospel. Like an old-time song's timeless capture. I was riding the edge of the world and there could not be a better soundtrack. Even with buds in my ears, the engine can drown out a song, so I don't even try half the time. The best I can do right now is imagine. But just the memory of songs live in my muscles. In my bone & sinew. I can feel a song manifest itself in my body with nearly the intensity, sometimes, than if I'm hearing it for real. Walter Deergo's Starlight plays in my head with a reverb, and my back, if feels like a cascading, billowing firefall. It's hooks and crescendo in rhythm, in sync, with every dip and bump and rise and fall. On the crest of this dune, watching the passenger train to my right ferrying people into the city, I find myself zigzagging from one side of the crest to the other. Criss-Crossing a razor's edge. It feels so magical. I find myself gravitating now towards that big giant palmtree. From here, I'm close to a road I can hop on to head north to Palm District and can buzz through one of the bridges to Savannah Central. Right now, Im still panting like crazy, the wind forming ripples in my fur as the hot air passes over it. My vulpon's engine is aircooled, though. I can't let it idle in this heat. Just past this rock formation carved into condos, I'll can ride down the dune as it gives way to cement and asphalt.
Kitsunegari can be considered an X-Files reference, but I used it first and foremost for it's literal meaning. Kitsunegari is japanese for Fox Hunt.
The premise is this: Owen Conrad Fuchs has survived the world's prejudices into his 20s, but not without injury. After a road rage incident, his lashing out at someone becomes a viral video, becomes a news story, becomes a police warrant.
He must run. He must hide. He must covet and display the vulpine's greatest strength: Survival. Against all odds.
But his darkest hour will be eclipsed by Zootopia's own, wherein OC Fuchs will find himself at the epicenter of the city's greatest turmoil.
....Or something like that.
I'll be posting this story to fanfiction.net, here: www.fanfiction.net/s/11862965/1/Kitsunegari
But in the meantime, I think it may help me to post little updates here and there, tidbits, as I work on each chapter.
Let's call this that first tidbit:
I shuffle out of the tent panting like crazy, grabbing at the lid of the water flask and blinded by the mid-day sun. This is the problem with camping out in a desert. The only benefit is it's a fairly consistent wake-up call, when the heat gets too much to keep sleeping. As I drink, I look to my left at the hole I dug out to relieve myself in. I wonder when I'm gonna have to move camp from under this thin rail bridge. It's not like I can squat in any of the places I've stashed my goods, because that'd raise too much attention, and I'd just end up losing what I hid there AND I'd be in county lock up. As it is, I still risk losing something if someone finds a stash, but then that's why I don't put my eggs in one basket. I'm still panting, as my blueberry beeps, but it's calmed down. I check it, and I see about 20 texts from Buffy. The number 20 says enough. I'm not checking them. Lola texted me with a NEVER BRINGING EMMA TO A PARTY AGAIN ps she's got your number ALSO DO NOT EVEN DO THAT AGAIN uuuuuughasdfkhfkjal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, and I'm holding back the laughs. Andrew sent me a thx for the 50 bucks. That pawnshop broker shortchanged me, but I can lord it over him at a later point. Jager sent me a bunch of terrible puns and I can just see him laughing while he was typing them. And then there's Toby. Group message to me, Andrew & Wally. 4821 Herd Street, by the station. Ramen Brahmin. Andrew asked an hour ago if that was the same place that caught on fire a month ago. Same one, Toby replied. It opened back up a few days ago, he elaborates. Andrew texted back with an I'm there, and Wally replied back with How Does A Soup Shop Catch On Fire? No replies. Everyone's on board, though, they're just waiting for a Yay or Nay from me. 3:30 PM. It's 1:21 right now. I start tapping on the blueberry's keys with a Guess who's gonna get there first? THE RACE IS ON *cue horse race trumpet* and hit the enter the enter button. Andrew is gonna get there at 3:32 or 3 because he always takes the subs. Wally's gonna do a bus and Toby's got a preyus, so they're both gonna be stuck in traffic. Me? I'm gonna lanesplit the heck out of it and dodge bicycle couriers. They don't stand a chance. There's no such thing as Traffic on the Dunes I'm gonna be flying gliding over. The roads leading up to them don't have much traffic, and from there on, it's gonna be bursts of 10 miles over the speed limit with everyone around else doing 10 miles per hour at best. Another drink from the flask, my eyes squinting from the mid-day sun. No cloud cover is wandering over from Tundra Town, and it's too far south from the Rainforest District. I'm gonna need goggles.
Several minutes later, and I'm blasting the sand to kingdom come. The dunes of the sahara district soothe me so much. Whenever I needed a set path for a challenge, it was South Canyon Road. But here? Limitless dunes that I could ride the crests of for what seemed like forever. And you dare not stop. Not in the sand. Not if you don't want to get stuck in the sand. It's like mud. It's everything you can do to keep from sinking. In a way, it's just like like life itself: You can only go forward. And with so little background noise, the Vulpon's own rang so much louder. Authoritative, but manic. Rabid even. Every tick and putter and pop and crackle and rattle rang true and resonated like a muse's gospel. Like an old-time song's timeless capture. I was riding the edge of the world and there could not be a better soundtrack. Even with buds in my ears, the engine can drown out a song, so I don't even try half the time. The best I can do right now is imagine. But just the memory of songs live in my muscles. In my bone & sinew. I can feel a song manifest itself in my body with nearly the intensity, sometimes, than if I'm hearing it for real. Walter Deergo's Starlight plays in my head with a reverb, and my back, if feels like a cascading, billowing firefall. It's hooks and crescendo in rhythm, in sync, with every dip and bump and rise and fall. On the crest of this dune, watching the passenger train to my right ferrying people into the city, I find myself zigzagging from one side of the crest to the other. Criss-Crossing a razor's edge. It feels so magical. I find myself gravitating now towards that big giant palmtree. From here, I'm close to a road I can hop on to head north to Palm District and can buzz through one of the bridges to Savannah Central. Right now, Im still panting like crazy, the wind forming ripples in my fur as the hot air passes over it. My vulpon's engine is aircooled, though. I can't let it idle in this heat. Just past this rock formation carved into condos, I'll can ride down the dune as it gives way to cement and asphalt.
