Chapter Text
Lynxley. A name that, just a few short days ago, had been revered and respected. A name built on innovation, cultivated through wealth and power, and plastered on billboards and campaign slogans across Zootopia. A name that mammals recognized everywhere. A name that mammals fought to associate with.
With such a large legacy to live up to, each member of the Lynxley family strove for greatness. Milton, the head of the family, ran things with precision and a clinical attitude cold enough to rival the weather in Tundra Town. Weather that, according to his precious Lynxley Journal, was all thanks to the wondrous invention of the Weather Walls by Ebenezer Lynxley, Milton’s late grandfather. Cattrick, the eldest child and the heir to the Lynxley fortune, was the face of luxury brands everywhere. From gold-plated watches to high-tech transportation, his strong jawline and steely eyes were an honored stamp of a product’s quality. Kitty, the second oldest and fraternal twin to Cattrick, held herself with such perfect poise and natural grace it would be ridiculous not to hire her for fashion deals. Her days were packed to the brim with photoshoots, advertisement recording sessions, and an endless grooming routine that spanned almost four hours.
And then there was the youngest of the three siblings: Pawbert. His name rarely appeared in the gossip articles discussing Cattrick’s supposed catnip use, or whether or not Kitty had ever had a bad fur day, and much less in the news articles telling of Milton’s most recent business deals. Everyone was far too enthralled in the blinding smiles and perfect manners of the family to take notice of the stumbling youngest member.
Sure, there were always those who questioned his lack of attendance at the ever-occurring galas and charity events. “Where’s your youngest, Mr. Lynxley?” the reporters would ask, stumbling over each other to get just an inch closer to the man.
In response, Milton would simply shake his head and lean in, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, “My son is simply too shy for the attention of these gatherings. You see, he hasn’t quite grown into his paws.” He would chuckle softly and the twins would flash brilliant smiles, spinning sickly sweet remarks about their little brother. To the public eye, their show of perfectly white teeth and demure laughter would appear familial and light-hearted, but to him they were anything but.
The moment he had been born, he had been set apart from the rest of them. He’d been born early, only by a few weeks, but it had made all the difference. When the family’s personal doctors had delivered him, they’d instantly taken notice of his small frame and weak cries. While Kitty had been born smaller than average, thanks to Cattrick’s faster than usual growth rate making him take up too much space in their mother's womb, this was something entirely different. Milton had been furious, demanding answers from the doctors as his mother shielded her children from his anger.
As he grew older, that label of “different” followed him everywhere he went, no matter what he did to rid himself of the disgrace of it. He was clumsy. Far clumsier than a Lynxley should be. He stumbled over everything, the furniture, his words, and even his own paws. He tripped on thin air and dropped things often. He forgot things easily, and was quick to wander if not kept under close watch. And worst of all: he was far too soft. He would hesitate to even swat at a fly that had made its way into the house, and would sob uncontrollably over the smallest things. The Lynxleys were a powerful family that never faltered in anything they did, but Pawbert stood as a stark contrast to everything they symbolised. Overall, he was a liability through and through.
And he had just gone and proved that.
He’d failed to destroy that stupid patent. And because of his shortcomings, his family’s biggest secret had been revealed to the world. Ebenezer Lynxley hadn’t been the one to invent the Weather Walls, the original patent instead belonging to a heat-seeking Pit Viper named Agnes De’Snake, whom the man had framed for murder. The exposed conspiracy, and his crazed mental breakdown, had kicked the media into high gear, completely shredding the Lynxley family legacy in less than 24 hours after the incident had taken place.
Seriously, how much more of a disgrace could he be?
The jail cell’s walls were cold, a welcome and grounding feeling against his pounding head. He’d been nursing a mild concussion all day after Cattrick had deemed it fit to toss him across their shared cell, spurred by Pawbert’s most recent attempt at connection with his family.
Earlier in the day, Pawbert had padded up to the oldest of the Lynxley siblings and merely said two words.
“Hey Cattrick.”
The sentence had barely left his mouth when he was suddenly being picked up by the scruff of his neck, prickles of pain radiating outwards from where his brother’s claws were digging into his skin. Cattrick may have been the face of luxury, but he had received athletic training since the age of seven, making him deceptively strong. Holding him suspended in the air for a few seconds, Cattrick took a moment to examine his younger brother. His lip had curled upwards in disgust, an expression small enough that only those who were watching closely could see, before scoffing and tossing him harshly aside like a discarded ragdoll. Pawbert had slid across the filthy floor before his head came in contact with the large metal bars of the cell, hitting them with enough force to pry a shocked gasp out of him and to disturb the bear in the cell across from them. As he lay there, cradling his head protectively, his siblings and father had simply gone back to what they were discussing before.
Picking himself up off the ground, Pawbert mentally chided himself for even trying something like that. Seriously, what did he expect? A welcoming hug and an offer to join the conversation? The mere idea was laughable, but he had to admit that he’d been hoping for a warmer response.
Now, as he sat on his thin cot in the corner with hurt confidence, leaning up against the wall, he found nothing to distract himself from the thoughts that had been plaguing him for the days since he’d failed to destroy that patent.
Thoughts of shimmering blue scales, the cutting chill of snow, and the awful stench of gasoline lit ablaze. Thoughts of shining amber eyes full of hope, and how those eyes had dimmed when he had-
No. He couldn’t think like that. Not now, after he’s already gone through with it. He’d done the best thing he could! Maybe it wasn’t morally right, but wasn’t his family’s acceptance all worth it? Wasn’t throwing everything he’d come to love away worth a pat on the shoulder?
Those words his father had said that day, “Maybe you are a Lynxley," had brought him so much hope and happiness that he would destroy himself over and over again just to receive a fraction of that warmth.
So what if he had betrayed those who’d trusted him? So what if he’d hurt the only people who’d ever treated him like he was someone worth treating with kindness? Even if he hadn’t succeeded, the mere fact that he had gone to such lengths to please his family and prove his devotion made it all worth it.
So he did his best to keep that conviction in his mind, mentally screaming the words loud enough to drown out any other thought. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it.
But no matter how many times he repeated the mantra, a sliver of doubt had been creeping into his head. It wrapped itself around his psyche, growing stronger with every dismissed attempt at connection with those he called family, constricting tighter with each attempt at reassuring himself that they’ll come around. And in the darkest times of the night, when he was anxious and couldn’t sleep, it would bare its fangs.
“Was it all really worth it, Pawbert?” it would hiss into his ears, echoing around his skull, “Was everything you did to them worth it in the end?”
He would struggle and fight against its words, clawing at his own ears to muffle the insults it hurled from a forked tongue full of malice and hatred. But in the end, there’s no way to silence your own subconscious, and that doubt began taking over his every waking thought, suffocating the blind beliefs and convictions he had clung to for so long.
He breathed a soft sigh, curling onto his side in an attempt to ease the nausea churning in his stomach. He brought his legs to his chest and tucked his arms under himself, a sleeping position he had learned at a young age. It made sure he took up as little room on the rickety cot as possible, and provided a small amount of comfort.
Laying like this, his head bowed and eyes shut tight, he could almost pretend he was back in his small room at the Lynxely mansion, his mother’s gentle paws rubbing soothing circles into his back and humming a quiet tune. Back to a time before everything had gone wrong. The image was a common one for him to conjure when trying to sleep. On days where he felt the world was simply too much to bear, or he had made a particularly large mistake in front of his family, he could always rely on it to bring him some semblance of peace of mind.
Buried deep in the fuzzy warmth of his fantasy, he hardly registered the tug of sleep at his mind until he was being pulled under. Distantly, he feared letting his guard down while surrounded by his family, especially with how quick they were to grow angry at him, but found he was much too exhausted to care. So he let himself be swept away by the lull of slumber, relishing in the quiet numbness of it for as long as he dared.