#tradcore

Thank you, child of Christ. I'm sorry it took a while to respond.

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You have been asking Francis about the popemobile for some time now. Each time, he becomes cagey and distant, like when you ask him about the Dirty War.

One day he asks, "Why would you want such a thing?"

The question takes you by surprise. It had never occurred to you that he might not enjoy riding in the popemobile, that tending God's flock might be frightening rather than invigorating. "I could help," you say.

Francis looks troubled, and says no more.

----

One Tuesday after Mass, Francis summons you to St. Peter's Basilica.

It is before visiting hours, before the masses of gathered faithful come to pay their respects, before the disorganized scene you've always seen. This is quiet, more peaceful, holy. You try to express as much to Francis, who says, "It is always holy, my child."

"I know. But..."

"One can forget how."

The two of you continue on, silent, thoughtful. He pauses occasionally to speak to a custodian or security guard in his melodic Italian, asking after their children, wives, personal lives. When you're quite sure none are listening, you ask, "Is this about the Popemobile?"

He smiles slightly, in the knowing way that lets you know you have guessed correctly. "Do you know its history?"

You shake your head. Briefly he tells you about the palanquins that used to carry popes, their replacement with standard cars, standard cars' replacement with bulletproof ones. Standing before the tomb of Pope John Paul II, you consider the full weight of what he's saying.

"The Romans, pagan though they were, had some wisdoms," he goes on. "The memento mori, among them. We kept some remnants from them, being as we are in Rome. The popemobile is one such remnant, a reminder that I will die, not that I am alive."

With that he leaves you in the silence of the Basilica, to ponder the echoes of his departing footsteps as he returns to his chambers to get ready for the day.

----

The next time Francis is scheduled to go in the popemobile, you beat him there by five minutes, managing to look calm and composed by the time he arrives.

He says nothing, though you can feel his smile gracing the top of your skull. With deep casualness, he informs the driver that there will be another riding with him today.

You decide you want to bring your friend Francis to Pride someday over Lent. Though it might just be a fish deprivation flight of fancy, you start making plans. By May, you have worked up the courage to ask, and say, “Jorge, would you want to go to Pride with me?” In response he makes the emoticum subductisupercilicarptorium face (🤨) and says, “That’s not til next month.” In the end he agrees. You two settle on going to a street fair pride as to be accommodating of Francis’s sensory issues (he is neurodivergent (autistic and adhd)). While there you buy him an ace pride pin and he puts it on his cassock. You think you might be in love, maybe for the first time. But you say nothing. One day it will be the time, but why spoil a day like this...? Maybe it is better to live yearning than to ever know regret. You see now why he is so much closer to God. Maybe one day. In the distance you see the Down With Cis bus handing out free ice cream and t shirts. You suggest to Francis to go get some, and he agrees. You two meander down, but as soon as the driver sees you two, he is overcome by an insatiable bloodlust. He accelerates, killing both of you (and some innocent passersby) instantly.

You find Pope Francis nesting in the belfry, surrounded by wooden debris. He has been missing for a few days, and the entire Catholic world is in shambles. Pope-catchers roam the streets with comically large nets, searching and crying out his name in vain. You wondered why he would do this to his beloved Catholic people, but now, after stumbling upon him, you understand.

“Jorge! Congratulations!” you exclaim, immediately falling to your knees beside him and pressing your hand flat against his distended belly. He hisses at first by instinct, but quickly adjusts to your presence. You let him sniff your hand. “You must be so blessed!”

“Indeed I am blessed, my child,” he says, but his eyes are sad.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Aren’t you honored to be blessed with the Lord’s child? It must be another incarnation of the Savior, and you will go down in history as the Virgin Jorge, like Mary before you.”

“That is true, but, like Mary before me, I must be destined to lose this child to an unbearably cruel death,” he says. “The Lord demands a crucifixion, or some other awful end, for this innocent child…” He studies you, and his eyes gleam. “Unless…”

“Unless what, Father?”

“You are an innocent child yourself, aren’t you, Y/N?” he asks.

“Indeed,” you say. “I am a Tumblr user, and therefore have taken a solemn vow of chastity.”

His mouth splits in a tiny grin - it’s gone in a moment, but you catch a flash of his teeth. “Then perhaps one can be substituted for another.”

Before you can react, he springs toward you, his gnarled hands outstretched. With preternatural strength, he pins you to the floor by the neck with his left hand and reaches out with his right toward the pile of fallen wood beams in which he made his nest. He assembles something out of the wood as you splutter and writhe in his grasp. In only a few seconds, he has finished a life-sized wooden cross. You realize what’s happening and struggle, but your strength is gone, and your lungs lack the air to scream. Frantically, he nails your hands to the handmade cross. With your free leg, you manage to kick the bell, and a flock of crows scatter from the window. It is a meaningless gesture; he captures your last free limb and finishes his gruesome work.

The clear sky rings with the sweet, chirping liturgy of the morning birds. An idyllic morning, on the outside.

Deep inside the labyrinth of the Papal Palace, you are in the bathroom. You place it on the side of the bathroom sink with a nervous tap. You hunch over the small plastic strip, nauseous, waiting, murmuring to yourself, “C’mon… Let’s go!” One line appears. Another. “Sweet cheese!”

Sagging with dread, you slump to the side of his bed. Pope Francis, your beloved, snores loudly, one furry arm thrown over his face. Such a dramatic, twisted pose, his mouth open, fanged, drool-slicked, as if thrown agape by some rapturous ecstasy of dream…

But you have to break into that ecstasy. After he hears what you have to say, he may never feel it again.

“Francis…” you murmur. “Francis!” You shake his shoulder. “Francis, c’mon, wake up!”

“We’re off duty today…” he grumbles hazily.

“Francis, I have something important to say.”

“Just text me please.”

You fling yourself up onto the bed, grab his head, and shout, “POPE FRANCIS FROM CATHOLICISM! I am serious!”

“Okeh! Okeh!” he splutters, dizzily sitting up. “Geez, when you call me Pope Francis from Catholicism, it means I’m in great danger.” 

“You bet!”

Francis stumbles out of bed, yawning, his sharp, vulpine teeth on full display. “May I take a shower and do other things before you ruin the rest of my day?”

“Yes, it’d be good, I think,” you say, folding in on yourself. You sit on on the sofa, staring down at your hands, as he sings in the shower. 

He emerges, bright as the outside morning, running a towel over his furry ears. “Wow! I’m feeling much better now!” he says. “Well, what is this important thing you want me to know?”

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“Francis, I… I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, his face is rigid with abject shock.

Then he laughs. “Ha! Nice try, Y/N. You almost got me! As if it were even possib–...”

You stare up at him with your huge, unnaturally front-facing eyes, begging him with your soul to understand.

“Your… your nose’s twitching! So that means…” he gasps, kneeling and grasping your shoulders. “Carrots! Are you for sure? Is this real?”

“Yes,” you say, “it is. I just took a pregnancy test and…”

You’re cut off by the sudden squeeze of his red, furry arms. “Y/N! Oh, Y/N!” Francis cries, lifting you off the ground and nuzzling his elongated snout against you. “This is the happiest day of my life!” He presses you tighter and his fur mingles with your own. “I love you, Y/N! I love you so much! You’ve made me the happiest mammal on God’s Earth!”

“Francis!” you shout. “Please stop! Stop!”

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he frets, putting you down.

“No, Francis, you didn’t. But this isn’t the problem.”

“Problem? You mean, ‘cause we’re from different species and keep the vows of chastity, you think the baby might have some problem, right?”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

He reaches for you. “I don’t unders–...”

“Francis, please! Don’t make things worse for us!”

“Y/N, what are you talking about?”

“Francis… I…” you sniff, “... I don’t want this child!”

Darkness crashes over his face.  “No! I - I can’t believe you said that!”

“Francis, hear me out.”

“Please tell me I heard wrong!” he cries, grabbing you by the shoulders with his claws. “Why, Y/N?! Why?!”

“Let me explain, Francis!”

“So explain yourself!” he says, releasing you. “Why don’t you want the Lord’s baby?”

“There’s no baby yet!” you protest, standing up straight on the couch to be at eye level with him. “I’m just in my first month of pregnancy!”

“And you decided on your own that this is gonna be the last month, ain’t you?” he persists, misusing the word “ain’t” in his distress.

“I–” you trail off, clutching at your pounding head. “Francis… let’s talk about it like adults, right? …Right?”

“Ok.” he says. “Tell your tale.”

“Well… at first I believed the Lord couldn’t get me pregnant. Yes, I do know there are some cases of virgin births, but they’re extremely rare and none of them involved a couple formed by a pred and a prey. So I foolishly believed we didn’t have to take any precautions. But… how wrong I was...”

“I still don’t understand why you -”

“Because I’m afraid!” you blurt, nose twitching. 

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Well… in part, I fear our child might be… you know, some kind of freak.” In your mind, you see a dark, slathering beast, with fox claws and teeth and long, perverted rabbit ears. 

“You really think so?” he gasps.

“Why not? It isn’t impossible. Moreover,” you say, clutching your abdomen, “a baby of God’s might be… a little too big for me.”

“You don’t know for sure.”

“Nobody knows and it scares me.”

“So what you’re saying is,” he says, frowning, “‘hey, Francis! Even if God can get me pregnant, I don’t want to raise any children with you.’ Did I hit the mark, Y/N?”

“Francis, I should have had this talk with you earlier, and I’m really sorry for not doing so,” you say, closing your eyes, “and you have no idea how hard it is for me to tell you these things. But I must say that there is another good reason. And it is…” Your eyes pop open. “...my career!”

“What?”

“You know I’m about to be promoted to Bishop and if I accept this risky pregnancy my career will be halted for months. Or years – or even forever in the worst case scenario – if I suffer any sequela of an ill-fated pregnancy.” You spread your hands. “It’s not only my life and my career that are in danger here, Francis. I became a symbol, an inspiration to those small mammals out there who also want to help make the Zootopia Vatican a better place to live. The more I am successful in my career, the more they get confident in their own abilities. For this cause and to make this dream come true, I did my best and sacrificed many things. And I don’t want to let those achievements slip through my fingers like sand.”

Francis turns away, showing you the side of his beautiful white cap and his long, pointed ear. “That’s it,” he says flatly, “your career. I should’ve known you were going to throw it in my face but you surprised me, Y/N. I thought I knew you but… I was wrong.”

“You don’t have the right to say that to me!” you shout. “You know who I am! You know what I am! You know what’s at stake for me since we first met!” You jab a finger in his face. “And you know full well that I did everything for my career!”

“Yes, I do know,” he growls, showing his fangs. “It seems like you could even kill our baby for your career.”

Your mouth drops open and your body goes rigid. On pure instinct, you strike him across the face, and he falls to the floor with a thud. You regret it immediately and fall to his side, already crying. “Francis! Francis! Forgive me, I lost my temper!”

He stands, leaving you kneeling there.

“Francis?” you ask, very small.

He starts packing a bag.

You tug impotently at his arm. “Francis, I beg you, please forgive me! You don’t need to do that! I didn’t mean to hurt you!” You watch as he takes a picture of his mother from its place on the dresser top beside the picture of the rabbit Virgin Mary. “Please don’t leave me this way!” you beg. “I need you! I need you now more than ever! Trust me when I say I still love you! …Francis?”

A teardrop splashes down onto his mother’s smiling face.

“Y/N…” he says, “what would’ve happened if your mother, while pregnant with you… had decided to interrupt her pregnancy?”

“Francis, it’s useless,” you sigh. “I know what you…”

“I’ll tell you what would’ve happened,” he continues. “If you hadn’t been born, Y/N, the world would have been as bleak as ever. Without your light, I’d still be the head of the Vatican, living a life that’s pretty much the same as it is now to be honest.”

“That’s not true, Francis! I’m sure you would -”

“Y/N, listen. There are people who make a difference in the world.” He still hasn’t looked at you. “And you are one of them. Even being a little bunny, you stopped an absurdly nasty conspiracy and helped change the minds and hearts of millions. To me, things like this could never have happened without you.” 

“Francis…”

“For God’s sake, Y/N!” he cries, wheeling around on you. “Give this unborn child the opportunity to do the same! I beg you– please let your light continue to shine through him or her!” (In his distress, Pope Francis has forgotten to use gender neutral language.)

For a moment, your vision is filled with bright shapes, representing your hope for the future.

But you turn away. “No. As I said before it’s useless. Sorry, Francis, but I’ve made up my mind. My body, my rules.”

“I see,” he says, trembling. “Any chance you might change your mind?”

“No, Francis.”

“...Neither will I,” he says, shouldering his bag.

“Francis!” You chase him down the hall. “Please stay with me! Let’s talk more about this!” The Papal Palace is so huge and ornate, it takes you three hours to chase him to the door. 

“You wanna talk? Well there’s something I’d like to know,” he says, his snout pressing against the front door. “Why didn’t you keep it a secret from me? I mean, why didn’t you just… get rid of the child without me knowing anything?”

“It…” you murmur, “it wouldn’t be the most honest thing to do.”

His ears shoot up. “What?”

“I thought you deserved to know.”

“Humph!” he scoffs. “It’d have been better for you – for us – if you had kept me in the dark about your premeditated sin.” Francis stands in the half-open door, haloed by the daylight outside. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

His keys clatter in the Vatican key bowl.

“Francis!” you call. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, his face half-turned, a tear trailing down his furry cheek toward the torn claw marks from where you struck him. “I will survive.”

“Francis!” you sob. “...If you walk out that door… you don’t have to come back anymore!” He doesn’t stop. “Francis! Franciiiiis!” Tears gush down your cheeks. “Oh no! No! No!” You fall to your knees with a plop before the door.

Nothing lasts forever. Even an apparently everlasting love… that has triumphed over the odds… and many challenges… may eventually come to an… end.