Chapter 2: Disappointment and Drinks

Picture after picture flashed by on the screen the liquid crystal display projector was showing to an assembly of commanders. Some were outraged, some bemused, and some kept their emotions in check however were also in a state of shock. The pictures taken from security cameras showed of a porcupine garbed in a black, flowing trench coat, wielding only a sword.

"September twenty-fourth, thirty-three forty-two, twenty-three hundred, thirty six hours, Robotropolis based Commander Ice is assassinated. Seconds later, all generals in the room are killed. The suspect plants a remotely detonated bomb, and escapes desecrating some very skilled guards like they were nothing. Destroying everything in his path, he flees to the top of the building to a waiting hovercraft. The vehicle makes off as the bomb is detonated, taking out our entire Robotropolis base-of-operations," the assembly shifts, uneasily, as speaker goes silent for three seconds.

"I have seen many failures in my days as Commander-in-Chief of us overlanders, and this is–almost–unacceptable. I want all security details up-to-date, and tight. I also want my generals to train their soldiers with more discipline and rigor."

President Sufurr of the Overlander Empire is not always a forgiving man. His pride in leading the overlanders and faith in their victory is strengthened by loyal followers, who see no other logical path to fortune. With the incredibly powerful force of the Scelthreac on their side, the confidence of victory over the furries is overwhelming. That is why not one single Overlander Empire soldier has ever forsworn the alliance with the Scelthreac beings and left to join the other side. To be a soldier in the army of overlanders and renounce the Overlander–Scelthreac Alliance would be to deny reason and put you into jeopardy, instating upon yourself certain doom.

However much this fact remains, Sufurr has observed a force to be recognized among the ranks of the furries. Although he has seen other low profile agents working for the furries, this one seems to be the most formidable. He wants his men ready and prepared for any kind of attack that could cause considerable damage, just in case there may be more of these kinds of beings. A still from one of the frames from the security camera displayed this porcupine lopping off the head of a considerably remarkable commander. The picture loomed like a horrible foreshadowing to disaster.

"Turn that damn, projector off," the operator was happy to oblige.

The silver badge flashed the bedside lamp light while flipping through the air. Joe's palm met its landing with a small pat sound. He was sitting at his computer in his small, Angel Island apartment, after getting home from a little acceptance ceremony.

"Island Special Offense Operative," Joe read the badge aloud, with a hint of pride. The ceremony mostly introduced him to fellow agents: Tim, a cat, a chameleon named Diskrette, and a raccoon called Samantha ("but everyone calls me Sam").

"Hey, Joe!" A chat window popped up on the monitor's screen, it was Tim, "We're all gonna be at the bar–Sam, Diskrette, and I–as a kind of celebration for you. You'll come, right?"

Joe had been resting his feet on his desk, in a reclined, relaxed position, admiring his badge. He became alert, sat up-right in his swivel chair, and typed, "Sure, I'll come, when?"

"Any time tonight, though we'll be there at about nine."

"See you at nine, then!"

Joe didn't, really, expect him to be invited to something like that. His self-worth level was not very high, and over the years he had accepted that fact. He accepted not being invited to friend's places, parties, and celebrations, but he did have a level of pride that conflicted with his self-worth level, creating a kind of conundrum. He pondered over subjects like these, coming to the conclusion not to put his personality to test by not doing things like parties, however much he liked to go to them. Not that he didn't go to any.

He was already out the door, in casual clothing of baggy, cargo pants, a tee-shirt, and a zip-up sweater. The cool, summer evening felt nice behind a full moon, and even though he was furiously, single, it felt romantic, bringing him to the thought of an old, high school friend, Linda. A fox whose personality filled the air with confidence, magic, and sincerity, Linda was one who one could trust, and believe that she'd get the job done. Joe had strong feelings for her back in his senior year at high school, but it was over now. The Storm decimated many things. He sighed.

The short walk along the urban sidewalks, past convenience stores and clubs to the Floating Tavern felt refreshing, and eased Joe's small, headache. While most of Angel Island is still naturally preserved, echidnas have developed it some. Such developments included this, relatively small, city, called Angel Reception named for its proximity to the edge of the island. So close, in fact, that the bar is right on the edge, even overhanging it for a nice view. The bar stools actually stand on reinforced glass, held up with steel I-beams, and nothing below it but thousands of feet to the planet's surface. To say the least, the view was certainly, spectacular. The bar counter is an island where the tender stands in a center aisle, grabbing beer, wine, and other alcoholic or non-alcoholic beverages for customers. Tables were set up more in-land for customers who want to eat lunch, dinner, or a snack.

"Over here, dude!" the black, white striped cat called. Joe came here once in a while to dull his senses a bit, and let loose. He was not a stranger to alcohol. He arrived about a half-hour later than everyone else, but was heartily invited to have a seat over the dizzying drop to Mobius's torn and beaten surface. The other three were dressed casually as well.

"Dang man," the chameleon, Diskrette, started after a second, over the low din of the bar, "must've been an intense first mission. All I had to do was steal these plans from an overlander archive," he took a swig and shifted in his seat, "felt my first bullet that day, but they say that you got outta there without a scratch. Wow!"

"–Laid it down on those furless bastards pretty hard, didn't'cha?" Tim mused.

"It was nothing, really," Joe shrugged.

Sam looked up, "Nothing, huh?" She said, "so should we all call you Humble Joseph, now?"

Joe ordered a light beer, "Nah, I'm being quite sincere," he said, in a matter-of-factly kind of tone.

"Look whose got confidence, guys," Diskrette mocked, playfully, "we have a top notch player here," he said, shaking Joe's shoulder.

They all laughed a bit, and Joe smiled with them, taking a sip of his beer. They took a break, then, for a minute or two, taking sips of their drinks, enjoying the liquids' sharpness. They went on like that, discussing their own first missions, debating which of theirs were more difficult (below Joe's, of course), and generally keeping a light-hearted atmosphere. After little more than two hours, each moderately drunk (Tim slightly more-so, however), they headed for their homes.

Joe developed a passion for Sam's personality, and liked her attitude. He had taken a liking to petite bodies and large, bushy, tails, too. But Joe knew that getting into relationships was getting into hardships and complications. He had observed, through the small time he had lived and thought, that love can obscure reason, potentially bring you grief and loss, and even force you to do things you wouldn't normally or logically do. The burden of love, to hold in your heart, is a beautiful, tragic feeling. Being part of a unity of two, and the transcending from single and separate; free from being un-loved, and imprisoned behind bars of happiness. The hardest loss, in a relationship, is secrecy. However, the ignorance of these important facts is commonly and deliberately ignored for certain, physical, reasons. The state of ignorance, one could say, is bliss.

Joe arrived back at his apartment. He felt significantly drained, and it felt considerably relaxing to lie flat on his back on his double sized bed. As a matter of fact, he fell asleep in a substance of seconds. Alas, he was awakened minutes later by his phone. Wearily, he leaned over to the side of his bed, and picked up the phone on his bed stand.

"Hullo?" Joe answered sleepily.

"Hi, Joe, it's Sam," She said, in a cheerfully, pitched voice.

"Hi!" Joe said, awake now, "good to meet you all, tonight."

"Our pleasure," She responded, "Mine especially," Joe's eyes lit up at this comment, "how does your schedule look this Friday?"

"Well, I get off work at five P.M."

"Care to join me for a drink and a bite to eat? I was thinking of going to that place, De Quincy's."

"Nah," Joe said, cringing, "that's where I work, that would be a little awkward," Joe said, "sorry. But I know this place a few blocks down called Jared's."

"Oh yeah, I know that place, sure!" Sam agreed, "So, five-thirty?"

"Yeah, five-thirty sounds great," Joe replied, "see you there."

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

The connection broke and Joe replaced the phone to its base. His mind was swimming in questions, "Wow, what do I wear?" "Me? How do I get picked out of us three?" "Why me? Why am I so special?" "Was it my performance on the mission?" "What does she think of me?" "What will we talk about?" And finally, "Good Lord, what am I doing?"