“… While there is no immediate explanation for the explosion that rocked the outskirts of Lost Angels City, authorities are operating under the assumption that the incident was accidental, and that the discovery of many until-recently missing citizens wandering in the immediate area with no recollection of their absence is, in fact, a complete coincidence.

How far are we willing to let this administration go in its blatant disregard of our intelligence? The notion that the largest explosion on record in the City of Lost Angels not only occurred in an area with no known gas-mains, electric conduits, or military ordinance storage facilities, but was also an accident is ludicrous. The fact that it resulted in the discovery of scores of humanimals that had until recently been declared missing by our own government is but another piece to this elaborate puzzle that must not be taken at face value. This is by no means a coincidence, and you can trust that your favorite Guardian Angel columnist, Quinlan Tamias, will get to the bottom of this soon enough.”

My editor, an aging raccoon with more circles around his eyes than his species normally features, was taking my article to town with his signature red pen.

“This is too gossipy,” he circled a sentence. “This needs a more credible source.” He circled another sentence. “This is much too ‘ooh, conspiracy.” He circled another sentence. “And the latest polls show that you are not everybody’s ‘favorite columnist’.” He set the pen onto his ink blotter and rolled his head back in exasperation. “When are you going to start writing real stories, Quin? You’ve been working this conspiracy crap for weeks straight.”

“Well,” I said, standing by my editor’s desk with crossed arms, “when Space Station Alopex is destroyed by some nameless unknown force, and we get reports of giant… machines kidnapping humaninals, and you don’t see any kind of real investigative reporting in the newspaper, I think there’s some cause for alarm.”

Ray, my editor, let out a deep sigh. “I honestly don’t know what I was thinking when I hired a squirrel for investigative reporting.” He tended to self-deprecate when he made mistakes. This was all in good fun, though. “I swear, it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.”

“Because we’re inquisitive by nature,” I said with a toothy grin. “I’ll tighten the story up a bit tonight and resubmit it tomorrow.”

“No need,” he said humorlessly. “I won’t let this go to print in any form.” He raised a hand to cut off my objections. “The Guardian Angel is a newspaper. We report the news. If you want to blow the whistle on some crazy government conspiracy, you’ll have to do it on your own time.”

“But…” I was heartbroken – this story, I felt, was the beginning of a press revolution. A revolution that might very well motivate the people to hold their government to task.

“No buts,” Ray handed the two-paged story back to me, riddled in red ink. “I’m under… fairly strict orders to be mindful of what we print.”

The raccoon’s words sounded suspicious – he’d never caved to outside pressure before. And he was the paper’s editor for goodness’ sake! He was the one who decided what to print!

“Ray,” I said in a hushed voice, “what’s going on?”

He looked upset – more so than usual (he always seemed to be upset about something) – and said nothing for a good long moment. “Quin… things are going on out there that we are simply not equipped to report on.”

“But I can!” I insisted. “You know me! If there’s some sort of pressure from the government…” I whispered the last bit conspiratorially, but Ray was quick to cut me off.

“That’s quite enough with the conspiracy crap, Quin.” He never snapped at me, but he came mighty close right then. He composed himself quickly, then raised a paw in a half-shrug. “I’m just saying that other reporters have been getting in trouble for reporting things without getting all the necessary facts first. Their stories don’t make it to print and a lot of powerful people get angry.”

“You know that I’m not afraid of ruffling feathers,” I said. “Literally or figuratively. How many avians hold positions of power these days?” I offered the raccoon a grin and he finally returned it.

“I know you’re not afraid to piss people off, but right now, I need all my reporters to play it safe. Mass kidnappings, unexplainable explosions, and sightings of strange machines around the world mean that something’s going on out there that not even the authorities can handle. If they can’t, I don’t imagine for a second that a squirrel with a pen and pad could.”

I held up a claw, closing my eyes in mock reverence. “You forget, my dear editor, the power of the pen.” I chuckled lightly and nodded a few times in defeat. “But you’re right, I suppose. But don’t think for a second that I’m going to let this be. There’s something going on out there, and you know I simply can’t ignore it.”

“I don’t expect you to,” the raccoon turned to his computer and clicked a few icons, bringing up a digital version of that morning’s issue of the Guardian Angel. “Honestly, Quin, if there’s anyone here capable of bringing this story to print, it’s you. But I don’t want you jumping the gun on anything.” He leveled a claw at me in total seriousness. “I expect to be briefed on everything you write regarding this, even if it’s not going to print. If something happens, you tell me first before you go gallivanting off to get on-the-scene quotes. And remember,” he slowed down his words, making absolutely certain that I remembered them. “Do not get in the way of the authorities. They’ve got enough problems right now and wouldn’t hesitate to throw you in jail for some trumped up ‘obstruction of justice’ charge. I just spoke with our Chief of Police this morning to verify a quote in Fallon’s story, and he was wound up tighter than a cheap watch. He almost threw me in jail, over the phone.”

Ah, Fallon Blantyre – he was the political columnist for the Guardian Angel. We had a private contest going to see who would get arrested first for upsetting the stellar Lost Angels Police force. He also happened to be my best friend – but that hardly entered into things.

“I get it,” I said. “Don’t write anything about the police unless I’ve got my sources dead to rights.”

“That’s right,” Ray said with a sharp nod. “And I’m the one who tells you if they’re dead to rights. We understand each other now?”

“Perfectly,” I said. “So, what should I write about instead for tomorrow’s issue?”

Ray grinned and I could tell he had been holding this back for the whole meeting. “Well, you like writing about the strange and unusual, so I got you a prime venue. Initial reports are suggesting that there’s been some kind of gang warfare at the Galleria Mall in downtown Lost Angels. Lots of property damage, no serious injuries, but-“

“But?” I asked, slightly intrigued.

“But,” he continued, “the only remaining suspects fled the scene.”

“How is that strange and unusual?” I asked, already bored with the assignment.

Ray shrugged casually. “It’s strange and unusual if they fled the scene through a portal of light.”

“What?” I leaned in on Ray’s desk and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re messing with me, yeah?”

“I kid you not,” the raccoon said – almost gleefully – like he expected my reaction completely. “Eyewitnesses on the Integrated Web are saying that some kind of shape-shifting avian was pulled into a portal of light by another avian, and then a bunch of her friends jumped in after her.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “C’mon, Ray, seriously…”

“I am serious.” He sounded it, too – and grouchy. Back to normal, in that case. He grabbed a remote and swung around in his chair, turning on a wall-embedded television.

The shot revealed Travis Pasch – one of the more detestable on-scene TV news reporters – standing in the main entranceway of the Galleria Mall. I couldn’t help but smirk when I noticed that the canid’s fur on the left side of his head was sticking out at a bizarre angle. One of the downsides of on-the-scene TV news was the lack of makeup.

“Maker, he looks hideous,” Ray uttered under his breath. I let out a brief grunt of agreement, but listened to Travis nonetheless as Ray turned up the volume:

“… the accomplices in this apparent bout of gang warfare have managed to elude police so far, and whatever technology they used to create this optical illusion of a light portal has yet to be revealed by the authorities.”

I hummed under my breath and leaned over to Ray. “Why are they saying this is gang warfare?”

He pointed to the screen wordlessly.

A police-issue photo of an orange and black male felin had been blasted up to size and took up most of the screen as Pasch’s gruff voice continued speaking in the background. “This police photograph of reputed street gang member and wanted fugitive Maxwell Manx was just issued to us in connection with this act of wonton carnage. According to eye-witness accounts, he and two other female felins were seen leaving through this light portal. Manx is wanted for questioning in the murders of the Fela family, as well as the arson of their home. Authorities have also determined that Katherine and Katrina Fela, the two missing daughters of the Fela massacre, are the two felins that disappeared along with Manx following the incident here. Police investigators theorize that the two felins may have collaborated with Manx in the murder of their family, but until they are able to question the trio, they remain as theories.”

Ray switched off the TV and pushed an open notepad towards me. “Take a taxi down to the mall and read this on the way. I wrote down the major items in the story so you can be prepped when you get there.” He turned back to his computer, in essence ending the conversation. “I know you’ve got a GAV cycle, but I don’t want you wasting any time between here and there. Read the notes on the way and when you’re done, you get your tail right back here and tell me what you found out. That’s all, Quin.”

I nodded once, picked up the notepad, and left my editor’s office.

Light portals and disappearing felin felons. I smiled.

Honestly, it sounded right up my alley.