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Charlene's first story in the FBA world.
Art is by
pac
FBA is by
BuckHopper
Charlene McIvory hopped into the corner office, momentarily leaning against the open door frame as she tugged her other shoe on. The rat was almost buzzing, having spent the last two hours packing up her desk into two neat suitcases. She already had both tagged and addressed in case they got lost in flight: "Charlene McIvory. 902 555 4324. 31 Hill Street, Sampson, Virginia." In her hustle to pack up, she hadn't bothered with much this morning when leaving her house; including, she realized once she was at her desk, swapping her slippers for shoes. Good thing she kept an extra pair at work.
The news had come to her early that morning. A phone call as she was eating breakfast, her little flip phone dancing across her counter and making her cat skitter away in alarm. The ringtone meant it was from her boss, Jacob Ragsish. So she dropped her toast and answered immediately.
"Yeah, boss?" she asked chipperly. An early morning call usually meant there was something going down in the AM he wanted her on top of.
"Charlie, listen. You know that transfer you wanted? Well, I want to talk to you about it. Got some news from Washington, and we need to have a little chit-chat. Just whenever you get a chance, eh?" He gave a short laugh, that brusque, inscrutable rumble of superiority that grated on her nerves. She could never tell if he was laughing with her or at her. Today, though, she knew it was with her, so she grinned from ear to ear.
"Absolutely, boss. I'll be in 'sap."
Picking her cat up, which mewled in protest, she swung the feline around under his arms and placed a whiskery kiss on his forehead. This earned her a hiss and a swat, but she laughed as she dropped him to let the critter run to a hiding spot. It was finally happening. She was going to Washington. Actually going, physically, there. Pennsylvania Drive. West Wing. Danny O'Connor and Marshal Tershal and now... Charlene McIvory. Famous White House correspondents for one of the best known newspapers in the state.
As she drove to work in her modest Corolla, she noticed her footwear. Normally it would have made her grind her teeth in frustration, but today she just grinned. There was another pair at work. It was foreward thinking, preparedness, always being ready for the left-field hits that kept her both busy and popular in the office. Making sure her desk was not by the boss's office, but rather the fax machine. Keeping two radios at her desk playing at low volume. One for local news, one set to C-Span. Just in case.
There was an air of something important happening when she got in. People were huddling, mumbling, sharing whispered lean-ins far more than usual. Something about it must have leaked, and everyone was trying to figure out what, no doubt. She wasted no time with it. Right to her desk, packing up her laptop, her notebooks, her stationary. Hell, all she probably needed was the computer and a pad of paper, but really, who knew? Preparedness.
After an hour (or was it two?) of cleaning her desk to the point that it looked like no one had even used it yet, that gruff voice came across the work floor, over the hum of computers and clack of typing.
"McIvory! Get in here," the rhino said. He wasn't yelling, but he didn't need to. That voice would carry over a jet engine. She stood, realized she was still in her slippers, then grabbed her shoes and hobbled over to the office.
"Yeah, boss," she said again as her foot dropped down, and she slipped fully into the corner office. Jacob was, as always, a giant grey wall seated behind a giant oak desk. She often wondered how he got out; the space between the walls and his angled desk didn't look wide enough for him to squeeze through. Maybe he just stayed there, gazing around his work floor to either side of that ivory horn like an immortal pacemaker of newspaper workflow.
"I noticed you packing. Suzie also told me you've got your suitcases addressed. In case they get lost, I suppose," he rumbled, his ham-sized fists resting together between the dual monitors that were seat on either side of his big desk. There was something in his voice, in his beady black eyes, that made her fur bristle. He almost sounded... apologetic, somehow. And looked it, too. "I think I may have mislead you unintentionally when I phoned you this--"
He paused suddenly, gazing over her shoulder, through the giant window that let him gaze across his kingdom from the upraised floor of his office. Someone was coming in, and the office was standing up, laughs and cheers starting to fill the room. Who was that? she wondered, furrowing her brow and pushing her red hair back behind her big ears. Whoever it was, he or she was being obscured by the crowd of people that surrounded them. The center of the throng was moving closer, though, as whoever it was approached the office and started sloughing off his fans.
Brad. Brad Deschain. A crack formed somewhere in her gut. As the handsome, pepper-haired German Shepherd got closer, a framework of some horrid misunderstanding began to take shape in her, but she refused to look at it, examine it, comprehend the terrible truth of the situation.
"Jake!" the dog barked with a laugh as he climbed the steps into the office and tossed a dusty bag down on one of the three hundred dollar chairs. "Did you even move since I left?" he asked with a smile that was disarmingly handsome, and disastrously familiar. Everyone knew Brad. He was the face of Coverage In The East. The dog who went right into war zones, sometimes holding the camera himself. The canine that interviewed sheiks, pharaohs, kings, and prime ministers. The stupid hound that had more reporting credibility than anyone else she could name. Part of her vaguely remembered he worked here before moving to live feeds. Something crawling in her gut, now.
The rhino favoured him with a truly rare smile.
"No," he replied. "And as glad as I am to see you, if you don't take your dusty ass out of here for a shower before you talk to me any further, I will gore you. You smell like a gyro."
The dog laughed again, unphased, and picked his bag up.
"Sorry, Jake. Forgot about your allergies. The shower downstairs still work?" He turned to walk out, and noticed the young rat for the first time, standing there with her hands at her sides, jaw set, eyes boring into him. "Ma'am. Sorry to interrupt." Then he was gone with a wag of his tail, and into another round of applause and laughter.
"I'm sorry, Charlene," Jacob said, and she turned her back on the din, facing him with that same stony look on her face. "I thought you had heard he was back. I assumed you put it together when I called. We're giving the Washington gig to Brad. And since that means he'll be moving to DC, Marshal will be moving back here and taking over local politics. You aren't fired, no, so please don't start crying. Bill is retiring and we need someone to cover the FBA. We need a field reporter out there."
The FBA. The Furry Basketball Association. Sports. Basketball. Athletes. The rat could feel her lips trying to twist into a sneer, and forced them to stop. Not in front of the boss. For the first time since she's seen him, he actually sounded like he genuinely felt bad. That made it worse, somehow.
"Ja..." Her voice was caught. She cleared her throat, took a breath, let it out slow through her nose, and tried to keep her cool. "Boss. As... disappointed as I am that I'm not going to Washington, you have to know that I don't know a damn thing about the FBA, or sports at all. I don't know the teams, I don't know the rules, I certainly don't know the players. There has to be a dozen other people in here that can cover it."
"There are. But I like them where they are. And as much as I like you, you're still the rookie here. You go where I want you to. Or you don't." His beady eyes stared into hers, and his tone of kindness was replaced with his more commonly heard emotionless grumble. "I don't expect you to jump in and start pumping out stories. The draft isn't until October. The playoffs are still happening. Find someone involved in the sport, attach yourself to them, and learn. You're smarter than most here, so I'm sure you can do it. I've already made a list of names for you to check out." He handed her a slip of paper, which she took without looking at.
"Find one willing to let you sit with them. Or two, or three. I want your first article by mid August." He turned his head, swung his giant horn towards the left monitor, and began to click the mouse that was buried under his great grey hand. This meant the conversation was over.
Charlene walked back to her desk with her ears low, her tail dragging, her heart somewhere in her intestines. Her yellow jacket hung from the back of her chair, while the rest of her desk stared at her, blank and unused. All her things packed into the two big briefcases at her feet. Closing her eyes, she steered herself into her seat and slumped over the desk, arms folded, muzzle laid across them.
"What did the boss want? We thought you were fired, the way you were clearing your desk out," began April, the fox who sat at the desk next to her.
"Shut up," Charlene interrupted her sharply, and began to unpack her things, putting them slowly back where they were. Every item felt heavy as lead. When finally her laptop was back out, she set the list of names given to her beside it and began to type. Then she lifted her phone to her ear after punching a number in. This was going to be a long day.
Art is by
pacFBA is by
BuckHopperCharlene McIvory hopped into the corner office, momentarily leaning against the open door frame as she tugged her other shoe on. The rat was almost buzzing, having spent the last two hours packing up her desk into two neat suitcases. She already had both tagged and addressed in case they got lost in flight: "Charlene McIvory. 902 555 4324. 31 Hill Street, Sampson, Virginia." In her hustle to pack up, she hadn't bothered with much this morning when leaving her house; including, she realized once she was at her desk, swapping her slippers for shoes. Good thing she kept an extra pair at work.
The news had come to her early that morning. A phone call as she was eating breakfast, her little flip phone dancing across her counter and making her cat skitter away in alarm. The ringtone meant it was from her boss, Jacob Ragsish. So she dropped her toast and answered immediately.
"Yeah, boss?" she asked chipperly. An early morning call usually meant there was something going down in the AM he wanted her on top of.
"Charlie, listen. You know that transfer you wanted? Well, I want to talk to you about it. Got some news from Washington, and we need to have a little chit-chat. Just whenever you get a chance, eh?" He gave a short laugh, that brusque, inscrutable rumble of superiority that grated on her nerves. She could never tell if he was laughing with her or at her. Today, though, she knew it was with her, so she grinned from ear to ear.
"Absolutely, boss. I'll be in 'sap."
Picking her cat up, which mewled in protest, she swung the feline around under his arms and placed a whiskery kiss on his forehead. This earned her a hiss and a swat, but she laughed as she dropped him to let the critter run to a hiding spot. It was finally happening. She was going to Washington. Actually going, physically, there. Pennsylvania Drive. West Wing. Danny O'Connor and Marshal Tershal and now... Charlene McIvory. Famous White House correspondents for one of the best known newspapers in the state.
As she drove to work in her modest Corolla, she noticed her footwear. Normally it would have made her grind her teeth in frustration, but today she just grinned. There was another pair at work. It was foreward thinking, preparedness, always being ready for the left-field hits that kept her both busy and popular in the office. Making sure her desk was not by the boss's office, but rather the fax machine. Keeping two radios at her desk playing at low volume. One for local news, one set to C-Span. Just in case.
There was an air of something important happening when she got in. People were huddling, mumbling, sharing whispered lean-ins far more than usual. Something about it must have leaked, and everyone was trying to figure out what, no doubt. She wasted no time with it. Right to her desk, packing up her laptop, her notebooks, her stationary. Hell, all she probably needed was the computer and a pad of paper, but really, who knew? Preparedness.
After an hour (or was it two?) of cleaning her desk to the point that it looked like no one had even used it yet, that gruff voice came across the work floor, over the hum of computers and clack of typing.
"McIvory! Get in here," the rhino said. He wasn't yelling, but he didn't need to. That voice would carry over a jet engine. She stood, realized she was still in her slippers, then grabbed her shoes and hobbled over to the office.
"Yeah, boss," she said again as her foot dropped down, and she slipped fully into the corner office. Jacob was, as always, a giant grey wall seated behind a giant oak desk. She often wondered how he got out; the space between the walls and his angled desk didn't look wide enough for him to squeeze through. Maybe he just stayed there, gazing around his work floor to either side of that ivory horn like an immortal pacemaker of newspaper workflow.
"I noticed you packing. Suzie also told me you've got your suitcases addressed. In case they get lost, I suppose," he rumbled, his ham-sized fists resting together between the dual monitors that were seat on either side of his big desk. There was something in his voice, in his beady black eyes, that made her fur bristle. He almost sounded... apologetic, somehow. And looked it, too. "I think I may have mislead you unintentionally when I phoned you this--"
He paused suddenly, gazing over her shoulder, through the giant window that let him gaze across his kingdom from the upraised floor of his office. Someone was coming in, and the office was standing up, laughs and cheers starting to fill the room. Who was that? she wondered, furrowing her brow and pushing her red hair back behind her big ears. Whoever it was, he or she was being obscured by the crowd of people that surrounded them. The center of the throng was moving closer, though, as whoever it was approached the office and started sloughing off his fans.
Brad. Brad Deschain. A crack formed somewhere in her gut. As the handsome, pepper-haired German Shepherd got closer, a framework of some horrid misunderstanding began to take shape in her, but she refused to look at it, examine it, comprehend the terrible truth of the situation.
"Jake!" the dog barked with a laugh as he climbed the steps into the office and tossed a dusty bag down on one of the three hundred dollar chairs. "Did you even move since I left?" he asked with a smile that was disarmingly handsome, and disastrously familiar. Everyone knew Brad. He was the face of Coverage In The East. The dog who went right into war zones, sometimes holding the camera himself. The canine that interviewed sheiks, pharaohs, kings, and prime ministers. The stupid hound that had more reporting credibility than anyone else she could name. Part of her vaguely remembered he worked here before moving to live feeds. Something crawling in her gut, now.
The rhino favoured him with a truly rare smile.
"No," he replied. "And as glad as I am to see you, if you don't take your dusty ass out of here for a shower before you talk to me any further, I will gore you. You smell like a gyro."
The dog laughed again, unphased, and picked his bag up.
"Sorry, Jake. Forgot about your allergies. The shower downstairs still work?" He turned to walk out, and noticed the young rat for the first time, standing there with her hands at her sides, jaw set, eyes boring into him. "Ma'am. Sorry to interrupt." Then he was gone with a wag of his tail, and into another round of applause and laughter.
"I'm sorry, Charlene," Jacob said, and she turned her back on the din, facing him with that same stony look on her face. "I thought you had heard he was back. I assumed you put it together when I called. We're giving the Washington gig to Brad. And since that means he'll be moving to DC, Marshal will be moving back here and taking over local politics. You aren't fired, no, so please don't start crying. Bill is retiring and we need someone to cover the FBA. We need a field reporter out there."
The FBA. The Furry Basketball Association. Sports. Basketball. Athletes. The rat could feel her lips trying to twist into a sneer, and forced them to stop. Not in front of the boss. For the first time since she's seen him, he actually sounded like he genuinely felt bad. That made it worse, somehow.
"Ja..." Her voice was caught. She cleared her throat, took a breath, let it out slow through her nose, and tried to keep her cool. "Boss. As... disappointed as I am that I'm not going to Washington, you have to know that I don't know a damn thing about the FBA, or sports at all. I don't know the teams, I don't know the rules, I certainly don't know the players. There has to be a dozen other people in here that can cover it."
"There are. But I like them where they are. And as much as I like you, you're still the rookie here. You go where I want you to. Or you don't." His beady eyes stared into hers, and his tone of kindness was replaced with his more commonly heard emotionless grumble. "I don't expect you to jump in and start pumping out stories. The draft isn't until October. The playoffs are still happening. Find someone involved in the sport, attach yourself to them, and learn. You're smarter than most here, so I'm sure you can do it. I've already made a list of names for you to check out." He handed her a slip of paper, which she took without looking at.
"Find one willing to let you sit with them. Or two, or three. I want your first article by mid August." He turned his head, swung his giant horn towards the left monitor, and began to click the mouse that was buried under his great grey hand. This meant the conversation was over.
Charlene walked back to her desk with her ears low, her tail dragging, her heart somewhere in her intestines. Her yellow jacket hung from the back of her chair, while the rest of her desk stared at her, blank and unused. All her things packed into the two big briefcases at her feet. Closing her eyes, she steered herself into her seat and slumped over the desk, arms folded, muzzle laid across them.
"What did the boss want? We thought you were fired, the way you were clearing your desk out," began April, the fox who sat at the desk next to her.
"Shut up," Charlene interrupted her sharply, and began to unpack her things, putting them slowly back where they were. Every item felt heavy as lead. When finally her laptop was back out, she set the list of names given to her beside it and began to type. Then she lifted her phone to her ear after punching a number in. This was going to be a long day.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Miscellaneous
Species Rat
Size 644 x 465px
File Size 126.9 kB
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