Say, "I'm not like that."

You brace yourself for whatever you might see, and slowly turn around. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room is a stocky otter, wearing camouflage pants, a black T-shirt, and a belt with a hunting knife sheathed on one side and an empty gun holster on the other. The gun is in his hand -- his paw? No, it's definitely a hand, just covered with thick brown fur -- pointed at you. He has small ears, wary brown eyes, and a square muzzle with stiff white whiskers on either side. His brown fur fades to a cream color on his throat, and he has a thick, powerful looking tail behind him. He's not quite as tall as you, but is well muscled and athletic looking. In a fight, you'd bet he could kick your ass pretty good.

He shifts his weight uncomfortably from one back paw to the other and you realize that you're staring, your mouth hanging open. You close it with a snap and swallow hard, the sound audible in the tense silence.

"Um...okay," you manage to say finally. "You- you're an- an otter. A talking otter. A talking otter with a gun."

Luke lowers his weapon, but doesn't put it back in the holster. "I told you," he says. "You've never seen anyone like me."

"True," you say, "but I'm not afraid of you. Except for the gun," you add, gesturing toward the weapon.

"Sorry, but I can't risk you calling the cops on me. This mission is too important."