Alphonse put the passenger seat the whole way down in his brother's beat up old Corsa, window down the whole way. It was a warmer than usual day in the Alley and, lacking air conditioning, the best the big rat could hope for was that the breeze might cool off his hangover. The last few days had not gone well for him, the humiliation of being passed over in the league's top two dozen still stung him, doubly so after having it happen at the pub where he'd told everyone to come in and see his big triumph. Since then, he'd been spending more of his time away from the crowds than usual, buying beer and liquor from Mr Sutton's shop and drinking with a few close friends, rather than out at parties or shows. Then, of course, his family was privileged to hear him grousing.

"I mean... th' fuck's else'm I supposed t' do, eh?" he grunted at Philip. "I did ev'ry last twaddlin' thing she told me to! Tell me I'm wrong!"

Philip took a breath, eyes closed briefly. The younger Norwich didn't exactly enjoy his role as makeshift therapist for his brother, and was usually happy to point out the fact, but was trying his damnedest to be understanding for him now. Usually an unhappy Alfie was a loud Alfie, tossing beer bottles and hollering at anyone nearby. Seeing the big lout sullen, almost pouting, Philip just didn't have it in him to tell Alfie to piss off, so he listened best as he could.

"...y' ain't wrong, Alfie," he responded, flatly.

Alphonse huffed, crossing his arms. "Y' fuckin' right I ain't," he groused, eyes closed. Nice as the faint breeze was across his face, the bright sun wasn't helping his headache at all.

He continued, "I mean, 'at game was s'posed t' be my big shot. Muri kept on jawin' about 'ow I's doin' good an' they ain't gonna be able t' put th' shades on now. 'en what, eh? Afta all 'at, not a FUCKIN' thing!" the aching rodent shouted, kicking a big boot against the glovebox and knocking it open.

"Oi! Easy on th' hardware, mate," Philip half-shouted at Alfie, keeping his voice tempered. The response was a chilly silence from his passenger, muscled arms crossed over his chest and shoulders rolling as if to sink further into the seat.

"Yeh well... I's just sayin', Pip. Ain't fair. I played nice, I did my visit, talked an' smiled for th' nonnies to take their piccies, fuck's left, eh? What'm I supposed t' do now?"

"Now?" Philip replied, slamming the hood of his car down hard enough to make Alfie wince and clap one hand over his ear. He walked from in front of the car to the passenger side, leaning in the window. "It'd be bloody 'elpful of y' to get off y' tail an' lend a paw, oh big strong kinny o' mine. Try as I might, I don't got th' biceps."

Alfie grunted, turning in his seat like a petulant child, facing away from Philip. "Aw, 'ave a heart, will ye? I'm all sick an' infirmed!" he whined, doing his best to put a croak in his voice and sound as pathetic as possible.

That was enough for Philip. He took a breath through his nose and opened up the door to his broken-down car, snagging his older brother by the arm and pulling him out. The pair of them tussled and struggled, with Alfie doing his best to hide in the car and Pip fighting to extract him. Normally it wouldn't have been much of a fight, Alphonse's six inches of height and nearly 40 kilos of weight giving him a significant advantage. The aftermath of a long night of liquor tipped the scales against him, though, and after a few moments of flapping and flailing, along with plenty of vulgarities spat back and forth, Alphonse was on his feet and in the Saturday sun.

Panting, Philip looked at his wobbly brother. "Y' wanna hear sumthin', Alf? This 'ere rustbox is my only means of conveyance 'round town. An' every time I gotta 'ead somewheres t' patch up a boiler or a washer, it means crossin' my digits 'at it'll make it there an' back or else I'll be totin' a bag full o' long-tooth tools across th' Alley an' back. An' every time, wit'out fail, it coughs an' shit itself soon as I get back an' I gotta spend twice as long just t' get it workin' again."

The older Norwich stood, unsteady as he was, head turning toward the front end of his sibling's car. The smell of burnt oil and smoke hit his nose hard, making him wrinkle his face. "Y' need a new ride, mate."

Philip snorted. "Y' right as a rail I do. But I ain't got the pounds f' one. So every time I 'elp some rat out 'ere, it means anotha one's chawin' my ear about 'ow I's a lazy sod f' not comin' out to THEIR aid. Y' get what I'm nippin' at?"

Alfie rubbed at the back of his head, his face clearly struggling to get Philip's words to climb their way into his fogged brain. The younger rat chuckled, shaking his head. "What I'm sayin', mate, is 'at sometimes even if y' do all y' can, y' don't get that pat on th' back. Sometimes they just always expect more. Don't mean y' just stop."

To punctuate his sentence, and to help emphasize what he was getting at, Philip held his wrench out toward Alfie. It hung in the air between them, almost aloft on its own, just waiting for Alphonse to pluck it away. After as long of a wait as he could manage, he did, and slunk his way over to the front of Philip's car, helping him with the repairs.

It wasn't easy work. The engine to the old Corsa was all but held together with zip ties and glue, which meant that it took all of Alfie's half-awake muscle to dislodge whatever Philip asked him to, more than once coming close to whacking his head on the lifted hood. He kept quiet, partly because it took all the focus he had to avoid hurting himself, but partly to avoid any more unwanted pearls of wisdom. The wobbly rat had been hoping to have a friendly ear to yap at for a while, and didn't like that he'd somehow been coerced into not only working, but learning a life lesson. Alfie wasn't a fan of either of those things. So the pair of them labored in silence.

Coming to the end of the job, Philip decided he didn't want the afternoon to end on a sour note, and got a grin on his grease-stained face. "Heh, besides, we need ye in top shape for th' game tomorrow."

"Oi? Who's in 'is week?"

"Y'not gonna billy this... the Chawbones."

Alfie stopped mid-turn of the wrench, turning to look at Philip in disbelief. "...th' Bones. 'at lot is comin' back 'ere for a game. Afta last time."

Philip shrugged casually. "S'what Lenny said."

Of all the things Alphonse had hoped to hear, that wasn't one of them. The Chawbones weren't the best players, but every time they made their way into the Alley it came dangerously close to erupting into a full-scale riot. Most of the outsiders who came into the Alley to play understood whose territory they were on and didn't stir up trouble, but those dogs seemed to look forward to it. They came in their beat-up cars with music blaring, parking the things right on the grass around the court as if daring the rats to start something. Under other circumstances, they would, but the Bones never came in a small group, and the Biters knew that fighting one meant fighting them all, something the dogs seemed perpetually ready to spark.

In short, the Chawbones were one group the Biters just plain didn't like dealing with.

Alphonse tossed the wrench off to the side and turned, sitting on the front end of Philip's car. "Fuck me..." he groaned, kneading at the bridge of his muzzle with his knuckles. "I thought we left 'em scarperin' off wit' they tails 'twixt their legs last time."

Philip laughed. "The Chawbones? C'mon Alfie, you know they're just punchin' bags in burberry hats. I swear someone's payin' 'em to swing in just t' get beat up by you lads."

That got a laugh out of Alfie. A good, genuine belly laugh. "Well I'll tell ye, mate. If they wanna 'ave a nice jolly game, 'en I don't think any of us is gonna rock th' boat. But put 'is in a basket, one o' those fuckin' humpas even growls at me, it's gonna take a lotta rainstorms before th' court's cleaned off, eh?"

It sounded like a joke, but there was an echo of dead seriousness to Alfie's voice that pulled the humor out of Philip's lungs. He grunted and went back into the driver's seat to give the engine another go. It coughed and sputtered, struggled and wheezed, but after a few seconds of jostling with the key in the ignition... it started! The Norwiches both gave a happy whoop, Philip's considerably more energetic than Alfie's, both mostly happy to be done with their task for the day.

"Awright, just gonna let 'at run fer a bit," Philip said, coming out of the car and sitting on the hood of it.

Alfie snorted and leaned with him, straining its suspension and dropping the car's front end a few inches. "See, 'at's what she just don't get, mate."

"She?"

"Yeh, Muri." Alphonse stood up and grabbed a beer from the front stoop, taking a seat there rather than the quickly heating up car hood. "She's ova there in 'er nice office, eatin' out 'at them fancy pubs an' squeakin' orders at 'er assistant. She's livin' the high life while I'm sweatin' it out."

Sitting beside his brother, Philip laughed and took a bottle of his own. "Well what d'ye expect, eh? Yeh she spent a couple nights 'ere, but ain't like she knows how we live day t' day, eh?"

"Heh... y' got 'at right, Pip." He took a big slug from his beer and set the class down on the concrete. "Y'know, 'at really chuffs me, too. Every time we's on th' phone, she's goin' 'at me about 'ow I gotta do 'is an' I gotta do 'at. But what's she doin', eh? Goin' out t' eat wit' team ownas and coaches, livin' it up, an' then when I don't get my spot... oh, Alfie, y' gotta unnastand, YOU did 'is, YOU did 'at." He swished a mouthful of beer and spat it out, cleaning some of the remnants from the night before out. "Like I said, I did everythin' she asked, didn't I? Well why th' fuck din't I get picked?"

Philip shrugged, leaning back on his elbows. "Can't control everythin', mate."

Alfie continued, not paying attention. "I'll tell ye. Cause she's been prancin' around Boston instead o' puttin' boots to th' ground for me. Gettin' tired of it, mate. Real fuckin' tired."

"So what's that mean you'll do now, Alfie?"

Alphonse turned to Philip, face flat. "It means I'm gonna show 'ose Bones why they shoulda stayed 'ome, and 'en I'm gonna explain to 'at Mizz Bow-buh-neek 'at she'd betta get 'er tail in gear before th' draft. Remind 'er who the boss is, eh?"

---

Murina's thumb pressed firmly into the web of skin at the edge of her palm. She had read somewhere that it was a natural cure for a headache somehow, and with the amount of aspirin she had taken since that morning, she was willing to try anything to end the drilling in her head.

"Yes, I know that's what he told you, but...," she sighed into the hands free earpiece as she leaned heavily into her executive style chair. It was her twentieth phone call today, her various phone lines busy with the bustle of off-season business. What was usually a time for long deserved vacation for the athletes she represents was one of the busiest times for agents like her. Especially as someone who in addition to the clutch of current clients was also representing half a dozen more in the upcoming draft. Expiring contracts, trade offers, endorsement negotiations. Meetings, conferences, appointments. With every agreement comes the cascading torrent of sub-contracts, revisions, compromises, stipulations, crosschecks, and copies in triplicate. Media packets, press releases, photo ops. Research, information, data. Dotting i's and crossing t's.

"Regardless," Muri mustered up her remaining energy to put an end to this call, "What I have on the documents I sent you expresses what he have in the agreement. Check last month's reports and..." Another pause while the midlevel desk jockey stumbled through whatever order of business Murina was reconciling. She sighed again, letting her eyes close momentarily, her lids stinging her eyes slightly before soothing them. From sun up to sun down, Muri had been pounding the metaphorical pavement the last week getting all her clients affairs in order. While her current clients patted each other on the back for a job well done, spending their days decompressing with recreation, and while her new pie-eyed hopefuls looked to Draft Night like an impatient cub waiting for Christmas morning, Murina hustled more than usual, tying all the strings together that linked one season to the next. But even her tenacity and expertise in juggling the grinding tasks required during the off season was stretched to the limits this year.

"OK, look," Muri chimed in, realizing this conversation was not going to be as fruitful as she had hoped, "Have Mr. Nilsson call me back next time he's in the office, because I don't have time to hold your hand through these accounts, thank you." Pressing the end call button on her phone, she pulled the earpiece off and practically threw it on her desk. Her weary hand mustered up enough strength to jot down a new set of notes, and a memo in the corner of the calendar that Everett Nilsson's new liaison was an incompetent child.

Splayed on her desk was the familiar sight of stacks of documents pertaining to various clients' affairs. Though Muri had always been known for her staunch adherence to order, method and efficiency, she still preferred the heaps of hard copies over the glow of a screen. Something about seeing the physical representation of her work gave her the sense of accomplishment. The drag of the ball point pen over a completed task in her notebook or the clang of the metal cabinets when a document was filed away was classical conditioning for a job well done. But it was a sword with two edges, and when the piles of work did not seem to shrink, it wore on Muri. Her eyes closed tight to shut out the sight, trying to breath in as deep as she could.

She tapped some pile back into an orderly stack, rotating one pile of work out for another. There was a knock at her office door that she ignored which opened without her acknowledgment nonetheless.

"Couldn't get Dresden to budge on Norwich," Harris spoke up above the document Murina currently had her nose in. As with all her new clients, Muri sought preliminary sponsorship from trainers for incoming candidates, exchanging preseason conditioning for an expended sponsorship contract should her client get drafted. Finding anyone interested in taking as big of risk as she had been making was proving to be challenging. No one local to Liverpool, or even much of the neighboring region of eastern UK were jumping at the chance to get in on sponsoring the rat which had become infamous for bad press, even without having to do a thing.

"Dresden was a long shot, but my last hope. I need to get him here as soon as possible. I'm just spinning my wheels trying to make my case with him packed away in the Alley. And I don't have adequate reach in the UK to stem the flow of misinformation leaking out of there. " She could tell Harris wanted to say something about that, but he kept his mouth shut. The spotted cat glanced down over Muri's large but usually clutter free desk at the various stacks.

"And the others?"

"Taken care of," she said tiredly, an arm pushing aside some documents and portfolios, her eyes still locked on the item she was reading through.

"You want to get something to eat?" Harris said as more of a demand, than a request.

"I'll take a late lunch," she waved her hand dismissively at Harris who still stood firm at the opposite end of her desk. Her hand blindly reached for her office phone, picking up the receiver. "I still have a couple general managers I need to call back and-"

Harris's pawtips pressed firmly but gently against the elevated phone, guiding it back into the cradle. Muri snapped out of her pseudo trance to finally acknowledge Harris.

"You can do that tomorrow," Harris calmly said, his short words speaking volumes beyond their simple meanings, as they usually did. He glanced out the large window at Murina's back, causing her to swivel around to see what he was looking at. An audible breath escaped Muri seeing her reflection in the dark panes, downtown Boston glowing in contrast to the dark night sky. She released her grip on the desk phone as if she had just realized her was holding someone's hand far too tight. She had barely noticed she had been working for twelve hours straight.

Murina turned her chair back to her desk, the swerve making her still aching head spin momentarily, her palms rubbing at her face. The job of an agent never really ends when the office closes. Being constantly on call and available for any of her clients or negotiations often meant the difference between success and failure. But even the tenacious Murina Beaubonique had to admit that her day in the office had run on long enough. With her paws braced to the edge of her desk, she prepared to finally push back from her work.

"Yes, well, I suppose it's about time I-"

The clatter of her cellphone vibrating on her desk made her freeze in place, finding the ring of her phone almost paralyzing. Harris closed his own eyes and sighed, giving Muri a stern look as she put up the universal gesture for "one moment, please."

She tried hard to focus on the screen, an unblocked yet unfamiliar Massachusetts number appearing as the caller. It was hard for Muri to ever let a call go unanswered, the majority of her business taking place over the phone and constantly from new numbers. She struggled into a standing position, showing Harris she was indeed calling it a night even as she answered the phone.

"Hello?" she asked, unable to hide her exhaustion in her depleted breath. There was a short moment of silence.

"Hello," an almost robotic pre-recorded voice chimed. "This is and automated alert from the Suffolk County Correctional Facility. An inmate is attempting to contact this number via collect call."

What little remaining color drain from the edges of Murina's round ears, her stomach sinking hard enough to send her back into her chair. Harris lifted an eyebrow as he watched Muri practically fold into herself. It was a call she had been expecting, but neither had the time or energy to take.

"All calls between inmates and non-legal representation are monitored," the recording continued on with no regard for Muri, "Do you wish to accept this call from...Gavin Be-"

Murina quickly hung up the phone.

She hovered there in her chair, staring at the ground, her weak shaky fingers rubbing the edge of her oPhone, nearly forgetting Harris was standing off the side waiting for her. The soft sound of him clearing his throat pierced her head like needles.

"Muri, are you OK?" He was reluctant to ask, sensing this was not a business call. Harris had no qualms berating Muri for her professional choices, but respected the wide berth she maintained around her personal life. Muri opened her mouth to dismiss Harris's concerns, but found little breath in her chest to speak. The skin beneath her fur ran cold as she reach up to the area around her collarbone, feeling that familiar tightness returning to her throat.

"I, um," she managed to squeeze out of her lungs, finally righting herself in her chair. She wanted desperately for Harris to not be here right now. "I'm not that hungry. I think I'm going to just go home." The look on Harris's face told Muri that the look on her face was not convincing.

"I'll drive you, then," he added, still allowing the professional buffer to be preserved as he waiting for Murina to get herself out of the chair, though the stiffness in his tail belied his nonchalant yet composed posture. A shaky hand grabbed the edge of her desk, pulling herself upright with as much natural grace as she could manage. She stood a moment, letting her head adjust as she tugged her vest back into place and straightened her tie. Any way to stall while she waited for this building sensation of breathlessness and persistent pressure in her chest and throat to subside.

An uncomfortable stretch of silence bloomed between the two, a troubling stand off growing between the two colleagues. Harris's eyes trained on Muri's, though she kept hers down, afraid to look up. Eventually, with one last effort to fill her lungs, she patted the stacks of papers on her desk as if saying goodbye to them, a gesture she hoped put Harris at ease without her having to try and say anything. With how much she was having trouble swallowing she was sure words would not be as useful.

Unable to take this sham of professional courtesy, Harris moved to the other side of Muri's desk.

"C'mon, Muri. You look exhausted. Let me get you home." He held out his hand, offering Muri the choice to proceed, but she shook her head and gave as convincing dismissive expression as she could. Her attempt to say No thanks, I'm fine filtered out as a croak, followed by a startling gasp that made Harris reach out and grip Muri's arm.

By now Muri was desperate for this to end, though willing it away and waiting for it to stop was only making it worse. She decided the faster she got going, the faster she could get home, and the faster this uncomfortable, and frankly embarrassing, episode could be over. She managed to pocket her phone and brush some of her forelocks out of her face, finally looking at Harris directly to give him an encouraging look of resolve. He smiled somewhat when she relented to his offer to help, Muri grasping onto his suit sleeve for support. It seemed to put him somewhat at ease as he was finally able to get Muri to move away from her desk.

His smile did not last, as Harris watched Muri's eyes roll back and her grip on his jacket slip away, the body of the normally composed black rat collapsing to the ground.