"You're going to do what?"

The laughter of the well dressed ocelot was excessively loud for the posh lounge they were at, perhaps at first to mock but eventually turned into genuine uncontrollable cackling. Murina Beaubonique, the equally well dressed black rat, chewed the end of her pen as the tips of her manicured nails flipped along the edges of the papers she was reading.

"Harris, I'm going to represent Alphonse Norwich IV," she said again, as evenly and matter-of-factly as she had before the spotted cat's outburst. His laughter threatened to flare up again, but the grave sincerity in Murina's voice quelled it quickly.

"Muri, you got to be kidding me," Harris pleaded as he leaned in over his Niçoise salad towards the rat deep in thought. She had asked her colleague to lunch earlier in the day, saying she had something she needed to pick his brain on. Usually she looked to Harris, a veteran consultant for her agency, for advice or a second opinion on tougher negotiations. This certainly wasn't what he expected. Before he even had a chance to order his customary beer he wasn't supposed to be having, she had plopped a packet down on his placemat, the top most of the pile being an article by the sports writer Richter Rozich.

"You know I don't have a sense of humor, Harris," she answered drily, her eyes still glued to papers she was drawing up for Mr. Norwich. The big brown rat from the UK had once been on everyone's shortlist years ago including Murina's, back when she was still cutting her buck teeth as a sports agent. Somewhere in the file cabinet purgatory at her agency was a folder with his name on it, buried among the dozens of young prospects who never lived up to the projected expectations. Alphonse's fall from the radar had been a disappointment, having been poised to swoop on the opportunity to represent the young talent from across the pond. But the train to success waits for no one, and there were other athletes of comparable talent ready to take the next step.

So it had come as a surprise to Murina when he had suddenly popped back onto the scene. And even more of a surprise to find out why. It had done little to deter the hard headed rodent, though, as she had started making calls and crunching numbers just as she finished reading the article.

"You are crazy. You can't represent that... that..." Murina finally looked up at Harris with a look sharp enough to cut off his words. His face, frozen with an insult hanging off his teeth, melted into defeated concern.

"Harris, not too long ago this kid was going places and everyone was noticing. And then he gets a bad hand in life and everyone throws him under the bus. It didn't have to turn out this way."

"That's not your problem," Harris reminds Murina, stabbing his salad to make his point. "And not everyone who's 'dealt a bad hand' turns out to be an violent speciest prick."

Murina sighs loudly to drown out the character slight against Alphonse, flipping between the contract she was drafting and the article. Murina from the outside was what everyone expected and wanted from an agent. She worked harder for her career than anything else in her life, represented top grade talent, and fought viciously for her clients. She had great instincts and tenacity to rival her hungriest athletes. Pantsuit always pressed, t's always crossed and i's always dotted. Her friends (AKA her business associates, as she had no real friends) joked she did not know how to have fun or unwind, that she was more robot than rat. It was an observation she accepted, preferring to be fabled as a powerful cutthroat powerhouse in her field than anything else. It was good for business. But unbeknownst to many of her colleagues, Murina made decisions with her heart as much as her head. And her heart was telling her this rat needed help.

"How many bum raps are in the FBA right now, hmm? How many kids were able to make up for those bad mistakes? Shit, Harris, just look at Shane Rufus! Can you tell me someone like him can make it, but someone like Alphonse can't?"

"This guy is no Shane Rufus." He seemed almost insulted by the comparison, stuffing a fork full of salad into his muzzle before he started in on a new argument.

"I just think I have the best chance of getting this guy on track," she looks at the woefully outdated high school photo, feeling the regret he surely didn't feel. "He'll listen to another rat. And once he's out of that toxic environment, I know he'll have a better chance of shedding that baggage and be able to fulfill his potential." The half snort of a stopped chortle made her look up, the ocelot giving her a skeptical look.

"OK, I want this challenge, Harris!" Murina slapped the pages closed with an audible snap, tossing the pile of papers back into her briefcase. "If I can make this work, it would be the ultimate comeback story. I've worked with some hard sells, I can help make it happen for this guy."

"And if you can't, this could ruin you, Muri," he said between chews. "Assuming he even gets through the draft. As talented as he is, who's going to want an untrained known speciest with an agenda on their team? He's practically a domestic terrorist."

"Never convicted!" she was quick to remind him in an optimistic voice. She made squeezing blood from a stone look almost noble and effortless, as only one with a background in the legal system could. There were a number of players who had been convicted of crimes, who had served time, but she knew that despite having the most minor offenses in his past, his ties to a known hate group pretty much voided the benefits of have a comparatively clean rap sheet.

Murina looked out the window thoughtfully as she tugged a piece of chicken off her fork. "The FBA was founded on the principle that sports can overcome adversity and mend divisions between species, between genders. I think—I know this can happen for Alfonse. He just needs a chance," she sat up a little straighter, pressing her tie into her smart vest, "And the right representation, of course."

"I'm surprised you can taste that expensive lunch with all the bullshit coming out of your mouth," the ocelot raised a paw to signal for their check.