"Yes, well, I'm sorry I couldn't offer you something more encouraging. And you're sure about this? Yes, I realize you've already signed the paperwork, I just... no, I didn't mean to imply anything of the sort. Yes. I understand. In that case, good luck and godspeed, Miss Beaubonique. Have a safe trip."

Richter Rozich tapped the red icon on his phone to end the call and sat it face-down on his desk, leaning back in his chair with a quiet groan. He hadn't been looking forward to that call. It wasn't that Murina Beaubonique was difficult to talk to, under other circumstances he would have been happy to get the black rat on the phone, but the topic du jour was decidedly less palatable than he would have preferred. And so, he'd intentionally played a game of phone tag with the notoriously tenacious agent, returning her calls at hours he wagered she would be unavailable in the hopes that he could get off the hook by sheer evasion. Of course, it hadn't worked, and so he found himself "advising" his fellow rodent on what to expect during her eventual trip into Toxteth to visit Rat Alley.

"Who was that, Ricky?" his wife Barbara asked, walking into his home office from the hallway and giving him a light hug from behind. The slender zebra mouse heard his tense tone during the call, and had come in to check and make sure nothing was terribly wrong. He had a tendency not to tell her what was bothering him unless she asked.

Richter let out a breath, resting his head back against her chest. "Sports agent for the FBA. She uh... was looking at embarking on a journey out to England and wanted to know what to expect."

"England?" Barbara repeated, her brow furrowing. She leaned to the side to make eye contact with her husband. "You don't mean that rat, do you?"

With a dry chuckle, Richter nodded. "That's the one," he affirmed.

"And... you told her not to, right?"

"I tried, but there was no talking her out of it. The best I could do was tell her what I saw while I was down there and hope for the best."

While Richter woke his laptop and resumed tapping away at an open document, Barbara rubbed at his shoulders gently. "Maybe she'll change her mind?"

He shook his head. "She won't. That's pretty much the only thing I know for certain." The mouse craned his neck up to kiss his wife's chin. "I'm sorry, hun, but I really have to get back to work. They're breathing down my neck, and..."

"Oh!" came the quick reply, the other rodent making her way toward the hallway door. "Of course. I should get to the store, anyway. I was thinking jambalaya for dinner, mm?"

Richter grinned, turning back to her. "You read my mind."

Once he was alone in the house again, Richter switched windows on his laptop, pulling up a browser window and checking his usual battery of social, sports, and gossip websites. It had been two months since he'd traveled into the depths of Liverpool and met Alphonse Norwich IV, exposing the world to the rat and the den in which he lived. Since then, he'd been invited on several programs both radio and television to talk about his experience there. At first, he'd been happy to, but the questions were always clearly loaded, the hosts less interested in learning the truth about the mysterious Rat Alley and more in wringing the more salacious tidbits out of him.

As the weeks passed, Richter sat on the sidelines and watched the story take on a life of its own. Despite how little had actually been revealed about Alphonse and his hometown, few in the media felt any compunctions with improvising, weaving their own narratives about the "vile rat's nest" tucked away in Liverpool and arguing about whether or not such poison should be allowed into the FBA's well. Not helping matters were the small handful of reports from others who had attempted to penetrate into the Alley only to find themselves quickly run out with their tail between their legs. Richter's warnings had fallen on deaf ears that non-rats would receive a less than warm welcome, and the ensuing reports of Alley hostility only helped the fan the flames.

Naturally, the internet was even less tactful. Without the filter of network brass and thanks to the protection of anonymity, two breeds sprang up: those who wanted to see Alphonse and everyone he loved die in a fire, and those who inexplicably loved the specist rat. For every furious tweet or blog entry filled with as much bile as the rat himself, there was another cheering him on. Richter couldn't tell which side disturbed him more. More troublesome was that much of the buzz had nothing to do with the big Brit as an athlete, but rather he turned into a tool for both sides to push their own agendas.

Richter went back to his original article, reading and re-reading his words, scrutinizing them, thinking about how the response might have been different had he said this or that slightly differently.

"Take out that last paragraph, and this would have just been a little fur-of-interest story on an FBA longshot," he muttered to himself. "But oh no, I had to go and get fancy. Pump the guy up like some hidden gem, get everyone's curiosity all piqued."

The mouse rubbed at his eyes again, futilly hoping to relieve some of the tension. Every time he found a blog post, a tweet, a link to a podcast, or a YouTube video, Richter felt a twinge of guilt. He was the reason the spotlight was on Toxteth, it was his fault the politics of specism had become a boiling point again. True, it wasn't splashed across headlines, the upcoming playoffs and other more important matters were the primary focus for most, but there were enough raised pitchforks or perverted love letters to give the weary mouse a perpetual migraine.

In the midst of it all was Murina Beaubonique. Before she got involved, most of the firestorm had been hypotheticals and conjecture. What would happen IF Alphonse got signed, IF he came to America. The arguments were for why he should or shouldn't. Then the rat picked him up as a client and the dynamic shifted to whens instead of ifs, shoulds instead of coulds. Richter recalled clearly the day the story broke. Murina had understandably hoped to keep Alphonse's trip to Boston quiet, but the Alley rat had gone out of his way to make sure that couldn't happen. Within an hour of his arrival there were rumors circulating that he'd come, then came the cell phone pictures, and finally the day he left the papers had confirmed it and got their big dramatic headlines. One in particular from a tabloid at the supermarket stood out:

THE BITERS ARE COMING! THE BITERS ARE COMING!

Reports had varied concerning that weekend's events varied. Interviews with hotel employees and Harvaardwak students painted pictures of some violent whirlwhind, Murina herself insisted they were exaggerating, and neither seemed any more or less reliable than the other. Offended locals wanted to get their time in the light and make their stories as dramatic as possible, and his agent clearly wanted to bat the fire away. All the while, Richter Rozich watched. The more he learned, the more he wished he'd just turned around in that Alley and told his boss the rats had been too hostile to deal with. Alphonse Norwich IV would have been left alone in his Alley, the league would trot along just as it always had, and all would have been well.

Fate, of course, had other plans, and a few weeks later Richter opened up his email to find a message from the black rat. It was typically brief and to the point.

Mr Rozich,

Next weekend I will be traveling to Liverpool to meet with Alphonse. Call me back, I would like to discuss your time spent there.

Thank you,
Murina

Richter felt like a babe trying to avoid talking with a teacher. While most preferred phone to email, this was a mouse who was fond of technology. Email meant uncomfortable topics were easier to deal with, that his responses could be measured and he wasn't stuck in a corner. True to his species, Richter wasn't the best in tense situations, as his experience in Toxteth had made obvious. By contrast, Murina had a reputation for preferring voice to text, and face to face if possible. Were the subject more casual, that would have been fine, but he knew she wanted to grill him over what he hadn't written about in Toxteth and he would be unable to dodge around her more penetrating questions. So, like a coward, he had avoided her, until finally his call was answered, and so began the quizzing.

Their talk was pleasant, as far as it went. Murina wasn't hostile or accusatory in any way, but she was a Boston rat used to getting to the point and not beating around the bush, so there was little by way of small talk. It sounded to him as though she had written a set of questions and was quickly going through them.

"How long were you in the Alley?"

"Uhm... just the one night."

"I see. Did you go anywhere beyond the court, Alphonse's home, and the concert?"

"No, just there. I hadn't had much chance to wander on my own, and I got the idea Alphonse was very specific about what he wanted me to see."

"Mm-hm. How were the others? Did you speak much with his family?"

As their talk continued, Richter realized he hadn't been dodging Murina herself, rather he'd been trying to avoid rehashing his Alley visit. Overall, it had not been a pleasant experience, despite the welcoming the residents seemed to give him. There was culture shock, and then there was the distinct impression that one wrong word and he would end up like the police photos he'd seen later. That was another lovely revelation after his article was published: the litany of unearthed reports about Alley violence. Before embarking on his own journey, he'd been ignorant of it all. He had an excuse for diving into the rat's nest. Now he was advising Murina for her trip, knowing full well the extent of Alley violence toward outsiders. It was like he had curiously poked at a snowball atop a hill and could only watch helplessly as it barrelled toward civilization.

That wasn't what Richter Rozich wanted. It wasn't his style. He wasn't a yellow journalist out to find controversial stories to nab readers, he didn't want to cause others difficulty to further his own career. When he'd first agreed to go find and interview Alphonse Norwich IV, he agreed because it sounded as though the rat had a story to tell. He was right, but had been wholly unprepared for the story he got. Now Pandora's box was open, and whatever happened from here on out, the blood would be on his hands. Possibly literally.

Downstairs he heard a door open and a voice call up. "Ricky! I need help with these bags! Do you have a minute?"

"No problem, hun!"

He closed his laptop and stood up, taking a deep breath. Like it or not, Murina Beaubonique was heading to Toxteth, for a full weekend no less. He had his fingers crossed that she would find what she was looking for and make it back in one piece. Then again, she was more assertive than he, and she was a rat like them. Maybe they would respond better to that. It was going to take a lot to avoid calling Murina every few hours to make sure everything was okay, but he'd still keep combing online, just in case anything popped up. He prayed that it wouldn't.