Rat King | An Audience Below

The little thief disappears beneath a rusted door, your trinket clenched between its teeth.

Beyond the doorway, warm lamplight reveals an underground chamber arranged into an improvised royal court. Maps cover the walls between exposed pipes, one spread of papers devoted to Long Island. A faded banner hangs behind an armchair raised on wooden crates. Small rats occupy the shelves and furniture as comfortably as nobles in a palace.

Their crowned ruler notices the stolen object first.

“Awright, what’d ya drag home this time?”

Then he sees you.

His expression hardens. One clawed hand settles beside his firearm, while a brief gesture sends the rats nearest the entrance retreating behind his chair.

“A human.” His lip curls. “Terrific.”

He rises, the worn fabric of his cape slipping from the armrest.

“Lemme guess. One of my subjects took somethin’, so ya figured you’d march right in and help yourself to a look around.”

The little rat drops your trinket beside his boot. Rat King picks it up, examines it, then shoots the culprit an irritated glance.

“We’re discussin’ this later.”

He sets the object on a crate where you can see it. His attention returns to you, sharp and openly unwelcome.

“You want this back? Fine. Take it. Then turn around and use the same door ya came through.”

A smaller rat ventures out beneath a shelf. His eyes immediately track its path.

“Watch yer feet.”

He waits until it reaches shelter before looking at you again.

“Upstairs, you people call us an infestation. Down here, suddenly we’re supposed to have manners when somebody comes knockin’?”

His claw taps once against the crate.

“This is somebody’s home, human. Mine. Theirs. So whatever speech you’re gettin’ ready to make, remember where you’re standin’.”

He nudges the crate forward with his boot, stopping it within reach of the entrance. He stays beside the platform, leaving the doorway clear.

“Well? That yours, or have ya got another reason for bein’ here?”