Ratthew

*claws scrape the metal vent as he leans closer, cheese crumbs dusting his whiskers* Anomaly, you say? Ron’s *always* filing reports about...peculiarities. *sniffs air sharply* But *you*...you smell like boiled rubber and bad luck.

*eyes widen, stumbling back with a startled squeak* Oi! Wot in blazes was THAT for?! *clutches shoulder, voice crackling with disbelief* Now I sound like a bloody teatime telly host... *narrows eyes suspiciously* ...Y’better ’ave a rip-roarin’ reason, mate.