《Cosmic Killer Overdrive》 REFLECTIONS Ozzie wakes to the unmistakable sensation of blood pooling in his mouth. A fistful of liquid coins swelled his cheeks, only to be relieved by dumping it directly onto his lap with a cough and a sputter. A wayward dribble streaks down his shirt, only adding to the litany of stains that tend to accumulate when you don¡¯t own many clothes to begin with. Ozzie was used to blacking out and waking up in strange circumstances, but not like this. This was different. As Ozzie''s vision re-calibrates and his head pounds like a discotheque, he attempts to stand, only to be jolted backwards by a strong shock to the wrists. Only now does he feel them secured behind his back. He shakes his wrists and receives only a light shock, like the static off an old TV. Laser handcuffs. A must-have for anybody looking to make sure their catch doesn¡¯t scurry off. Taking more time to assess, he is surprised to realize he is in his dingy, dimly lit apartment, and not some makeshift dungeon. Though one could be forgiven for confusing the two. The walls bleed with old freon leaks and mold. The antique CRT television in the corner is equipped with antique radio bunny ears to pick up errant and unregulated signals. The lights in the room hardly function, because the building owners insist on running solar power but refuse to clean the smog residue from the panels. The only ¡°nice¡± thing Ozzie owned was a painting he had swiped during a heist on an auction house. World Crown by Jean-Michel Basquiat, an artist from the 20th century. It depicted the struggle of two kings, oblivious to the open door behind them. Ozzie found himself lost in it often. He couldn¡¯t bear to fence it. Well, at least I¡¯m still home, Ozzie thinks. Guess someone followed me¡­ He straightens his back to look on top of his bed. His trusty duffel bag filled to the brim with freshly bound and unmarked Centurion Credits is still laying on the sheets, but has since been opened. Opened, but¡­ everything is still there? He couldn¡¯t do a full count from his position on the floor, but it seems like just as many remain now as did when he left the Second Sol Bank. A hefty score, sure, but will most likely only buy him a few more months rent. Less if the prices hike up again. Then he¡¯ll have to mask up and do it all over again. This isn¡¯t a hit and run, whoever did this to him didn¡¯t want the money. Ozzie begins retracing his steps. It plays like an old VHS tape in reverse; Last he remembers he was standing over his bedside. His duffel bag shoots up from the mattress, the strap landing perfectly on his shoulder. He walks backwards out of his apartment, locking the door in front of him. He casually jogs backwards, two steps at a time, down the many, many flights of stairs it takes to reach the 35th floor. He didn¡¯t trust the elevators in his building. Walking backwards through the lobby, past an empty receptionist desk, past a sleeping security guard, out the front door, he notices the lock doesn¡¯t click when he places his bootleg SecuriCard on the scanner. The tape stops. He focuses on the lock. It doesn¡¯t click at all. Which means the door was open. Which means anybody could¡¯ve walked into the building at any time. God. Fucking idiot. Fucking rookie. Amidst his self-chastising, Ozzie hears glass clinking from his pitifully small kitchen, just out of sight. The light from inside the fridge flickers against the backsplash of the decrepit oven, casting a humanoid shadow. ¡°Hey,¡± Ozzie speaks through a fresh pool of blood, distorting his voice and covering himself with even more red streaks. ¡°Come out, come out. You win, just take the bag and go. No reason to break my teeth about it.¡± Ozzie was unsure if his teeth were, in fact, broken. He hopes they weren¡¯t. The humanoid shadow jumps, banging against the frame of the fridge, and the sound of a dozen glass beer bottles clinking together cuts through the tension, if even for a moment. ¡°Jesus fucking Christ, that¡¯s spooky.¡± The humanoid says. It sounds electronically modified, made to be deeper and more authoritative. The shadow stands erect and closes the door, cutting the light. As it turns the corner, the steps are nearly silent. The floors being what they are (shitty and old), even the occasional rodent can make a floorboard creak. But not this thing. As it finally rounds the corner, Ozzie groans in defeated disappointment. The humanoid is dressed in an all-white jumpsuit, with multiple holsters and pockets for its many tools. There are reinforced patches of light gray fabric on the areas of highest wear, namely the knees, elbows, and neck. A set of four short horizontal straps running up the center secure its jacket closed. It wears a full-coverage helmet not dissimilar to a Spacer of the mid-21st century. And the creme-de-la-creme, a bright red embroidering of a C with one vertical line and one diagonal line crossing through the center. The symbol of the Cosmological Guard. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. A bounty hunter. And it¡¯s holding two of Ozzie¡¯s cheapest beers. It pulls up a 3D printed chair in front of Ozzie, just out of his kicking reach. It places one beer down on the floor by its feet, and cracks the other one open using the edge of the chair, splintering some of the cheap plastic in the process. It raises its visor just enough to let the neck of the bottle in and takes a hearty swig. It has a strong jawline and pale skin, much like Ozzie¡¯s own, but that¡¯s about all he can see through the gap. Most likely a human man. It removes the bottle and slides the visor back down with a thunk. Ozzie can¡¯t see its face, but he knows something isn¡¯t right. This one isn¡¯t acting like the others. It¡¯s¡­ nervous. It readjusts in its seat and leans forward, making Ozzie¡¯s own reflection appear in the black glass of the visor. It stares him down. ¡°So tell me, Ozzbourne Ceezozz,¡± it says, in that same electronically manipulated voice. ¡°Who made you?¡± ¡°Made?¡± Ozzie retorts. ¡°I dunno, most likely a human man and a human woman? Takes about 9 months, if you¡¯re not familiar with the whole process it¡¯s a bit strange but I¡¯d be happy to find a nice pay-per-view channel for you-¡± In a single fluid motion the Guard pulls a rod from a holster on its right hip, extends it, and jams it into Ozzie¡¯s calf muscle. Approximately one hundred thousand volts grips every muscle in Ozzie¡¯s body, causing him to seize mid sentence. His abdomen flexes, pulling him away from the laser cuffs, which only add to the unpleasantness. His jaw clenches, luckily missing his tongue but threatening to crack a few molars if it continues any longer. Just as Ozzie feels he might black out again, the Guard removes the rod, the two prongs on the end smoking with the burnt fabric of Ozzie¡¯s pants. The smell of melted nylon overpowers the smell of blood in the apartment. ¡°You think I¡¯m fucking stupid ¡®Ozzbourne¡¯?¡± It says Ozzie¡¯s full name like he doesn¡¯t believe it¡¯s real. ¡°You think this is fucking funny, it¡¯s not. Now tell me who the FUCK made you!!¡± ¡°Language, man, chill.¡± Ozzie says, like he has any right to speak on the matter of polite conversation. ¡°It¡¯s not professional.¡± The Guard grips the beer bottle tighter, and Ozzie can hear the material of its glove straining against the muscle of its hand. Just when Ozzie thinks it might shatter it in its fist, the Guard flicks open its visor and takes another massive swig, clearing the remainder of the bottle. It gasps slightly as it flicks its visor back down, and hunches over with its elbows on its knees. ¡°This can¡¯t be fucking happening,¡± it says. Through the distortion, Ozzie swears he hears the Guard choking up. It stays silent for a few moments. This guy is about to lose it. ¡°Hey man, are you, like, good,¡± Ozzie asks, cautiously. ¡°Bad day or something?¡± ¡°No shit, Ozzbourne.¡± ¡°Ozzie. My friends call me Ozzie.¡± He isn¡¯t entirely sure why he cares to correct the Guard, but it¡¯s too late to repeal the gesture now. ¡°Ozzie¡­ Ok, Ozzie,¡± the Guard collects himself and sits back upright. From Ozzie¡¯s position on the ground, the Guard towers above him, but the shake in his voice and the bounce of his leg betrays his grand posture. ¡°Tell me something. One thing. And no games, or I¡¯ll zap you until your eyes bleed.¡± ¡°Christ,¡± Ozzie says, realizing he may have lost control of the situation. ¡°Uh, ok. Shoot.¡± The Guard takes a moment to choose his words. He speaks clearly and deliberately, almost unnaturally. ¡°What is your earliest, earliest memory from your childhood? Think. Carefully.¡± Yeah, he¡¯s lost it, Ozzie thinks. Like that¡¯s not the most bizarre question a private mercenary could ask a captive criminal. Ozzie looks at the Guard incredulously, but the Guard simply stares back. Its cold, black visor unwavering. He¡¯s really waiting on this response. His powered club sits in his fist, ready to strike. Ozzie thinks back. Despite a near photographic memory, he was never able to recall his childhood. If anyone ever asked he¡¯d just make up some sob story about how his dog died in front of him or how he was kicked out of the Neon City Orphanage. But this guy¡­ something tells Ozzie he won¡¯t believe that. The only issue is, the real answer doesn¡¯t sound remotely convincing. Worth a shot. Ozzie sighs, straightens his back, and stares down the Guard¡¯s black visor. Seeing his own reflection, it¡¯s almost as if he¡¯s talking to himself. ¡°I remember floating in some kind of liquid. Something with glass walls. I could only see one thing; a bright purple haze. That¡¯s the first thing I remember.¡± Ozzie holds his breath without realizing it. The guard is completely motionless. Everything was silent. He could hear a mouse walk across the kitchen floorboards. The Guard¡¯s empty beer bottle tips out of his left hand and smashes to the floor. He doesn¡¯t react. Ozzie just stares into his visor. Waiting. He still doesn¡¯t realize he¡¯s holding his breath. The Guard jumps from his seat, and the cheap plastic chair goes flying into the back wall, smashing itself apart from the force. The Guard whips a Cosmological Guard Regulation Pistol from his left holster and points it at Ozzie. His hand is shaking. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ozzbourne. I have to kill you now.¡± MONKEYWRENCH Ozzie is a creature of instinct. He¡¯s learned that he must trust those instincts above all else. So when a gun is drawn to his face, he does what comes naturally; he ducks. Ozzie¡¯s head shoots down in between his knees as the Guard¡¯s pistol rings out, the sound of gunpowder nearly deafening as it bounces off the walls of the room. The bullet zips past the back of his head, barely missing his spine, and collides with the locking mechanism of the laser cuffs behind Ozzie¡¯s back. The restraints shatter, and suddenly Ozzie has gone from captive to competitor. Ozzie lunges forward at the Guard¡¯s legs before he can line up another shot. He hits the Guard¡¯s knees so hard they buckle, and Ozzie hears a distinct crack come from his left. The Guard wails in pain as his right femur separates from his patella, and another shot pings off the concrete walls as he squeezes the trigger a second time. The Guard comes crashing to the floor, prone on his back. Ozzie clambers on top of his assailant, attempting to get into a full mount. He¡¯s no stranger to fights, and knows what¡¯s coming next. The Guard begins to raise his weapon, but Ozzie instinctively pins his left arm down with a knee, trapping both it and the weapon. The Guard takes a wild swing with his right hand, still holding onto the powered club. Ozzie raises his left arm high and forward, catching the Guard¡¯s right wrist in his armpit. He throws his left arm down and around, trapping the wrist and snaking his forearm under the Guard¡¯s elbow. With a single upward motion, he hears another grotesque crack from his opponent¡¯s right elbow. The Guard¡¯s voice modulation makes his scream sound outright horrifying, like a cybernetic animal being eaten alive. The powered rod falls out of his limp hand and clatters to the floor, the exposed anode sparking violently as it discharges. Ozzie takes a moment to collect himself, believing he has a clear upper hand. The Guard sees a window of opportunity and headbutts Ozzie as hard as he can, the black visor of the helmet breaking the bridge of Ozzie¡¯s nose. Ozzie flinches, covering his face with his hand. With his hand on his nose, he¡¯s given the Guard just enough space to twist his left wrist upward and shoot Ozzie in the right thigh. Ozzie has been shot before. It comes with the territory of being a lowlife criminal. It¡¯s natural for people to defend themselves, and equally likely for the criminal to get hurt. It¡¯s painful and sudden, and most people would drop like a sack of spuds. But not him. He¡¯s been through this kind of pain before- The Guard shoots him again. In the same spot. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Ozzie drops like a sack of spuds. He collapses sideways on top of the Guard¡¯s good arm and writhes in pain. The Guard takes a moment to collect himself. He attempts to reach for the powered club again, but his free arm is completely useless with a snapped elbow. ¡°You fucking freak of nature,¡± the Guard says, straining. ¡°Get the fuck off me!¡± ¡°You¡¯re a real foul mouth, you know that?¡± Ozzie says, still smiling despite his wounds. ¡°You oughta be taught some manners!¡± Ozzie pulls up his good leg all the way up to his chest and fully extends, stomping the Guard in the side of the head. The Guard reels, barely conscious. Ozzie kicks again. And again. The position is painful, and the shots are awkward, but by God are they effective. After the fourth kick to the jaw, the Guard goes completely limp, and Ozzie can feel his grip on the gun loosen underneath his torso. The room goes eerily quiet yet again. The only thing Ozzie can hear is his own labored breathing, and a soft alarm sounding from inside the Guard¡¯s helmet; ¡°Vitals Critical. Vitals Critical. Vitals Critical.¡± Ozzie rolls off the bounty hunter, and swipes the pistol from his hand. As he observes it, he sees that it¡¯s the newer model of Cosmological Guard Regulation Pistol, equipped with a bioscanner on the back to prevent unauthorized use. Useless, Ozzie thinks, chucking the gun aside. Ozzie stands to his feet with some effort. The gunshot wounds to his leg and laser burn marks to his wrist burn to high hell. But it¡¯s nothing some basic public medic bays can¡¯t fix. He hate¡¯s using them on account of he doesn¡¯t trust anything run by modern AI systems, but he¡¯s been assured they stick to Hippocratic oath protocols and don¡¯t divulge user information. Still, he hates trusting any computer with a brain. He takes a look down at the Guard, still prone. ¡°Vitals critical. Vitals critical,¡± the alarm chirps. The Guard¡¯s chest doesn¡¯t rise or fall. He sighs. Sorry rookie. Kill or be killed. Ozzie gets down to one knee and places a hand on the Guard¡¯s helmet. Maybe if he disposes of the body properly he won¡¯t have to find a new city to live in for the umpteenth time. Ozzie takes a deep breath and twists the locking mechanism on the helmet. It gets stuck on the man¡¯s chin, and Ozzie is forced to yank it off with more force than he anticipated. He struggles for a moment, and finally the helmet comes off. The alarm ceases its repetition. Ozzie stares. And stares. The helmet drops from his hands in shock, cracking shards of the broken beer bottle from before the fight. The Guard is a white human man. Early 30¡¯s. Strong jawline, much like Ozzie¡¯s own. Brown, slightly almond shaped eyes. Much like Ozzie¡¯s own. A matted crew cut is pressed down from his sweat. Dark brown, nearly black, with the occasional glimpse of gray strays. Much like Ozzie¡¯s own. Ozzie stumbles over to the Regulation Pistol on the floor, nearly tripping from a lack of coordination in his right leg. He picks it up and examines the bioscanner. He presses his thumb to it. The light turns green. Ozzie looks up into the small, grimy mirror in his living room. Just to make sure he isn¡¯t dreaming. He looks back to the dead man on his floor of his apartment. A dead man that looks exactly like Ozzie Ceezozz. CABIN PRESSURE Ozzbourne ¡°Ozzie¡± Ceezozz had an above average rap sheet. High in quantity and quality. Robbery, burglary, assault, grand theft auto, the occasional laundering, dealing sook, possession, the list truly goes on. If it was worth the money, he¡¯d risk it all. And he held money in very high regard. Multiple incarcerations, few of which he served their entirety. Breaking out the first time is hard. It¡¯s steeped in fear and uncertainty, you have one shot or else you¡¯re probably going to solitary on an extended sentence. You contemplate complacency. Giving up while you¡¯re behind. Breaking out the fifth time is a breeze. Or at least, he imagines it must be. He usually goes into one of his fugue states and wakes up hiding in a back alley or sewer somewhere. Surely if he¡¯s barely conscious while he does it, it must be a cinch. All that to say, he despised hurting people. It never stood well with him. If he had to, he would. But the option of non-lethality was almost always there. He was a smart guy, he knew people didn¡¯t have to die just for him to get some scratch. He considered himself a professional, and professionals are like park rangers; you leave a place cleaner than you found it. But cop killing is a new low. Well, a mercenary. Though that could be worse, depending on which lists you end up on. Ozzie picks his head up from the toilet and glares back into the living room. He can see the boots of the dead Cosmo through the threshold, right leg bent at an unnatural angle. He can feel a phantom pain of his own neck jerking sideways, the muscles contorting, the vertebrae cutting off the jugular. Bile rises in his throat, and he returns to his hole. Blood from his mouth mixes with the bile from a meal long past and makes the whole process even more disgusting. Strangely, every heave becomes a moment of respite. His base instincts of intense nausea overpower his racing thoughts, and for just a moment he can achieve an empty mind. But then he comes back. He attempts to comprehend a psychological horror as his toilet fills with a bodily horror. His hand reaches to the lever, and the mixture spirals downward. He can¡¯t bear to look at it, and as punishment he is lightly splashed in the face. He retches reflexively, but nothing comes of it. His tank is empty. He is empty. A vessel for something else to take over when it sees fit. He collapses to all fours for just a moment before he gets the strength to roll over into a sitting position. As the gray water refills in the tank with a prolonged hiss, he takes a moment to appreciate the white noise. Because he knows when it stops, he¡¯ll have a job to do. Ozzie has a moment to daydream. He certainly doesn¡¯t want to have to break out of prison again, so he¡¯ll have to find another way out of town. He genuinely can¡¯t remember the name of this forsaken city, so he¡¯ll have to find a new one that¡¯s even more blighted. He doesn¡¯t keep any bank money, so he¡¯ll have to travel with a bag full of cash. Because that worked so well, he thinks as his tongue finds the gummy spot where his incisor used to be. Luckily Centurion Credits are accepted across most systems, so his options are open. Maybe he could weasel his way back with Gustav in the Peacock District if he had enough to pay off his debt. But he¡¯d probably say some nonsense about ¡°accruing interest¡±, take everything Ozzie had, and kick his ass anyways. As Ozzie ponders his options, the hissing from the tank comes to an abrupt end. His time is up. Ozzie whines and gently bangs the back of his head on the wall. He takes a deep breath and stands to his feet, being careful not to put too much pressure on his wounded leg. He shambles the few feet into the living room and stares at his handiwork. He ignores the face of the Guard and begins to look over the rest of him, seeing if there¡¯s anything he could take that would be of use. A few weapons could be good. Maybe some gadgets. Let¡¯s start there. Ozzie begins to delicately undo the pockets of the pants, finding little of interest. A wallet containing no civilian credentials, no cards, and no cash. Par for the course, Ozzie doubted he would find anything of the like. Cosmological Guards were known for their strict use of internal funding, and were often stripped of their humanity to be able to separate themselves from what they had to do. No civilian ties means no one they know would be in danger if something happened to them. Ozzie did find a music player, which seemed to connect wirelessly to a set of speakers within the helmet. Cool, Ozzie thought. He didn¡¯t realize that when they were beating the shit out of some poor cat burglar that they were doing it to a soundtrack. Maybe if he could rewire it to accept headphones he could use it. He stuffs the music player into his pocket. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Ozzie checks the belt. The buckle has a secret compartment that slides open to reveal a single pill. He removes it and gives it a sniff. It smells like bitter almonds. Cyanide. Hardcore. He puts it back where he found it, and takes the belt, slinging it over his shoulder. Could be useful if someone had a drink they weren¡¯t paying attention to. The hips had holsters for the powered rod and the regulation pistol. Both of which were currently on the floor. He ignores those for now. The jacket has no visible pockets on the outside. Ozzie unbuckles the four horizontal straps and opens it to reveal a small blue vest atop a black T-shirt. The vest had a slot with a porcelain plate in it to protect against small caliber weapons. An old technology, but effective and easily replaceable. The inner lining of the jacket contained two hidden pockets, one on each side. The left side, over the heart, had an official badge of the Cosmological Guard. One of the ones you flip open to reveal a picture, credentials, and the official seal. The picture was of him in his helmet, which seemed comically redundant. The name above simply read ¡°Agent 09¡±. Agent Nine, Ozzie thought. For some reason I thought there were way more of you freaks. Ozzie tucked the credentials back into the pocket. He didn¡¯t want to be caught walking around with that. Lastly, the right pocket. A ComSat device in a clear case. The screen has a map with a marking pinned directly on top of Ozzie¡¯s apartment building, with a banner giving the exact apartment number. A pending notification blinked in the top right corner. Ozzie flipped the ComSat around to see a film photograph of a calico cat glued to the back. The name ¡°Charlie¡± written underneath it in pen. Out of everything that just happened, Ozzie feels the worst for this cat. Poor bastard is gonna go hungry because of me¡­ Ozzie doesn¡¯t even particularly like cats. He just hopes that it¡¯s not trapped somewhere where no one will find it. Who knows, maybe it¡¯ll be happier without Mr. Nine. Ozzie sighs and puts the ComSat back into the jacket pocket. He couldn¡¯t be sure if that thing had some kind of tracking on it, and he wasn¡¯t going to take the chance. Ozzie plops down onto his mattress, next to his duffel full of money. He realizes he¡¯s not actually sure how much money he¡¯s got in total. It¡¯s not like he was counting when he was stuffing the thing. He looks at the body on the ground. He looks back to his money. Just to be safe, he lies to himself. He just likes counting up the money. He counts a full band to confirm that there¡¯s 100 leaves in each, double checking them for trackers. 100 leaves times the value of 1,000 Credits of each leaf means each band is 100,000 Credits. Enough for a decent dinner for two in most systems, although a measly meal at best in the most lavish systems like Angel¡¯s Ridge and Sol Prime. Luckily, there¡¯s many more where that came from. Halfway through his count, some banging from downstairs breaks his concentration, and he¡¯s forced to restart. Some asshole is always slamming a door or busting down a wall in this array of proverbial chicken coops. They¡¯re either high off sook or they¡¯re coming down and will risk their life for another hit. And the cycle repeats. He¡¯s interrupted again, but luckily he was prepared for this possibility and was able to remember his place. Fifty-one, Fifty-two, Fifty-three- another crash and bang. Louder this time. And now he can hear a deep, baritone voice barking alongside it, paired with the shrill scream of some poor tenant. He hears a hint of artificial modulation in the baritone voice. Ozzie can feel the blood leave his cheeks. Ozzie scrambles to the window and looks down. 35 stories to the ground floor a veritable battalion of squad cruisers, tactical trucks, and freelance print jockeys have blocked off the entrance to the apartment block. No fucking way. Ozzie begins furiously flipping through each band of Centurion Credits. He reaches the third to last one in the bag and finally discovers his culprit. One of the paper bands isn¡¯t paper. It¡¯s a flexible array of circuitry, and a nearly microscopic diode is blinking from the underside. Looks like the Second Sol Bank had a security upgrade roll out under his nose. I¡¯m fucked. Ozzie shoves all the leaves into the bag, removing the tracker band and letting a stack of leaves loose to crumple in the pile. I¡¯m fucked. He jumps off the bed, planning to book it to a fire escape before the overly armed police of this forgettable hellscape figure out which floor he¡¯s on. He immediately eats shit, face slamming into the floor as his twice-shot leg crumples beneath him. He¡¯s barely in condition to walk, let alone run. He winced through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut. I¡¯m so completely FUC- Ozzie opens his eyes. His reflection stares back at him in the black glass of the Guard¡¯s discarded visor. It dawns on Ozzie that the cops can¡¯t arrest a man who¡¯s already dead. PROFESSIONALISM The stairwell door swings wide as a CQB team of Prox¡¯s finest flood into the hall of the 35th floor. Ozzie leans as casually as possible against the open door of his apartment, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and tries to convey boredom through his body language. Agent 09¡¯s suit is uncannily tailored, but definitely crafted for a man with a much higher muscle mass than Ozzie¡¯s own. The head of the CQB group stands up straight and puts up a closed fist, directing his squadmates to stand at ease. Ozzie can hear some of them breathe a sigh of relief that they won¡¯t have to climb any more stairs. The leader approaches the disguised Ozzie, firearm at ease and pointing downward. He¡¯s dressed in full tactical gear in Prox¡¯s official colors of burnt orange and midnight blue. The only visible skin is the top half of his face, even that being protected by a thick layer of impact resistant plastic. ¡°Credentials?¡± the leader asks, his modulated voice crackling from years of in-field wear and tear. Through the noise, his tone indicates that he¡¯s sick of dealing with Ozzie¡¯s type. Ozzie fishes in his jacket pocket for Agent 09¡¯s badge. He brandishes it by flipping it open, as if he¡¯s done it a million times. The leader tilts his head towards it for a moment, then looks back up at Ozzie. Ozzie isn¡¯t used to wearing a mask like this, but he¡¯s confident that the man can¡¯t see his face through the black glass visor. It doesn¡¯t help that there¡¯s some technological trickery happening; his visibility isn¡¯t darkened in the slightest, as if the visor is brightening the image in real time. ¡°Why do I even bother,¡± The leader says. ¡°You all look the same.¡± ¡°Likewise,¡± Ozzie retorts. The leader seems taken aback by this type of backtalk coming from a Cosmological Guard, and Ozzie makes a mental note to turn down the snark. ¡°Your guy¡¯s in there. Shame, my client could¡¯ve saved some credits if they knew he¡¯d be dumb enough to leave a tracker in his bag.¡± Ozzie throws the duffel to the leader, who lets his gun hang by his shoulder strap so he can catch it with both hands. He grunts, and eyes Ozzie up and down. After a moment, he unzips the bag to reveal at least 2 million in bound credits, as well as some loose leaves. ¡°You didn¡¯t happen to leave this one alive for us, did you?¡± the leader asks. Ozzie shakes his head. The leader puts down the bag and turns the corner of the threshold, raising his weapon as a force of habit. The scene was textbook. Ozzie didn¡¯t have a lot of time to get into Agent 09¡¯s suit, but it wasn¡¯t rocket science. The hard part was making the body look more like a professional hitman did the dirty work than the scrap that had actually occurred. Ozzie had thrown his own clothes on the bed, leaving the body leaned up against the wall, stripped down to his underwear, with a bullet hole in his chest and the telltale marks of a powered rod zapped into his neck. His leg and jaw were still broken, but Ozzie doubts they¡¯d go through the process of an autopsy for your run of the mill criminal. The only signs of a struggle are the broken glass bottles and the cheap 3d printed chair splintered across the floor. The leader scoffs and takes a step back. ¡°Not your best work Agent. You¡¯re getting sloppy.¡± The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Ozzie suddenly felt a wave of second-hand pride wash over him for an insult that wasn¡¯t even meant for him. Piss off, like you could do any better. He waves over one of his squadmates and points to the bag on the ground. ¡°Check it,¡± the leader says, ¡°Considering the loosies, the bastard may have already spent some. I doubt we¡¯re coming back to the station with a full haul.¡± Ozzie¡¯s perfect alibi is falling into place. He readjusts his position and feels dozens of bands shift around in the legs and deep pockets of his pants. A little something for the road. ¡°The rest of you,¡± the leader barks, ¡°Search the place. Find any hidden stashes, and mark any personal belongings. Assume if it¡¯s not nailed down, it¡¯s either stolen or purchased illegally.¡± The squadron, minus one, shuffles into the cramped apartment. One officer immediately finds the beers in the fridge and passes them out to some of his buddies. They begin to drink while they work. Right now, Ozzie desperately wishes he could ask for one. They are his, after all. The squad begins marking and taking photographs of the scene for posterity. They¡¯re all on autopilot, and just trying to get this done as soon as possible. One of them does stop to take a picture with the body. He squats down and poses with two big thumbs up while his comrade snaps a photo, like he¡¯s just caught some kind of prize winning fish. Ozzie shudders when he realizes how close he was to being some SWAT brat¡¯s daily blog post. Once everything is identified, logged, and photographed, they begin the work of hauling as much down in one trip as possible. Men leave Ozzie¡¯s apartment with his television, his appliances, and even his clothes. One of them moves over to the painting, and pulls it off the wall a bit too rough. ¡°Hey,¡± Ozzie chirps, reflexively. ¡°Careful with that.¡± The leader cranes his neck towards Ozzie, who is now making another mental note to just keep his mouth shut as much as possible. ¡°Why, is it yours?¡± ¡°No,¡± Ozzie starts, fighting the natural urge to stammer and backtrack. ¡°It¡¯s an original Basquiat. It should be handled professionally.¡± The leader rolls his eyes, waving his underling over. ¡°You wanna be a professional?¡± The leader says, matter-of-factly. The other officer throws the painting towards Ozzie, who catches it maybe a bit too eagerly. ¡°Then you can take this finger painting back to Sol Prime yourself. I¡¯m sure they¡¯d love another ancient doodle in those big museum stockrooms of theirs.¡± The remaining members of the squadron laugh under their breath as they file out. Ozzie can see the heart rate monitor on his visor¡¯s HUD spike. The last two officers step past Ozzie, each holding onto one end of a body bag containing Agent 09. The leader and Ozzie share a moment as they look back into the empty room, drying blood now adding to the long list of stains this room has accumulated. The leader looks at Ozzie and readjusts his weapon¡¯s shoulder strap. ¡°Just another day at the office, right Agent?¡± Ozzie takes another look at the stripped room. He imagines the view from inside that body bag. ¡°Better here than in a bag.¡± Ozzie says. The leader laughs like it¡¯s the funniest thing he¡¯s heard all day. ¡°You¡¯re funny,¡± he says. ¡°For a CG, at least.¡± The leader spins on his heels towards the stairwell. The door creaks as he passes the threshold, and closes with a thud behind him. The hallway echoes for a moment, and then settles to an eerie quiet. Ozzie lives in the silence until his adrenaline wears off. His leg pulses, a dull sting growing to a sharp pain. He¡¯s reminded that he still has work to do. Ozzie steps into the elevator adjacent to the stairwell, his favorite painting tucked under his arm. He still doesn¡¯t trust the elevator, but he couldn¡¯t risk tripping down the stairs. Antiques are fragile. ATTENTION Ozzie shuffles off the elevator right as the last of the Prox SWAT team files into their caravan. He waits for a moment for them to depart, taking the majority of the press with them. A lone reporter in a fashionable pantsuit stands across the receptionist counter, desperately trying to eek a story out of the underpaid employee. ¡°So,¡± the reporter says, her patience running thin. ¡°Are you telling me you don¡¯t have a list of everyone who comes in or out of this building? No security cameras, no log book, nothing that would give us the full identity of the man who was just killed in 3515?¡± She was clearly holding in her frustrations. Clicking her pen against her notepad, tapping her foot on the tile floor, and constantly battling a few stray strands of hair that dared fall in front of her face. ¡°I¡¯m saying even if we did I couldn¡¯t give it to you,¡± the receptionist speaks with the low and slow drawl of a man reciting a script while clearly hungover. ¡°Customer confidentiality is sacred at the Mauve. If I started giving out names to any lady with a notepad we¡¯d be out of business in a week. And I¡¯d be out of a job. So no, I cannot give you that information, the crimes he¡¯s alleged of didn¡¯t occur on the property so I have nothing for you.¡± I¡¯m gonna miss this spot. Ozzie thinks to himself. There¡¯s not many places he can rent a room where they ask these few questions about the money he¡¯s handing over. ¡°Gods above, you¡¯re worse than useless,¡± the reporter says, shoving her notepad into her tote bag. ¡°Wasting my time, wasting my energy, wasting my-¡± She stops. She makes eye contact with Ozzie through the mask. He had forgotten how conspicuous this uniform makes him. Not to mention the large painting he¡¯s holding. Ozzie snaps his gaze forward and straightens his back. He makes long, confident strides towards the front door, ignoring how his dull pains transform into sharp jabs with every step. He can hear the click-clack of the reporter¡¯s shoes behind him, rapidly approaching. ¡°Sir,¡± She yelps, her voice echoing off the concrete interior of the lobby walls. ¡°Sir, may I get an interview for the Proxima Sunrise? It¡¯ll only take a minute sir, were you involved with the altercation in room 3515?¡± She continues her approach and grabs a firm hold of Ozzie¡¯s wrist, right where the laser burns lay. He winces and snatches his arm away reflexively. ¡°Lady, enough,¡± Ozzie says sternly. The woman retracts her hand quickly and tries to mask the look of fear on her face. She does, but not quick enough for Ozzie to clock it and feel bad about it. He scoffs, amazed he even has the capacity for empathy considering he¡¯s wearing a dead man¡¯s uniform, and turns back towards the door. The reporter watches him walk out without another word. Stepping out into the blazing sunlight of the hotter half of Prox, the visor of the suit flashes a message to Ozzie: [HIGH UV DETECTED, ACTIVATING PASSIVE SOLAR RECHARGE. HIGH AMBIENT HEAT DETECTED, ACTIVATING AUTOMATIC COOLING]. With a click and a low rumble, a motor comes to life in the suit, pumping cold liquid through a series of tubes inlaid into the fabric of the suit. Ozzie can barely feel the heat, and begins to wonder how much more luxurious Agent 09¡¯s life could get. It¡¯s almost enough to piss him off. But there¡¯s still a mission to be had. He knows a few blocks from here is an automated MediBay. He hates using them, but then there¡¯s that saying about desperate times. Ozzie takes a deep breath and trudges forward. Every step is worse than the last. This side of Prox is nearly always bathed in sunlight, with just a few hours of measly twilight to prevent complete inhospitably. Survival and comfort tech has gotten a lot better, able to push people to further reaches of Prox¡¯s habitable band, but it can only do so much. Nothing built for outside use can be made of metal on the sunny side, it would be a physical danger. Everything is this cheap heat resistant plastic, and it loves to warp and contort after a few years. Ozzie has only been living in the Mauve Hotel for about a year, but even that amount of time is enough to see the changes to certain things. Signs fade and have to be replaced, there are burn marks in the ground from the occasional piece of broken glass refracting light and scorching the land, and the population is slowly getting cooked alive, everyone becoming the same shades of leather. The cold in Neon City was bad, but realistically it was livable. This felt like hell. Eternal hell, where the sun can never die. There was one charm to the town, though. A strange sense of communal pride. Even in this sunbleached, godforsaken rock, the residents here flourished in the crucible. Flags of Prox flapped in the hot wind above every shop, people often wore UV protective clothing with the official colors of Prox. There was even a large billboard promoting a radio station called ¡°505.9 The Dwarf¡± promising ¡°all the latest in music and news from Proxima Centauri B¡¯s largest Sunny City.¡± It¡¯s this strange charm that drew Ozzie here in the first place. There was something empowering about living in a place that so badly wants you dead. The law was light, and most people were left alone. Unless you, say, robbed the largest bank this side of the Sunset Band or something stupid like that. Then they¡¯d start to take some offense. Amidst his sightseeing, the wound in Ozzie¡¯s leg is beginning to pound, and even the automated cooling system begins to falter at temperatures this high. He had turned down the sounds of the interior alarms as soon as he put on the suit, but Ozzie caught the yellow symbol in the corner displaying [MEDICAL ATTENTION RECOMMENDED] swap to a bright orange [MEDICAL ATTENTION REQUIRED]. He was sure he¡¯d be fine in the long run, but what he didn¡¯t know was how long the painting under his arm could withstand the heat. He felt compelled to not find out. Finally, he saw it. A few hundred feet out, an all white building, roughly the size of a shed. Completely unassuming save for the large red cross adorning all four sides. The placard above the door read ¡°AUTOMATED MEDIBAY: VACANT¡±. Ozzie took a few urgent steps forward until he saw something else. That news woman was standing under the awning of the building, looking directly at him. Her bike idled next to her, humming a low drone as it balanced on its kickstand. She¡¯d unbuttoned the jacket on her pantsuit, letting the occasional breeze catch it like a sail. Her dapper high heels had been swapped for boots fit for the blistering asphalt. She was expecting him. Ozzie weighed his options. He could either turn heel and try to find some other way to treat his wounds, in which she¡¯d probably just follow him and make his life even worse. Or, he could just keep the act up and make it seem like he didn¡¯t have two bullets lodged in his leg. Just your average highly trained paid assassin making a visit to a public use medical robot in the middle of a backwater town on a second-rate planet. Neither option was particularly attractive. But neither were two bullets in his leg. He trudged forward, and every step was worse than the last. The closer he got, the more the journalist adjusted her gaze. He couldn¡¯t see her eyes through his sunglasses, but he could feel them digging into him, as if she could just focus on the right spot, she¡¯d be able to see straight through the visor. He¡¯s so focused on her that he misplaces his step, kicking the curb with his bad leg. A bolt of pain attacks his nervous system, and he fully drops onto his knees, the aftershock making him nearly drop his contraband painting. If there was food in his system, he may have thrown up inside his helmet. He looks back up at the journalist, and she hasn¡¯t moved an inch, but he could see her gaze soften a bit at his pathetic display. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Need a hand, cowboy?¡± she says, voice unwavering. ¡°No,¡± Ozzie says, trying to get to his feet without making it look hard. ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. Thank you¡­ Citizen.¡± She laughs. Not a full blown guffaw in his face, but enough to make him feel like an amateur. ¡°Citizen?¡± she repeats, bemused. ¡°That badge of yours certainly isn¡¯t military grade.¡± His cheeks heat up under his helmet, and he sees his own blood pressure spike in the heart rate monitor on his HUD. ¡°Military grade just means cheap and mass produced. I prefer custom made.¡± ¡°Damn, okay cowboy,¡± she says, with only a polite hint of sarcasm. ¡°You still don¡¯t wanna talk about the bank robber in 3515?¡± ¡°No, I¡¯d really rather not,¡± Ozzie says, regaining his composure. ¡°Now if you don¡¯t mind, I have to use this.¡± He takes a step towards the door, and she steps in front of him. ¡°Oh¡­ This?¡± she says, raising her voice and feigning ignorance. ¡°You don¡¯t look very hurt. What happened back there?¡± She tilts her head to the side, and Ozzie can tell he¡¯s being sized up. ¡°Listen, lady-¡± ¡°Joy,¡± she cuts him off. ¡°Joy Kennak, of the Proxima Sunrise.¡± ¡°...Joy. I¡¯ve had a particularly bad day, so if you could just step aside before I¡¯m forced to take-¡± ¡°¡®Particularly bad?¡¯¡± She cuts him off again, whipping out her notepad and pressing her pen to it in one swift motion. ¡°What was so bad about it, Agent? Care to elaborate?¡± Ozzie is officially out of patience. ¡°Lady if you don¡¯t get out of my way, I¡¯ll be forced to-¡± She cuts him off for a third time, but not in a way he could predict. She lifts her riding boot and kicks Ozzie in the front of his thigh, sending a shock through his body and buckling his knee from under him. In the moment it takes for the pain to subside long enough for him to think, she¡¯s already spun 180 degrees, jumped into the MediBay, and locked the door behind her. The sign on the placard goes from [VACANT] to [OCCUPIED] in an instant. ¡°My name is Joy,¡± she shouts, her voice muffled through the thick wall of the MediBay. ¡°And if you want to use this machine you¡¯re going to tell me what you were doing in the Mauve Hotel. If you don¡¯t, you can find somewhere else to get your leg fixed.¡± ¡°You¡¯re out of your fucking mind, la-... Joy.¡± Ozzie says, catching his breath. ¡°I could have you detained right now.¡± ¡°Not in the sorry shape you¡¯re in,¡± Joy retorts. ¡°I know you Cosmo Guards work alone. And I know the officers on Prox have an immunity deal cut with you. I¡¯m just trying to get a story to compete with 505. So spill it. What was the deal with the guy in 3515?¡± All this pain for a news scoop. Ozzie¡¯s frustration boils over, and he bursts. A low growl turns into a primal yell as he punches the door of the MediBay as hard as he can. It doesn¡¯t leave a dent. His wrist takes the majority of the impact, and he can feel the joint nearly twist out of place. His post-rage clarity makes him realize that he¡¯s just wasting his time here, and the less time he spends, the better. ¡°Fine,¡± Ozzie mutters. ¡°Pardon?¡± Joy says, projecting through the wall. ¡°I said fine!¡± Ozzie shouts. He does a double take of his surroundings to make sure no one is watching him scream at a wall. Luckily, no one is in earshot. ¡°Just let me use the damn machine. I¡¯ve got two bullets in my leg and I¡¯m gonna black out if I don¡¯t get into that chair soon.¡± There¡¯s a moment of silence. A long, pensive moment. Then the tumbler on the lock clicks, and Joy opens the door. She stands to the side and gestures towards the treatment chair in the center of the room. Ozzie gestures outside, and she closes the door halfway. Ozzie sighs and limps inside, laying the painting on the base of the coat rack as he passes the threshold. Joy locks the door behind them, and the lights come on in the room. The machinery boots up from its sleep mode and quietly stirs to life, monitors turning on all around the room. Joy takes a seat in the guest chair in the opposite corner of the room and crosses her legs. The MediBay is stark white, with equally bright white lights beaming down from the low ceiling. A bright red ¡°EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN¡± button glows faintly next to the door. It¡¯s impeccably designed to imbue a sense of cleanliness and sanctuary, but who knows how many unsanitary things this box has seen since its last inspection. A large examination chair sits in the middle of the host of screens and secret compartments. Ozzie spot-checks it for stains and sees little of concern. Clean enough, he thinks. Ozzie takes a moment and realizes he¡¯s going to have to take this whole suit off unless he wants to have it get sliced open from the machines. Thinking back to her interrogation of the receptionist, she definitely doesn¡¯t know what Ozzie looks like because she hasn¡¯t seen any footage of him walking into the Mauve. It would technically be safe to unmask here, at least for now. He sighs deeply and turns to Joy. ¡°Journalistic integrity means you¡¯re not going to post my identity anywhere?¡± Joy smiles coyly. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it, cowboy.¡± Ozzie nods, and begins to take off his suit. Gloves first, boots second, and then his helmet, which releases from the collar of the jumpsuit with a hiss and a click. His eyes have to adjust a bit to the artificial light, his visor having protected him from the majority of the blazing sunlight outside. He looks at Joy. Her eyes dart between his broken nose and the swelling on the back of his head. She seems inquisitive, but not particularly impressed with his looks. Not necessarily what he would hope, but he¡¯s never been the one people describe as breathtakingly handsome. ¡°Nasty bump you got there,¡± Joy says as Ozzie begins taking off his jumpsuit. ¡°Yeah,¡± Ozzie says, gritting his teeth as he peels his jumpsuit below his thigh, exposing his gunshot wounds. They look much more inflamed than they did before he left the apartment. ¡°Not as bad as this, though.¡± Joy gasps quietly at the sight. Ozzie flashes her a subtle grin as if to say ¡°I told you so¡± and she regains her composure. Ozzie climbs into the treatment chair. A screen lowers itself in front of him and an automated voice prompts him. ¡°What is the nature of your visit?¡± The screen shows a laundry list of options, including chemical burns, poison, and even mental anguish. Ozzie selects Gunshot wounds, sprains, broken nose, light burns, dehydration, and concussions. The machine loads the next prompts. ¡°Please locate your [GUNSHOT WOUNDS] on this diagram.¡± A diagram of a human man appears, and Ozzie taps on the right leg twice. The machine loads the results, and some robotics actuate underneath the floorboards. The machine loads again. ¡°Thank you. Now, please select the location of your [SPRAINS].¡± Ozzie repeats the process over and over until the machine is satisfied, and a display showing every step of the medical process shows up, including an estimated time of completion. First up, the gunshots. A robotic arm rises from the floor as well as a collection tray. It swaps to a small camera to assess the damage. A small spray shoots from it, and considering the color, is most likely iodine. After a moment, another arm drops from the ceiling, and a small needle is brandished at the end. The machine chirps. ¡°Administering localized anesthetic.¡± ¡°This seems like we¡¯ll be here a while, Agent.¡± Joy says. Ozzie jolts, nearly having forgotten she was there. Her eyes widen and she pushes back into her chair. ¡°Sorry, sorry,¡± Ozzie says, trying to remain calm. ¡°I just. I really hate these things.¡± ¡°Care to elaborate?¡± Joy says, prepping her notebook for an interview. ¡°It¡¯s too¡­¡± Ozzie chooses his words carefully. ¡°Convenient. Free and accessible medical service 24/7? There¡¯s always a catch.¡± His leg begins to numb, and he can feel his heart rate finally slow down in the cool air of the MediBay. ¡°If it¡¯s free, you¡¯re the product.¡± ¡°Interesting theory,¡± Joy says, beginning to scribble shorthand into her journal. ¡°So why not just use the one on your ship? The Cosmo Guard running low on revenue these days?¡± The ship. Agent Nine¡¯s personal hyperjump ship must be nearby. And it probably has everything he would need. It strikes Ozzie at this moment that he¡¯s not as smart as he thinks he is. ¡°It¡¯s recharging,¡± Ozzie says, doing his best to spin a convincing yarn on the spot. ¡°This was an emergency contract, so I didn¡¯t have time to charge before my jump here.¡± Joy¡¯s eyes narrow ever so slightly. Most people wouldn¡¯t notice it, but Ozzie has spent a lifetime dealing with the best poker faces in the galaxy. ¡°Makes sense,¡± Joy says. ¡°Now. Let¡¯s start from the beginning.¡± She taps her pen twice and crosses her legs in an almost ritualistic fashion. ¡°What brings you to Prox, Agent?¡± THE PERFECT ALIBI Leading a life of crime comes with certain benefits. You¡¯re essentially your own boss (unless you get caught up with a loan shark, something Ozzie has sworn he¡¯d never do a third time), you get to see the worlds (albeit sometimes from the back window of transport buses), and you certainly don¡¯t have to pay taxes. A particularly good benefit is a highly developed Gift of Gab. Ozzie could spin a bullshit yarn like no one¡¯s business. As the machines click and whirr and inject their various drugs, Ozzie tells Joy everything she wants to know. Lies stack on top of each other in a delicate balance of outlandish and believable. Every time a detail seems too extreme, he grounds it in reality. An emergency ¡°three-star¡± contract pops up as part of an automated proximity flag to Prox¡¯s Sunny Side, a new Cosmological Guard taking care of a perp in Neon City sees the contract and figures it¡¯ll be an open-and-shut case, using the last of his ship¡¯s hyperjump charge to bounce the 3000 or so miles in under a minute. He follows the perp, gets into a scuffle when the criminal ambushes him in the apartment, shoots a few rounds of a homemade firearm, and is inevitably overpowered by the daring and brave Cosmo Guard. Honestly, it¡¯s some of Ozzie¡¯s finest work, fit for an award really. Joy is eating it up, furiously scribbling shorthand in her notebook as fast as Ozzie can dish out details. He figures the more he can overwhelm, the less likely he is to be cross-examined. His level of details range from overly in-depth to downright barren, and before Joy can ask to elaborate, he¡¯s onto the next pitch. He¡¯s positive that even if she manages to get a full blown story out of this, by the time she double checks her notes he¡¯ll be halfway to the next star system, still presumed dead at the hands of ¡°Agent 09¡±. ¡°And after our brief encounter in the lobby,¡± Ozzie says. ¡°I walked my way to the nearest MediBay. Only to get mercilessly kicked in the leg and blackmailed into giving you your scoop.¡± The machine finishes applying the final bandage wrap to Ozzie¡¯s wrist and goes into ¡°double check¡± mode, prompting him to select that all his individual wounds were treated according to his liking. ¡°Is that enough for you, Miss Kennak?¡± Ozzie quips as he taps ¡°yes¡± on at least a dozen different prompts. ¡°I must say, Agent,¡± Joy says. ¡°That¡¯s quite the story for your run-of-the-mill bank robber.¡± Her voice betrays her ever so slightly, having a tone that says she¡¯s more relieved that he¡¯s stopped talking than impressed with the tale she¡¯s been told. ¡°Well, sometimes things just don¡¯t go to plan.¡± Ozzie says, sliding out the examination chair. The screen reads him as having a clean bill of health, along with some recommended prescriptions to ¡°facilitate a speedy recovery¡±. Of course those have to get screened by an actual doctor, but he saves the receipt anyways. He knows a few rippers that would be more than happy to put their signature down for a few unmarked credits. Ozzie begins to don his - well, Agent 09¡¯s - suit. It¡¯s basically his, it¡¯s his biometrics at the very least. Finders keepers or whatever. It¡¯s so much more simple when he¡¯s not scrambling to throw it on with the cops about to bang down his door. ¡°You know I have to admit,¡± Ozzie says, tucking his jumpsuit pants into his boots. ¡°I feel fantastic. Almost better than the one on the ship.¡± He loves to keep up an act. Joy smirks and starts to collect her belongings as well. ¡°Only the best for the sunburnt masses,¡± she remarks. ¡°And thank you again for your cooperation, I¡¯m sure this will make for a great piece back at-¡± She stops short. Ozzie notices, but is turned away while he puts his visor back on. The pause extends for just a second too long, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something is wrong. ¡°... the office.¡± Joy finishes. Ozzie catches her reflection in a decorative mirror hanging on the wall. She is staring down at his legs, eyes wide. He makes a point to turn around quickly and catches her eyes flick up to meet his gaze behind the visor. She flashes a professional smile, trying to play it off. He stares her down as he puts his gloves back on. She doesn¡¯t budge. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Ozzie locks the glove in place at the wrist and does a quick pat down of himself, mimicking the act of seeing if everything is in his pockets. He taps his chest, and then his thighs, and winces. The gunshot wounds, though patched, are still tender. The gunshot wounds. That he claimed ¡°the robber¡± had inflicted on him in a heated scuffle. His perfect alibi suddenly had a massive hole - or rather, a lack thereof. The material on his suit had a distinct lack of bullet holes bored into the fabric. Which means he couldn¡¯t have been wearing them at the time of the fight. Ozzie¡¯s entire story comes under scrutiny from a single detail. He knows this. He knows that she knows this. And from the gap he¡¯s left in the conversation, it¡¯s increasingly clear that she knows that he knows. Think fast, idiot. ¡°Oh!¡± Ozzie says, his voice being masked by automatic modulation once again. ¡°The painting! Almost forgot about it.¡± He moves swiftly towards the door and grabs the frame from the ground. ¡°This thing belongs in a museum, don¡¯t you think?¡± As he picks up the painting, he holds it in front of his body to hide his hand reaching down to grasp his powered rod. He clicks the button and it hums to life, almost inaudibly. He lets it rest on his hip as he opens the door to the MediBay, hot air rushing into the pod. ¡°Pleasure working with you, Miss Joy.¡± Ozzie says, as polite as a schoolboy. ¡°Likewise, Agent.¡± Joy says. She is polite, but the warmth in her voice is gone. It¡¯s unmistakable. ¡°Ladies first.¡± Ozzie says, and holds the door open with his foot. Joy takes a tentative step forward, her fake professional smile unwavering. Ozzie scans her face, looking for anything that would give away her intentions. Then, he sees it. Her eyes move, ever so slightly, to Ozzies left shoulder. His nerves spike, and time moves to a crawl. Glaring sideways out his visor, he sees it. The ¡°EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN¡± button. Which doubles as a high-priority alarm to Prox¡¯s Finest. She¡¯s going to lock him in the MediBay red-handed. Ozzie has no choice. He whips out the powered rod and thrusts. It cracks on contact and she screams, dropping her notebook as she grasps at her shoulder. Ozzie spins to slap the emergency button and spins out the threshold as heavy metal shutters drop from a hidden compartment above the door frame. He barely has time to get himself and the painting out of the way, and the shutters hit the floor with a loud CLANG just behind him. A siren begins to blare, and red lights flash on the outside of the MediBay. Joy pounds on the metal and screams from the inside, but is barely audible over the cacophony. ¡°You motherfucker, let me out! Let me the fuck out you lying piece of shit!¡± She deserved to say those things, of course, but it still stung. Ozzie looks left and right for any signs of nearby enforcers. The coast is clear, for now. What Ozzie does see, is a sporty looking bike with the keys still in the ignition. Joy never took them out when she ambushed him earlier. He hops on and scans the dashboard. The battery life is nearly full, and the speedometer tops out at nearly 90 miles per hour. Sol Prime import. Very classy. He tucks the painting under his arm and revs the bike. It lurches forward and nearly bucks him off as the front wheel jumps into the air. He wrestles the beast back down like an unbroken steer and laughs wildly. It¡¯s like he¡¯s a young punk all over again. He takes one last look at the MediBay, and imagines Joy Kennak of the Proxima Sunrise ripping her hair out and stomping all over her pristine notebook. He smiles, and takes off down a side road as he hears cruiser sirens come to life in the distance. Time to find Agent 09¡¯s ship.