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.


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    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.