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.


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    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.