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.”


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    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.