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?”