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.
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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.”