The pain was sharper than I expected.
My head snapped sideways, teeth clacking together hard enough that I tasted blood almost instantly. I staggered back a step, boots scraping against the pavement as I tried to regain my balance.
Who would've thought an old man could hit that hard?
He looked middle-aged — at least a hundred, maybe a hundred and five. His back was hunched, his movements sloppy, but his fist had landed with shocking precision. My jaw throbbed as I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand.
I sighed.
Today was already shitty enough.
It had been a month since graduation. A month since the academy had spat us out into the real world with crisp uniforms, shiny badges, and the naive assumption that competence would somehow compensate for exhaustion. I'd been given my station in Conrad, Sector Fifteen —on the whole other side of the State.
Northern Ring housing was a joke—every listing snatched up before I could even apply. So I'd settled for a place in the Southeast ring instead. Approximately two hundred and fifty kilometers away from the North Central Station.
I'd told myself it was fine. Thirty minutes, maybe thirty-five if traffic was bad. I could always wake up earlier.
How foolish of me.
It was my first day. My first official assignment. And I was late.
Worse — I wasn't just any marshal.
I was the captain.
I was supposed to lead. Set the tone. Be the example everyone followed.
Instead, I was about to put a target on my back as probably the only rookie captain ever to be late on their very first day. Why the hell did I think I had enough time for a quick workout?
"How much longer, Zack?" I asked, fastening the buttons of my uniform as the hovercar hummed beneath us.
"We are approximately twenty minutes out, sir," the PAA replied calmly. "With optimal routing, we may reduce that to seventeen."
I groaned.
Five minutes late might as well have been an hour. Marshals didn't tolerate tardiness. Not from fresh recruits. Certainly not from captains.
Outside the window, hovercars drifted lazily through the lower-speed lanes. On the streets below, pedestrians strolled across DriftWalks or floated along in GlideCrafts, unhurried and blissfully unconcerned.
Everyone else had the luxury of time.
I didn't.
As we passed through the transit corridor into the Central East ring, I glanced at the map display hovering near the dashboard. We were making up ground — just not enough.
"Don't," Zack said preemptively.
I clenched my jaw. I hadn't even realized I'd leaned forward.
"I wasn't going to say anything," I muttered.
He didn't respond.
The car exited the corridor just as I finished adjusting my uniform. Teal trim. Clean lines. Functional elegance. Marshal design philosophy at its finest.
I barely noticed.
I caught myself twisting my hair, trying to focus but it was futile. My thoughts were spiraling — excuses, contingencies, disciplinary protocols — when something caught my eye.
I sat up sharply and pressed closer to the window.
Two men stood outside a bar on the corner. One young, tall, broad-shouldered. The other older, shorter, aggressive in the sloppy way only intoxication allows. The older man gestured wildly, stabbing a finger into the younger man's chest.
Drunk idiots. The city was full of them.
Patrol Marshals would arrive soon enough.
I leaned back — and froze.
An idea struck me so suddenly it felt like clarity.
"Zack," I said, pointing toward the bar. "Turn around. Take me there."
"Sir," he replied carefully, "that would be inadvisable. You are already behind schedule—"
"Trust me," I said, smiling. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
We parked across the street.
Up close, the differences were clearer. The younger man stood about six-six — three inches shorter than me — wrapped in a long brown hooded coat that contrasted sharply against his obsidian skin. Medean, without question.
The older man was definitely Martian. Pale rust skin. Stocky build. Purple shirt and matching trousers, stained faintly with alcohol.
The smell hit me before I reached them.
A small crowd slowly gathered around the bar's entrance watching the two men. They all apparently had nothing better to do. Some even recorded the altercation. That could be a problem. I'd deal with it later.
"Good day, gentlemen," I said, flashing my badge. "Rookie Marshal Aldrich. What seems to be the problem?"
The younger man moved instantly.
"Officer, thank goodness you're here," he said. "This man keeps harassing me. Demanding money."
"Liar!" the old man snarled. "Give me what you owe me!"
I raised a hand. "Sir, whatever dispute you're having should be handled through proper legal channels. Please cease all aggression towards this man and move along."
I focused.
Scents told stories words couldn't.
The younger man smelled… amused. A trace of satisfaction beneath carefully layered irritation. No fear. That told me enough.
The older man reeked of agitation — sharp, volatile, coiled tight.
He was close. All he needed was a little push.
"Step away, officer," the old man said, pointing. "This is between me and him."
"No," I replied calmly. "You're drunk, irresponsible, and harassing a civilian."
His jaw tightened. A vein pulsed at his temple.
Good.
"What, didn't your parents teach you how to behave?" I added lightly. "They must be so disappointed."
His fists clenched.
"You'd better watch your tone, boy."
Almost there.
"Threatening a Marshal? Bold choice." I tilted my head. "You look old enough to have children."
The scent spiked.
"From what I can tell," I continued, "you wouldn't make a very good fath—"
His hand moved.
Fast.
I barely resisted the instinct to dodge.
Bone met cheek with a crack that rang in my skull. The world lurched sideways and I tasted copper. My feet slid across the pavement bringing down hard on one knee, palm slapping the ground to keep from eating concrete.
Okay.
That… hurt more than I expected.
I blinked, shook my head once, and pushed myself upright. My cheek was already throbbing, heat spreading under the skin.
I looked back up at him, reassessing.
He stood there breathing hard, fist still half-raised, surprise flickering across his face like he hadn't meant to go that far.
So he wasn't just loud and drunk. He had weight behind him.
Interesting.
I straightened my uniform and wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth.
"All right," I said calmly. "You're under arrest for assaulting a marshal. Do not resist."
He stared at me for a second.
Then he leaned forward and spat at my boots.
The glob hit leather and slid down.
He smiled through broken teeth. "Make me."
So much for an easy target.
He came in fast, faster than most men his age had any right to be. Not clean — alcohol had stolen some of his balance — but the intent was there. He led with a hook, followed with a short elbow, trying to crowd me.
I stepped inside the hook and brought my guard up, letting the elbow glance off my forearm. I answered with a jab toward his ribs.
He wasn't there anymore.
He shifted just enough for my knuckles to bite air, then snapped a compact strike into my side.
Pain flared.
I hissed and backed off half a step.
He didn't chase. He stalked.
Old-school posture. Weight centered. Hands loose. Eyes sharp despite the booze.
The space around us widened. I registered it dimly—the way the people instinctively drifted back when violence had stopped being theoretical.
I heard a sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind me. Someone swore. Someone else laughed nervously.
I probed again, low kick this time.
He checked it with his shin and tapped that same damned rib with his knuckle.
Tap.
Clenching my teeth, I changed my plan of attack.
I tried changing angles, feinting high and cutting low. Every time I committed to anything with real stopping power, he wasn't where I expected him to be. He'd slip or parry just enough, then answer with another precise little strike to my side.
Not hard.
Consistent.
Relentless.
My breathing started to roughen. That one spot on my ribs felt like it was being slowly drilled apart.
The bastard was carving me up.
"You're telegraphing," he said pleasantly, swaying just a little. "All that muscle. No subtlety."
I swung at his head.
He rolled under it and planted another shot into my ribs.
I stumbled back, sucking air.
A drunk wasn't supposed to be moving this well.
I tried to read him, tried to map his rhythm, but he didn't give me much. His defense was economical — no wasted motion, no flashy counters. He simply refused to be where danger lived, then punished me for reaching.
And always the same place.
He caught my eye and smirked. "You're quick," he said. "I'll give you that."
Another shallow sway. Another perfect guard.
"But you don't know how to finish."
That settled it.
From his first strike I had him pegged as a tier 2 at best. Maybe a washed-up brawler with some minor scuffles under his belt or something like that.
I was wrong.
Even out of his prime, even soaked in liquor, this man was working at least two ranks above me. Old habits, deeply ingrained. His body remembered things his mind didn't need to think about anymore.
Peak Six, easy.
Which meant I wasn't winning this on technique.
Fine.
I would lean into what I actually had over him.
Speed, strength, durability and most importantly, a far superior reach.
He came in again, testing, poking around at my ribs. I let myself look frustrated. Sloppy. Widening my stance just a hair and dropping my guard on purpose.
His eyes flicked to the opening.
There it is.
He took it.
Stepping in, he threw a wide, looping strike meant to finish me, shoulder turning, weight committing.
I braced immediately, suppressing the instinct to dodge.
The blow crashed into my jaw and rattled my teeth, but I stayed upright. Pain exploded across my face, stars bursting behind my eyes, yet my feet held.
Before he could recover, I drove forward.
All my weight. All my momentum.
One punch.
It wasn't flashy nor clever.
Just a straight, brutal cross that traveled into his temple.
I felt the impact all the way up my arm.
His eyes went empty. His legs forgot their duty. He folded sideways and hit the ground like a sack of meat.
Silence rippled outward, then fractured. Voices overlapped. People gasped and someone even clapped once before thinking better of it.
I became aware of how many eyes were on me. Too many.
I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, ribs screaming, jaw aching, staring down at the unconscious man.
That had been my only clean strike of the entire fight.
I exhaled slowly.
"How's that for a finish," I muttered to myself. "You old prick."
Then I pulled out the cuffs.
This was not how my first day was supposed to go.