Artie was having a bad day.

Eight hours of patrol for six days straight. Eight hours of drudgery. Eight hours of routine police work; simple, safe, boring. If it wasn't giving out speeding tickets by the dozen, it was chasing after hoodlums, out for the cheap thrill of a defaced bus stop. On an exceptionally exciting day, he might deal with a vandalised public phone. If he was lucky, they might even ask him to take a picture for the municipal insurance program. Protect and serve turned out, for the most part, to mean chase after and clean up.

All this was before Artie agreed to a double shift.

Where a daytime patrol was tedious, night patrol was ugly. Shoplifters and kids skipping school might be boring, but it was, at the very least, a comforting boredom. No-one lost any sleep over a stolen watch. Night patrol meant domestic altercations, drunk and disorderly kats, and worse. Cheap thrills became nasty surprises, delinquents and thugs became genuine criminals, and the occasional piece of distasteful graffiti became something far uglier. A bad situation made worse by the fact that he was already tired. The bronze-furred kat shifted listlessly in the driver's seat of the patrol cruiser.

Artie's bad day was rapidly becoming a bad week.

"Hey, Arts. . ."

Not that he should complain. Work was work, and even though he'd been seven years on the job, his financial situation was hardly enviable. Up to his neck in credit card debt, and burdened under a mortgage that no amount of repayments seemed to make a dent in.

". . .Arts"

Maybe he could get some extra work with a financial security detachment. It would go some ways to alleviating his boredom, and the propensity for some psychopath to attempt a break-in meant hazard pay. A few hundred extra per month.

"Earth to Patrol Officer Artimus!"

"What?"

Artie was woken from his torpor by his patrol partner.

"Ya said, like, two words t'me all night, what's up?"

"Just tired, Vince," replied Artie.

"Well, shake it out, buddy, the night s'young!"

"Maybe for you."

With more energy than he needed and more luck than he deserved, Vincent was almost the ideal poster-boy for the Enforcers; six foot two with golden fur and a striking, white-fanged grin. Although young, handsome and with a mouth to go with his near sickening levels of agreeableness, Vince was someone you could count on at crunch time. The pair had only been patrol partners for a few weeks, but had already established a firm friendship. They'd only found themselves in a tight spot once or twice, and although hardly on the ropes, Vincent had shown himself to be a reliable partner.

"C'mon buddy," continued Vincent, his tone playful and mocking, "I've gotta whole week'a this crud, ya company s'all I got t'look forward to!"

"I've already had a whole week of this crud, let's just have an easy night, okay?"

Faux-mocking to faux-serious;

"Affirmative, Commander Artimus, sir!"

Artie couldn't help but crack a smile, "Vince, where did you even come up with Artimus?"

"I dunno," replied Vincent, "Artie jus sounds like it should be short for summin, s'all."

"Well, it's not."

"You're no fun."

"Blame my parents."


"Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yes."

"Really? Doesn't look special. . ."

"It's not supposed to be special, it's supposed to be quiet!"

This was a joke. Jobs like this were a rare find; daring, dangerous, and most importantly, expensive. Expensive was good in Marco's books. A chance like this rarely came along.

"Emphasis on chance. . ." thought Marco. Whoever had planned this clearly hadn't done their homework. Sure, the location was good, and the job itself a fairly straightforward, albeit high stakes, affair, but the crew reeked of amateurs. These hoods looked like they were more suited to sticking up gas stations or working over dealers than pulling off something that would, barring a state of emergency, be headline news the following day.

He liked to consider himself above such petty thuggery; brutal as what they were about to do might be, it still amounted to little more than an act of senseless violence. Marco had witnessed his fair share of senseless violence, a dishonourable discharge followed by a few years of petty crime had seen to that, and this was no different, just a different side of the same coin. It wasn't unlike him to pass up the ugly jobs if the pay was good, but he wanted something more. He'd kept himself in good shape, lean yet powerfully built, although recently he'd noticed that his charcoal grey fur had started to thin a bit. Working with losers certainly wasn't helping.

"You done yet?" asked Marco.

"Yeah, yeah, all good here!" replied one of the thugs.

Marco looked around. A dumpster in the middle of the alley, a pile of crates stacked a little too neatly, it looked like a setup from a cheesy buddy cop film. While a couple of bottles of cheap whiskey were enough to convince the local vagrants to move on, and he didn't expect anyone to be taking an evening stroll at this time of night, even a rookie enforcer could see that this was a trap. Things were going to go south as soon as they made their move. Still, fifty grand was hard to argue with.

"Alright boys, let's go to work!"

Marco gripped his crowbar tight and crouched behind the dumpster. Despite the sound of a cinder block crashing through the shopfront window, he found himself grinning. If nothing else, this was going to be fun.


"I'm jus sayin', buddy, ya gotta get it outta ya head that s'all a movie need iza story t'be worth watchin."

"I never said that," replied Artie, "there are plenty of good movies like that, Hardshell 3 just isn't one of them!"

It had happened again. Vincent was a self-described film junkie, and didn't mind pushing his opinions regarding trashy action movies onto others. In this case, others meant Artie. This sort of obsession was par for the course with such people, he figured. Still, for passing time, the conversation was welcome, and it certainly beat complaining about the job. Coffee, a few donuts and some garbage conversation about garbage movies was preferable to the next case of assault with a deadly weapon.

"Well, throw down some z'amples, then," said Vincent.

"Alright, how about. . ."

The radio buzzed to life.

[Unit twenty-two oh nine come in]

Vincent's demeanour changed instantly. His brow furrowed as he unhooked the receiver from the cruiser's roof.

"Twenty-two oh nine here, go ahead dispatch."

[We've got reports of a two-eleven in your area, electronics store in an alley off fourteenth, silent alarm tripped. Concerned citizen reports seeing suspicious persons in the area, suggest you respond.]

"Ten-four, dispatch, we'll check it out."

[Appreciated, twenty-two oh nine, look for the large neon sign heading west, alley should be about fifty feet past that.]

"Copy, on the way."

Vincent replaced the receiver and glanced at Artie, cracking a wry smile.

"Ready t'roll, buddy?" he said.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

Artie shifted the transmission into drive and gunned the engine. The cruiser roared to life.

"Lights?" asked Vincent.

"Yeah, why not?"

There was hardly another kat on the road at two in the morning, but it made for a nice display in case anyone was watching. Plus, this wasn't exactly the nicest part of town, and a show of force from time to time wasn't out of order.

"What you reckon, Arts, couple'a mugs stealin' phones?"

"Probably," said Artie, "wouldn't be unusual for this area."

The rest of the journey passed in silence. This was a fairly routine call, though Artie couldn't help but feel uneasy. Not out of fear for his safety, or even that of his partner's, it was something else, something just felt out of place. Unless someone was hurt, a break-in was usually the purview of some commercial security firm; calling in Enforces to scope the situation out suggested something more than a mere smash-and-grab. On the other paw, it had been a slow night, and dispatch typically liked to keep the patrols on their toes.

"Alright, Arts, take'a left here, should be jus' down th'way," said Vincent.

A large neon sign greeted them as the cruiser rounded the corner.

"Wonder who Jim is?" mused Artie.

Artie eased the throttle and slowed the vehicle to a crawl. The street was lifeless, the only motion coming from a few stray pieces of trash whisking their way across the road. Vincent lowered his window and swept the beam of his flashlight across the storefronts.

"Don't look like much's goin' on here." he said.

The call had been for an electronics store in an alley, but in these situations, thieves tended to be fairly opportunistic; it wouldn't have been a surprise to see a smashed window or two.

"Okay, I suppose we better check this out then."

Artie pulled the vehicle up to the curb and killed the engine, the blue and red flashing lights dying with it. Reaching for his rifle and helmet, he exited the cruiser, craning his neck and casting his glance over the roof of the vehicle.

Right into the face of a grinning Vincent.

"Feelin' a'bit rookie t'night, Arts?" he quipped.

"What?"

Vincent tapped a paw to his temple.

"Whatcha worried 'bout, someone gunna mess up ya pretty face?"

Artie couldn't help but scoff at the remark; despite being three years his junior, Vincent never shied away from a brazen remark. Rules as written, Enforcer operational regulations stated that patrol officers were to wear their helmets and body armour at all times when outside their cruiser. Still, it was the unwritten rule, and a matter of pride for veterans, that you didn't wear your helmet after the first year on the force unless someone was already shooting. Such hot situations usually involved a bust of some sort, where the first thing one could expect through the door was a hail of fire.

Artie removed his helmet and dumped it unceremoniously on the driver's seat of the cruiser. Slinging his rifle lazily by his side, he and his partner made their way cautiously down the alley. Being in one of the more downtrodden parts of town, half the storefronts were boarded up, with those that remaining looking more like the sort of place one might go to buy stuff that happened to find its way off the back of a truck somewhere on the outskirts of the city rather than a legitimate business. Even pawn shops avoided this area; it was a near certainty that anything they might purchase from their customers had been obtained through less than legitimate means, and that was always more trouble than it was worth.

"Look s'like whoever s'been causin' trouble here has bugged out," remarked Vincent

"Maybe, keep your eyes open."

Even the usual throng of destitutes were nowhere to be seen, just a stack of crates piled against the side of the alley, along with a dumpster carelessly left in the middle of the thoroughfare.

And a broken window.

"Over there, Vince," continued Artie, "check it out, I'll call it in. Be careful, something's off."

A cursory glance over the scene suggested the obvious; that whoever had come by looking for easy pickings had simply smashed the window and, upon seeing that there was very little worth stealing, made a run for it. No sense landing yourself in prison over a couple of second hand phones. No sense in overthinking the situation on the part of the patrol officer, either. As Vincent gave the storefront a once-over, Artie turned his back and thumbed the transmit button on his radio.

"Dispatch, twenty-two oh nine, come in"

[I hear you, go ahead.]

"Nothing much going on here, broken window, maybe some stolen goods. We're going to have a bit more of a look around, seems a bit fishy if you. . ."

The distinctive sound of a metallic object colliding with bone echoed in the alley. Artie wheeled around, bringing his laser rifle up in one smooth motion, directing it toward the source of the sound.

A sound to the right. A footstep, perhaps.

A quick glance towards the shopfront and Artie knew that Vincent was in trouble. A dark furred figure stood over him, taller by half a foot, a dull red crowbar clutched in his paw. Judging by the fact that Vincent was staggering back, clutching at his head, he had been struck a nasty blow. The figure wound his arm back for a second strike.

"Enforcers! Drop the. . ." screamed Artie.

A second footstep.

"Shit, flanks!" he mentally chided himself.

15 feet between him and Vincent, he had time.

Rookie mistake.

Artie took a single step back and twisted left. A hooded figure lunged at him from behind the crates, a large knife clutched tightly in his paw.

"Breathe out, squeeze"

Training his weapon upwards, Artie leveled his sights on his attacker's forehead and squeezed the trigger. A crimson beam of energy lanced forward and struck the charging kat just below the eye socket, boring all the way through his head and exploding out the base of the skull in a cloud of cauterised brain matter and superheated bone fragments.

Movement to the right.

Wheeling about, a second figure burst forth. Artie's second shot was off the mark, impacting just above the knee. Sloppy, but he had stopped the attack before the first body had hit the ground.

"Vincent!"

His heart pounding in his chest as he pivoted on the spot, Artie turned to face his partner's assailant.

There was no way someone that large should be able to move so fast. Before he even thought to fire, the grey furred thug brought his crowbar smashing across the bridge of Artie's nose. His vision blurred and a stabbing pain crashed through his nervous system. Instinctively, Artie's paw shot up to clutch at his face. The second impact hit him just below the wrist, fracturing the bone and causing his rifle to clatter to the ground.

"This is it."

The third and fourth hits were rapid jabs to the sternum. After this, Artie lost count. Cold air rushed upwards as he crashed to the ground. He couldn't see, couldn't hear; apart from the pain in his wrist and nose, he felt remarkably numb. For what seemed like an eternity he simply lay there. As his vision and hearing returned, he realised he lay on his side, facing up the alley towards the parked cruiser. Mustering his strength, Artie rolled himself over.

Vincent was down, a pair of hooded thugs kicked at him, stomped on his limbs, their crazed laughter filling the alley.

"Hey, you still alive down there?"

In comparison to the wild howls of Vincent's aggressors, this voice was remarkably calm. Rolling onto his back, Artie looked up into the face of the large, grey-furred kat. He sported only a slight smirk, clearly pleased with his work, but not so high on adrenaline as his comrades as to let it get the better of him. It seemed he had dressed for the occasion; sporting loose fitting cargo pants, boots and a tank top. Good grip, easy to run in.

"Can you talk?"

Artie didn't reply.

"Well, looks like you two walked into a bit of a bad situation here. No matter, we'll be on our way soon, just one last thing to do."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box cutter. The blade clicked out and flashed across Artie's vision.

The expected pain didn't come.

"But," continued the thug, "I think you might have earned yourself a reprieve. That wasn't a bad showing you made of yourself, took down two of my boys in the time it took me to take down one of you. Points for effort."

He tapped the blade against his chin several times.

"You know what, I don't think I need this for you," he said.

A quick shout had one of the kats currently setting himself upon Vincent jog over, his face obscured by a hood.

"Yeah, boss?"

The grey kat casually passed the boxcutter over.

"Just like I said, make it messy," he ordered.

Artie finally found his voice, but could only manage a croak.

"No, please. . ."

"Please?" replied the grey kat, "Please? You should be thanking me. You're going to get a nice vacation, some time off work and probably a promotion for this. In fact, I don't think they'll ever make you do this god-awful night patrol stuff again! Your friend, well, sometimes you just get unlucky."

A dismissive shrug.

"This is normally the part where I'd say something about this not being personal, but I'm not going to insult you with that sort of sentimental crud."

Artie had to get his gun, save his friend, shoot this worthless scumbag right between the eyes! He reached over, inching his paw forward. Dealing with difficult people, making snap decisions in the heat of the moment, keeping a cool head; everything he learnt in training seemed like such pointless drivel at this moment in time. All that mattered was Vincent's life, he couldn't let this happen.

A heavy boot crashed down on his wrist.

"Oh no, let's not do anything stupid. You're going to be a hero, after all!"

Artie could do nothing. He watched helplessly and one of the thugs, a wild grin flashing from under his hood, yanked Vincent's head up off the ground and sawed across his throat with the box cutter. He offered no resistance as his jugular and trachea were severed; his final sound a gurgling, raspy groan as blood welled up in his throat and spilled out the corners of his mouth.

Vincent died in a run-down Megakat City back-alley, in a pool of his own blood.

"Now, before we go, one last thing."

The grey kat took the bloodied box cutter from the thug. With a single, brutal motion he brought the blade slamming down into the base of Artie's spine, just above his tail. The pain was too great; with the sound of his attacker's footsteps fading into the night, Artie slipped into unconsciousness.