Miami City in 2173 glows with bright lights and busy air traffic. Tall buildings shine in the neon light, reaching so high that you can’t see their tops in the clouds. Flying cars zoom through the sky, leaving bright trails behind them. Their engines make quiet, steady sounds. The higher you look up, the more flying cars you see filling the air.
In the lower levels of the city, the contrast is stark. Crumbling, decaying structures with shattered panes and rotting exteriors line the roads. The air feels wet and empty. Far away, sirens scream and blasters fire. These sounds warn of danger hiding in the dark areas.
Blake navigates these forgotten corners discreetly, his grizzled face hidden in the shadows as he moves through the grimy streets. A persistent ache in his lower back, a constant companion of his years, twinges with every jarring step on the uneven pavement. His weathered hand rises, activating his holoview. The blue glow illuminates the deep lines etched around his eyes. A holographic map materializes above his wrist, pinpointing his target’s location inside “The Chrome Serpent” nightclub. The club sits up ahead. Its snake-like sign wraps around the door.
Blake walks inside. Chrome and mirrors cover the walls. Electronic music pounds through the floor, shaking everything. Lasers cut through the smoky air. On the dance floor, people move to the beat. The room buzzes with energy. Neon lights shine everywhere, lighting up Blake’s rough face and his grey-streaked hair. His eyes scan the scene, taking in the pulsing mass of people, the android bartenders pouring drinks, the hulking bouncers standing guard at strategic points. He moves through the crowd, focused solely on his target despite the distraction around him.
Up on the second level, partially obscured by the shifting lights, he spots his mark hiding in plain sight among the oblivious clubgoers. He quietly approaches, blending seamlessly into the chaotic atmosphere. The target’s back is turned, completely unaware of the impending danger closing in. Without pausing, Blake’s hand instinctively shifts toward the blaster tucked at his waist. He nears the target, then leans in close.
“Charles Croft,” Blake declares, his voice cutting through the thundering music. “You’re arrested for killing Officer Ramirez.” As he speaks, he holds up his bounty hunter insignia, the polished metal glinting in the strobe lights.
Croft’s eyes get big as he realizes what was happening. His face shows both fear and a strong will to fight back.
In one fluid motion, he snatches his handgun and seizes a bystanding clubgoer, pressing the cold barrel of the blaster against her temple.
“One move and she dies,” Croft snarls, tightening his grip on the terrified woman. Her mascara runs in black streaks down her cheeks. Her knees buckle, but Croft’s iron grip keeps her upright as he uses her body as a shield.
“Drop the blaster, old man, or I’ll vaporize her brains.” Croft’s finger twitches against the trigger, a terrifyingly clear sign of his deadly intentions.
Blake’s eyes narrow, quickly assessing the situation. The captive trembles, her body rigid with fear as Croft digs the muzzle of his weapon against her skull. Blake evaluates his choices, his mind racing, knowing that every second is critical. His hand tightens around his own blaster as his mind calculates trajectories and angles. The deafening beats persist, pounding through the club, uncaring of the life-or-death confrontation unfolding.
“You had your chance to give up,” Blake states, his voice steady. “Now you’ll face the consequences.”
Tension hangs heavily as Blake’s finger hovers above the trigger. His heart races fast, as strong focus runs through his body.
Croft abruptly directs his firearm towards Blake and shoots. Blake swiftly evades the blast, a blur of motion, simultaneously raising his own weapon and targeting the criminal. A blast of energy erupts from his handgun, enveloping Croft’s head in a blinding flash of light. His body crumples to the floor, his head reduced to a smoking cavity.
Screams now join the blaring music as the commotion in the club intensifies, and Blake calmly stows his handgun in its holster. His breath comes a little harder than it had in his younger years. He adjusts his jacket, ensuring his bounty hunter’s badge is clearly visible to the approaching bouncers. A sharp pain shoots through his knee as he shifts his weight, an unwelcome reminder of his arthritis.
Blake’s hand instinctively moves to the inner pocket of his jacket, fingers searching. The familiar outline of a silver locket sends a wave of relief through him. He pulls it out just enough to confirm its safety; the tarnished metal catches the club’s neon lights. His thumb brushes over the worn surface, feeling the small dent on its edge. For a fleeting moment, amid the chaos of screaming clubbers and approaching security, Blake’s face softens, a rare glimpse of something beyond the hardened professional. He puts the locket deep in his pocket, pats it once, and returns to his work mode.
He looks down at his jacket, where a scorch mark mars the fabric. Croft’s shot grazed him. “I’m getting too old for this,” he mutters, the weariness in his voice reflecting the physical toll the years take.
Police cars arrive seven minutes later. Their red and blue lights light up the nightclub’s front door and make the nearby buildings glow. Hovering police cruisers form a strategic blockade, effectively isolating the area. Sergeant Disanto, a seasoned Miami police officer with a weary gaze, makes his way towards Blake, who remains stationed calmly outside the nightclub.
“Good work, Adams,” Disanto says, nodding in approval. “You got him.” A rookie officer follows closely behind, a hint of nervousness on his pale face.
Blake nods back, his expression stoic. He had tracked down this criminal for weeks. He had no intention of letting him escape.
The staff of the coroner’s office emerges from the nightclub, transporting Croft’s body on a levitating gurney.
“Take a picture and fingerprint the bastard,” Disanto instructs the rookie officer. “We need to register him as apprehended by Adams so he can get his reward.”
The rookie officer gestures to the coroner’s staff to stop as they pass by. He stumbles forward, his hand shaking. As he lifts the blanket to take a picture, his stomach churns violently at the sight of the mangled head. He can’t hold it in any longer and vomits onto the sidewalk.
Disanto sighs and shakes his head. “Better get used to it, kid,” he says gruffly.
While the rookie officer regains his composure, Disanto turns his attention back to Blake. “Next time, try not to shoot off their heads,” Disanto says with a slight smile. “It’ll be easier for us to register them if we can scan their eyes instead of relying on fingerprints.”
“It’s the fastest way to take them out with a handgun,” Blake responds, his voice flat.
Disanto chuckles and gives Blake a tap on the shoulder. “Can’t argue with that,” he admits.
He beckons one of the nearby police androids. “Sentry 257, come here and take care of the money transfer for Blake.”
However, Blake interrupts, his voice sharp. “Seriously, Disanto, keep those things away from me. You know I don’t like droids.”
With a sigh, Disanto agrees, “Alright, I’ll take care of transferring the reward to your account later myself.”
Blake holds up his holoview and taps the app to call his flying car from the lot. While waiting for his vehicle to arrive, breaking news alerts flicker across his display, pulling his attention away. He switches to the news feed.
A reporter appears on the screen, her voice tinged with urgency.
“For those who have just tuned in, an object has collided with Saturnia, the luxury space resort orbiting Saturn.”
The image shifts to show a gleaming, computer-generated model of Saturnia, its mushroom-like shape presented against the majestic backdrop of Saturn’s rings.
“Saturnia is an exclusive destination for the wealthy and adventurous, offering unparalleled views of Saturn and its celestial surroundings,” the reporter continues. “The crown jewel of space tourism is known as the space resort that is the furthest from Earth than any other for over 40 years.”
The reporter’s face reappears, a mixture of seriousness and concern. “Since the impact, all attempts to establish contact with Saturnia have failed. This suggests severe damage to their communication systems because of the impact.”
A grainy image flickers onto the screen, showing what appears to be fragmented debris near the resort.
The reporter continues, her voice grim, “This image, captured by a telescope in Earth’s orbit, shows the aftermath of the collision. However, due to the distance from the telescope to Saturnia, the full extent of the damage remains unclear.”
“At this time, we have no information regarding potential casualties or the number of guests and staff currently aboard the resort. Authorities are scrambling to gather more information and mount a rescue operation.”
Blake’s face tightens as he processes the news. A chill runs through him, dragging his thoughts back to Saturnia. A place he wants to forget. His focus splits apart for one painful second.
His vehicle arrives with a quiet hum, landing nearby. A classic Lamborghini Countach LP500 S, a relic Blake had transformed into an airborne vehicle. Its body, covered in a glossy black paint, reflects the city lights and its propulsion systems emit a gentle, pulsating blue glow. He opens the gull-wing door and settles into the driver’s seat.
As Blake takes off into the sky, leaving behind the lights of Miami’s lower levels, the rookie officer notifies Sergeant Disanto: “Sorry for throwing up earlier, sir.”
“Welcome to the police force, kid,” Disanto says, a hint of pride in his voice. “You’re gonna see these kinds of things a lot when you work with Adams.”
“Who is that guy?” asks the rookie while fighting off his sick stomach.
Disanto looks at the disappearing lights of Blake’s flying vehicle and responds, “Adams is the district’s top bounty hunter, with an outstanding record of capturing criminals, dead or alive. He used to be a space commando, Special Forces. A highly skilled elite unit specialized in high-risk missions like reconnaissance, space combat, and protecting ships from space pirates. These guys are the best of the best in space warfare.”
The rookie officer swallows hard, a dawning realization hitting him that he had just witnessed a true space commando in action.