Ourita, from Draco's constellation, is a star and a natural satellite from the planet Kepler-10c or, like its habitants call it, Hangares. It was the first planet destined to the construction of military aviation until the 131 of the tenth Ivanian dictatorship, when the citizens rebelled and established a republic. Hangares Republic is known for its hospitality and good treatment of its citizens, which does wonders for a dealer like Viktor Shelby. 

In one of the most ordinary corner shop's in this side of the galaxy, is located a moth-eaten storage room with a musty smell and a thug with an even more musty, moth-eaten smell. Viktor Shelby hasn't showered in two days, and his Hun hairstyle (or, as the anglophone earthlings would've called it, mullet) shines with dirt, creates whorls in his sweaty nape. 

Viktor Shelby hates the idea of picking up the communicator and having to talk with the crooks that frequent the outside street, an alleyway of undercover illicit businesses where all types of non-permitted gadgets are sold. Above all, he would hate to pick up the communicator and reach out to Kafka, the biggest crook of them all, his boss with artificially white teeth and his dirty shirt cuffs because of the body spray. Tremendously mortifying. The rest of his colleagues are more of the same: smug bastards and automated puppets. Yes, all but that one Blodyn Blood, the drug peddler from no-one-nows-where. She's an interesting gal, though a bit strange. 

That one Blodyn Blood should've returned with the money three hours ago. She should've sold the nuclear paste to the paramedics of the Goblin planet and fled with the reward before the petrol station guys took notice of the dealers that had landed in Zeiwei. It's a good sum of money, besides, since nuclear paste is so difficult to cut. And, even though Kafka has trusted Blodyn Blood in the last three shipments, he's starting to think that the smuggler with unknown nationality and location might not be so trustworthy. It's imposible to find a criminal with principles lately. Has the universe gone insane?

The thug Viktor Shelby picks up the landline phone  in the wall and types Blodyn Blood's number. It's the fourteenth time he calls her in thirty minutes, and nothing. Blodyn Blood doesn't even have a voicemail greeting. It has been is fault, partly, for trusting her and not installing a tracker inside her shoe like with the other workers. So he decides to put up with this and go fetch the company's ship, not without warn Hadley that he's going to be away, maybe days, and that she has to take care of the shop. I do it all the time, anyway, she replies, scratching her shaved head, and one of the criminals that's here for his weekly order of ray gun fuel sniffles and looks at him with a tired expression. 

After a long trip of twenty minutes in which Viktor Shelby engages in looking at a magazine called Bermuda Triangle (these are the most flattering looks for spending the summer in Hangares!) that the last smuggler left there, he parks in the petrol station and asks for half tank of petrol, none of that diesel stuff. He doesn't want them to damage another ship. And, in a way, it has been the love for this ship that led them to hire Blodyn Blood. Blood had assured them she had other more illegal but certainly more efficient ways of moving through space, and Viktor Shelby had bet for her once he understood she'd never touch the ship. Trusting someone like that hasn't been very clever of him. 

Inside Zeiwei's petrol station, he explores the shelfs and grabs whatever stands out to him: a packet of red licorice and an energy drink with the mascot of Cudustea's beamball club. While the purple hair cashier and jaded expression checks out the groceries, Shelby observes himself in the security convex mirror in the right corner, bent and tattered. He has sunken cheeks, greasy skin and his gabardine is wrinkly. 

“What's happened here?” asks Viktor Shelby absently looking at the police officers talking to the safety guards. 

“Huh? What do I know? A nutcase has showed up with a portal gun or something similar. Bag?”

“No” answers Viktor Shelby, since he's trying to decrease his plastic waste. “Have they catched her?”

“Mate, I have no idea. I just got here. It's fifty seven zens”

Viktor Shelby swipes his universal card through the dataphone and peers at a guard guiding the two police officers to the backroom and returning alone. 

“Thank you for your purchase in Zeiwei, have a good evening”

“The loo?”

The cashier points reluctantly at the corridor where the officers have disappeared into. With subreptitious steps, Viktor Shelby strays from his walk to the bathroom and stops in front of a door ajar that commands Do Not Enter. Viktor Shelby is really good at forgetting how to read when it is in his own interest. Through a slit, he notices the cop approaching a handcuffed girl that's sitting on the floor. She's wearing the petrol station's uniform and a burn wound in her knee has disintegrated a part of her pants. 

“...told you I didn't do anything!” she shouts at the officer, squirming in order to loosen the magnetized handcuffs. “That's it. You've kept me here three hours already, and I can't afford more workwear”

“Young lady, it'd be better if you stopped using that tone with us”

“Besides,” the second officer protests, with his back to the door, “you haven't answered our question yet. Do you know or not know where Phil Newton is? Doesn't Astra Edris sound familiar? Astra Edris, 84390.9...?”

“I told your friend already, Mr Policeman! Ask me again when I've reported both of you for shooting me in the leg”

“Look, young lady...!”

At that moment, intrigued by her lack of respect for authority, Viktor Shelby leans against the door with too much confidence, intending to discern the face of the handcuffed girl, which ends up opening the door and making the persons inside turn around and stare at the bloke with dubious looks that's interrupted the scene. 

“Excuse me, but you can't be here” warns him the officer with a neat pigtail, except for two brown strands that frame her firmly tightened jawline. 

“How's it possible for me to not be at my own station?” Viktor Shelby sprawls in a nearby chair and opens his energy drink with a tssss.

All those present stay in perfect mutism.

“Oh, excuse my partner,” starts the man in uniform, his skin so black and sweaty that shines below the leds of the dump, “I'm officer Zapp, and this is officer...”

“Gunn, Joelle Gunn. We do apologize for any inconvenience caused, Mr...”

“Zeiwei Jr., that's me. My father, Mr. Zeiwei, had other business to attend to” answers Viktor Shelby, trying to sound truly convinced, even if he's never been good at acting. 

“Mr Zeiwei Jr.,” says the officer with the pigtail, "Is she one of your father cashier's?”

“Tell these guys to let me free!”

The girl with the handcuffs moves away from the wall and stares at him with her eyes totally fouled from the excess mascara. She's sicklily white, perhaps because of the wound in her  knee.

“Then,” proceeds Viktor Shelby, disregarding the handcuffed girl, “you've let go that other girl with the portal gun and you've arrested one of our employees, disarmed and wounded?”

The officers look at each other.

“You'll see, Mr Zeiwei Jr., we didn't have many more clues” ventures the officer, realigning his badge with nervousness. “We supposed that she might be colluding with the smuggler”

Viktor Shelby gulps and suppresses a grimace when he sees the officer's upper lip scar tremble. It traverses his skin until it reaches one of his nostriles. He hates pusillanimous people.

“Have you been able to track the portal's address”

Once again, the officers share a look. It seems like they're in a staring contest.

“Almost. The weapon is untraceable, but we got lucky” replies one of the officers, “The smuggler dropped a note where the portal had formed. Mi partner and I will go after her once we're done with the interrogation”

With reluctance, the officer with the slick hair leaves a dust and coffee stained note in the office table. With rapid handwriting and not very legible, it says: