EVERY NIGHT SHE WALKED ALONG the Central Park, going home. Every night that park was covered with a quiescence. Jillia loved that place; the green of the trees, the owl's hoot, the smell of nature and the stars. Horizon was mostly rock and water, and the few giant coconut trees were not captivating at all.

Jillia attracted attention. The news had spread faster than she would like, suddenly all over the world became interested in the Arctic and the capsule which opened a crater—and they all looked at her with questionable eyes. She wanted to talk, to shout to the world that she was not an alien, she was human like they were; but it would not help. The metallic green hair and the lines on her face branded her, telling the world that she [b][i]was[/i][/b] an outsider.

She was not used to walk among the mind-blind, much less among "humans of the past"; a term that she had whispered just for herself to use. People looked at her out the corner of their eyes, whispering about "Kat"—admittedly an alias she sort of liked—wondering what vile reason she had come here for, to this planet, to this time; yet another one of a series of misunderstood outsiders.

And so, every night she walked through the park, enjoying the solitude as she walked home, blisfully unaware of how the tranquil lonelines would soon be interrupted.

Kat was the sort of tart you would mistake with an actress if not for the damn lines of synthetic skin. She was wearing a blue halter dress accompanied by black low-top sneakers with no socks, a choice that no one would make for a walk in the park, but that lack of understanding on the twenty-first century fashion didn't seem to bother her. She was focused on a greater obstacle, New Skywell's tormentuous climate. She always complained that Earth was too hot compared to  Horizon and there was nothing like enjoying the wind on her face while strolling through the park to cool off.

She might be clever, but she was the kind of girl who trusted too easily, or wouldn't have the courage to investigate something that looks suspicious. That's where we would come in. Someone like me, the nosy detective brave enough—or stupid enough—to take those kind of risks.

[color=gray]"Two million,"[/color] A man dressed in a brown overcoat barely hiding a UMP-45 said as I tried to sneak around, [color=gray]"That's what he told me."[/color]

Sounded like dope, but why the hell would they set this up in the middle of this forest? No one did business here, it defied all common sense; hard to find the dealer and harder to move the stuff around. And obviously prone to the odd fly on the wall like me.

[color=gray]"Take it or leave."[/color] The armed man said, apparently angry at the other penny-pincher.

[color=gray]"And you're sure the artifact works?"[/color] Said the second, a short blond man.

[color=gray]"Your boss is a scientist, he'll most likely figure out. Besides, we both know that I wouldn't be sent to hand over a fake artifact."[/color]

The second swung his arms, barely hiding his discontent, [color=gray]"So your people didn't--"[/color]

[color=gray]"--Yeah. No one else even knows what it is we have. Enough dawdling, does your boss want it or what?"[/color]

[color=gray]"Shit..."[/color] He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a smart phone. [color=gray]"Done. The money is sent."[/color] He said after sliding his finger here and there on the phone screen.

The first man threw the backpack on the ground, waited for the other to pick it up, and left without another word.

Drug or not, my detective's sense was telling me it was something big enough and I was not in the mood to leave it in the hands of some crazy scientists or to the lads of O12; after all, nobody pays two million for some cool Aztec paper weight. This city is known for the technological jazz, the damned LED signs or all those smart-things crap. And nothing would prevent someone from playing outside the rules, marketing a powerful artifact.

I followed the man carrying the backpack around the city, like any good detective would. People have a sixth sense about bad things; that feeling of "I'm being followed" or "got someone spying on me," a feeling that I didn't allow people to have about me. With a little concentration I could make people forget that I was in the room with them or even make them feel comfortably safe as I followed them through dark alleys.

The plan was simple, hit the man with a pipe and take his body to a warehouse and interrogate him. No preparation needed, just the right amount of brute force.
[center][h3]☉[/h3][/center]
The blond-haired man finally regained his consciousness. We were in some kind of computer warehouse, based on the shelves with broken hard drives and other technological scraps everywhere. I took advantage of one of the empty shelves and tied him up. Not the best choice of furniture, but it was what I got.

He tried to yell, but I interrupted him with a straight punch to the nose. Clearly he was afraid, probably thought I was part of the mafia, one of those types who sell goods and then got them back the hard way. Or maybe was my M1911 in my belt.

Either way, it was easy to establish the rules with a good punch or a kick. People always feared the bad cop. 

[color=7ea7d8]"Who do you work for, and what did you pick up for them?"[/color] I barked in the man's face

[color=gray]"Some kind of artifact, please don't kill me!"[/color] the blonde quickly said in his irritating nasal voice, dividing his speech with restless breathing through his newly broken nose. Nothing new there, I already knew it was an artifact, and of course I had already failed to open the box. 

[color=7ea7d8]"I'll just repeat this one more time, okay? Who bought it?"[/color] I hated it when people pretended to be stupid, especially when they were just a stupid courier from a larger and equally stupid company.

[color=gray]"Cobra! CobraTech!"[/color] A little squeeze on his broken nose brought out the name. The blonde screamed and moaned in pain, something that looked like a request for clemency.

[color=7ea7d8]"See?"[/color] I said in mocking comfort, wiping the blood on my hand on his sweater.

[color=gray]"Who are you?"[/color] He spoke silently, probably fearing another beating.

[color=7ea7d8]"You can call me Spade."[/color]

Kat carried the artifact to her home. Two blocks later she heard shots, probably a policeman noticed the blond man's screams and decided to shoot the lock off the warehouse and investigate.