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"Aloysius Poole, step forward."

Poole stood at the end of a line in the A.L.C Space Station, sticking out in the chrome-plated terminal like a sore thumb. All around him were faces that seemed typical of the terminal he had often passed through. Tourists with their children, businessmen on their phones, and backpackers with overstuffed suitcases, though there were no other towering bodybuilders with golden crucifix necklaces and body armor. It seemed strange that he had always seen the same types of people in space stations, though he didn't pause to think on that -- Stationworkers closely watched orange and red felons for any strange behavior, and not stepping forward when told was one of them. Poole made his way into a bodyscanner, which whirred for a moment before emitting the all-too-familiar F minor of Red Felon detection.

"Do you have any drugs or weapons on you?"

Poole shook his head. He had placed his wrist-bow in checked luggage, which was a perfectly legal way to bring it to the ALC. The ISSP liked to bully felons, but it didn't like to harass them, and giving him any flack for it could've given Poole a hypothetical case. Harassment was a crime after all, unlike a spring-loaded self-defense weapon on a baggage ship. This day and age, men half as conspicuous as Poole carried concealed plasma pistols that could open a hole in a ship's hull, which was more of a concern to the police than Poole's wrist-bow, which practically went "Pew" when he fired it. Sometimes Poole missed real guns.

"Step into the next room, please."

Despite the hushed whispers of agents who had come to investigate the red felon detection alarm, this was day-to-day for Poole. This was the life of a felon. This was, as Poole knew, the butt room. The door shut silently behind him. There was an armed guard at either end of the room, each dressed as if they were about to fight a war that was taking place in the middle of a riot. At the center of the room was the familiar ISSP agent -- not an officer, but an agent -- and an innocuous plastic table, with black fold-out legs and a mottled grey plastic body. This was, as Poole knew, the table he was meant to lean onto while the agent checked his anal cavity for drugs. It seemed upsetting the first few times, perhaps, though this was far from the first few times.

[color=goldenrod]"Hey there Poole. You been a good boy lately? Keeping your nose clean?"[/color]

Poole had a deep dislike for the ALC ISSP agent, moreso than the Martian ISSP agent, or even the Jupiterian ISSP agent. This was not an unfounded hatred, by any means, but a list of three reasons Poole had weighed and measured years ago. The ALC agent wore sunglasses, which had always struck Poole as something only fakes do, especially the very specific sort of skinny cops with goatees and light-up toothpicks like him. Of course, he always had one of those light-up toothpicks Poole hated, but he always had the expensive kind with a swirl pattern instead of a simple up-and-down LED. That being said, his appearance and demeanor were only one of Poole's reasons for disliking him. The second was that despite the clear and present difference of size and age, he had a habit of calling Poole "boy" whenever he could. This was always something Poole came to expect of chip-shouldered Napoleonic lawmen, especially the ones he remembered from the bust. There was a similar feature in the men who would try to fight him in prison to make a name for themselves, though then again, that practice fell out of favor after the second.

Poole nodded, dropping trow and placing two hands on the table in front of him. He winced for a moment, trying to think of the most insulting thing he could say to an ISSP agent in a locked room he would have to see for the rest of his life.

[color=DC0904]"Clean nose, pure heart, big bowl of fiber every morning. You know me."[/color]

[color=goldenrod]"I [i]certainly[/i] do. I notice your file says that you recently went to Mars. See any friends from the old neighborhood?"[/color]

[color=DC0904]"Nope. Wouldn't want to talk to 'em if I did."[/color]

[color=goldenrod]"I'm sure we wouldn't."[/color]

The third reason Poole had for hating him was that he enjoyed little barbs like that. Of all the ISSP agents he had to deal with before entering a planet, this was the only one who liked to joke about Poole's status as a rat. The Martian agent was some straight-laced Japanese fellow who treated him with a level of respect, whereas the Jupiterian was an older, out of shape Brit who always treated him with a cold indifference. The Venusian and Titanean ones had changed too often for him to remember, but they had mostly been indifferent as well. Poole would find no such indifference in the American.

[color=goldenrod]"How long do you think you'll be staying on the A.L.C, Mr. Poole?"[/color]

[color=DC0904]"Can't say for sure. As long as it takes to find this criminal."[/color]

Poole hated having conversations with people searching his ass for drugs, though fortunately, it seemed the agent was finished with his job. Poole raised his pants once again while the agent threw a rubber glove into a bin beneath the table.

[color=goldenrod]"Right. Good luck with the bounty, buddy-boy. I don't think you'll have any problems bringing another criminal to justice."[/color]

Poole knew what he meant by that. The line between him and that criminal, and the criminals he had brought in, and the criminals he had ratted on, was invisibly thin to the agent. Maybe that was the agent's way of letting Poole know what he thought of him. Maybe, Poole was just a deeply paranoid man. [color=DC0904][i]Fuck you, buddy-boy.[/i][/color] That was what Poole wanted to say, at least, though he knew the big man didn't appreciate the most loyal of his flock tarnishing his image. Instead, he went with what he always said.

[color=DC0904]"Thanks for the check-up. Get home safe."[/color]

He even gave the agent a warm pat on the shoulder, subconsciously hoping to remind the man he could crush his clavicle in an instant. There was something unnerving for the agent to be reminded of his home, and the family safe therein, by someone with a record as deeply gruesome as Aloysius P. Poole, moreso while the felon presumed to invade his space with a playful pat on the shoulder. In a way, Poole knew that. Poole also knew that construing his well-wishes as a threat could constitute harassment, and harassment was still a crime.

[hr]

The ALC was one of Poole's least favorite planets. His least favorite was Titan, but none of the crew but him had been there, so there were few instances that required thinking about it. The ALC, on the other hand, wasn't exactly unknown to the crew. They had a favorite bar on the planet, a favorite restaurant, a favorite skyway, and a favorite zoo. Poole was far from all of them. He was still on the part of the planet that stunk -- which to Poole, was almost all of it -- and the part of planet on the opposite end of the sun, still illuminated by neon lights every which way. Furthermore, it was raining, which Poole felt was inexcusably ridiculous. If they could control their atmosphere, why did they still have rain? Why didn't they just give their farmers state of the art sprinklers? Probably something about the rain cycle Poole didn't know about, to be fair.

He took the communicator from his pocket, and rang the Magnitude to let them know of his arrival. Ten rings and no pickup. They must've been busy boarding in Nevada by now. Poole plunked the device in his pocket and left the boarding station, entering the rainy, smelly streets of the ALC. He took his communicator from his pocket once more as the rain hit his head, checking his bounty one last time.

[indent][i]Hector Jorge "Peyaso" Lopez - Wanted for 2 counts of murder on Mars, 3 counts of murder on Venus
43, Approx. 150 lbs, Black hair, brown eyes[/i][/indent]

Poole nodded to himself, tucking the communicator in his pocket for a final time, marching out into the rain. His first stop would be Little Mexico.