[center][color=9e0b0f][h3]- The Ozil -[/h3]
Prologue[/color][/center]

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The thick, pungent smoke of a cigar writhed into the dim night. From the lonely window far above the cemented street, a cloud of similar shapes seemed to form. They trudded in a march through the fresh packed snow. Workers, hundreds of them, garbed in grey coats. Their faint silhouettes were clouded by the debris that fell from above. It was more than just snow. A grey ash filled the air and seemed to cling like a parasite to every surface and particle in sight. Waves of this ghostly filth whipped in the wind, lashing the workers as they marched below. Yet onward they trudged with armed guards at their sides. They were heading to the factory, the stifled glow on the horizon served as a poor replacement for a sky. On this planet, it was the only thing close to a sunrise. 

Lyov took another great puff of his cigar, its fiery head treading close to his worn paw. He careened his head out to exhale once more into the billowing night sky. His giant white fur and ursine build were wedged sideways between the maw of the cement window; its architect not envisioning its use for such leisure. His rank afforded him some leeway. Lyov was a senior physicist in the Primacy. But in the Primacy there was no paradise for party members of any rank. His position did grant him a window, and he had every intention to make use of it. 

A soft clicking noise droned in the background. The workers below seemed to walk to its cadence. However, with every gust of snow-laden wind, the metronome seemed to speed its incessant tick. The workers continued their slow trudge. With a long drag, Lyov burned his momentary escape down to its wick. The workers were close now. The searchlights of aircraft began to dance above their slumped figures. Lyov took this as his sign to retire. 

He drew back into the small room. It was grey. Barren cement walls, a half eaten bowl of cold porridge, a scratchy sofa with chunks removed from it, and an old holoprojector on the wall. Lyov slid his giant figure onto the sofa and massaged what was likely an old injured shoulder. The little box perched on the seat continued to chirp. A geiger counter, its whispering dribble counted radiation in the air. It was a constant companion and only real conversation he had outside of the factory. The sofa he sat on had been refurbished by hand. Portions of padding that had absorbed too much radiation were torn out. He had tossed them out of the window, perhaps adding to the misery of the workers below. Perks of being on the top floor, and being worth something to Ozil Thermal. 

The holoprojector cut on in a dash of flickering light. It had no on or off button that Lyov had seen. The device simply turned on when the party felt something worth showing, a rare event when work was to be done. Lyov immediately recognized the program, Galactic Talent. Perhaps it was a re-run but he could not be sure--all the performances were the same. At least all of the Ozil performances were the same. Song 1 was being performed. Though there were officially six state recognized songs, Song 1 was the only one exported for foriegn use. It was the theme, anthem, eulogy of the Ozil people. It was not real words, simply a complex and rolling howl that was meant to stir the emotions of every Ozil. It encapsulated their quest for self proving, mastering of the stars, struggle for survival in a forlorn universe, and ultimate destiny as dust in the cosmic sky. It was beautiful. Perhaps even beautiful to foreign ears. Moreover it was the only performance broadcast to the Ozil, a state-backed deal with the galactic entertainment network at large. Every performer, every broadcast, always Song 1 followed by a captured audience from around the galaxy and their thunderous--if after-tracked--applause.

Strobing light. Weeping judges. Theme music. Commercial break. 

“Soda 1. The taste of Paradise to come," read a dashing Ozil with a smile and a wink. He held the colorful Jalaryian beverage like it had been vomited into his outstretched hand. It was crudely filmed, out of focus. In the periphery of the shot could be seen the edge of a mic boom and the vague silhouette of a rifle muzzle. He greeted the viewer at the end of every Song 1 performance, an advertising byproduct for the only beverage sold in the Primacy. It undoubtedly made an Alpha bureaucrat somewhere rich. 

The screen cut back to Galactic Talent. Lyov looked on in awe. The crowd clapped lazily as the Ozil contestant trudged off of the stage. This had never happened on his screen before. The next contestant was announced. Lyov could hear the beat of his heart begin to punch through his throat. A human with an instrument took the stage. The applause of the crowd echoed in his room as Lyov’s gaze searched frantically for a power switch. There wasn’t one, there had never been a power switch. He shouldn’t be watching this. One of the judges cut a dry joke, looking presumptuously onward at the contestant. The human replied meekly, the crowd whispering about her looking unfit for the part. Lyov’s grip tightened, claws cutting through the patchwork sofa. The human began to sing, amazing the crowd with how someone so ugly could have such talent. Lyov was pounding. He grabbed for something, anything. The bowl of cold porridge crashed across the cement wall which played host to the holoprojection. Onward she performed, dancing amongst the clumps of gray sludge. 

He didn’t even hear the door open. The footsteps had settled into the beat of his pounding heart and the steady, penetrating click of the geiger counter. They were here, and they knew.

Blackness fell over him. A plastic bag sealed itself over his head. Paws from every angle dug into his fur. Once. Twice. Three times something hard belted into the side of his head splitting his vision into a kaleidoscope of colors and pain. They were dragging him as the unsanctioned holocast droned on with voice and instruments and song. He felt his body crammed through the narrow opening of his own window. He felt the harness around him catch by some force, hoisting him upward into the bowels of an aircraft. The audience of the holocast erupted in gleeful applause. It sounded, for once, genuine.