The clock strikes five, and it is closing time. Alice latches onto me, almost avoiding a particularly bare scorch-mark, and we leave the building. Edward looks surprised, and I can't take the time to explain. I get into the passenger seat of Alice's 2706 "Speedster", and it darts off into the sky, autopilot on. I look out the window and see my apartment complex. It looks small, dirty, and safe.
Three minutes later, the Speedster lands, in front of a large building proudly proclaiming itself to be "The Bar and Bathrooms" in big neon letters. Alice strides in, evidently recognized by the doorman. I walk up and show my civic identification card. The doorman, a large rhino, professes to own a snow monkey of his own, and is curious what I feed mine. I retrieve my card and stalk past, leaving him confused. What did I do that for?
Once inside the bar, I look around. The bar itself is well stocked with liquids of all colors (though mostly brown). A row of barstools wait forlornly for occupation, their only guest being Alice, who is talking animatedly with the bartender. The other inhabitants are standing in groups of two, or three, or more, in the dark areas between the ceiling lights, talking in low voices and sipping from their drinks. Deep, soulful music pours forth from the door to the bathrooms, accentuated by the slowly writhing bodies of three dancers on the wooden boards which serve as a stage. A handful of onlookers lean against the wood, staring transfixed at the dancers' costumes and performance. Back at the bar, Alice waves me over, and I make my way across the room to the inviting stools.
As I sit down, the bartender deposits a drink in front of Alice and moves over to me. His eyes travel up and down my face, and I suddenly remember the burn marks again, and I blush.
"Let's see..." he says, completing the examination, "low twenties, low income, low spirits, right?" I nod. "Don't really know why you're here." Nod. "Could use some friends." Nod. Hesitant. "Not quite comfortable in your sexuality." I almost nod, but catch myself.
"Wait..." I begin, but I'm too late, as he has strolled off towards the cabinets behind him and is pouring things into a glass. I avoid Alice's eye until he gets back, setting the glass carefully down in front of me without so much as a slosh. "There," he says, rubbing his hands together, "that should be just the thing. Enjoy your life."
Slowly, staring after his retreating form, I take a sip from the concoction. And another. It is a very good tasting drink, all things considered.
Nothing much happens for a while, until Alice indicates for me to look over at the stage. The dancers, and the watchers as a natural reaction, are leaving, but I do not see anything else. Quizzically, I look at Alice. "Keep watching," she says, and I dutifully obey. In a minute, the lights brighten a little, and change color from red to green. The bartender grumpily stalks over to the stage, where he takes a microphone and prepares to speak.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and the people that are actually here," he begins, eliciting few laughs, "may I present, the, ugh, incomparable talents of... the 'MuttMeister!'"
My jaw drops open in a mix between horror, amazement and sadistic laughter. Onto the stage prances Mr. Muttley, still in his awful green suit, which matches perfectly with the lighting. So this is where he works. My next-floor neighbor proceeds to dance, if you call it that, to the scattered applause of the onlookers. I am not truly scared until he begins to remove the outermost layer of clothing. Alice is grinning at me, and I shrink away, unwilling to be seen as having any connection to this monstrosity.
Suddenly, one of my starship buttons begins to vibrate.
Muttering a silent prayer of thankfulness, I explain to Alice that I have to go. She doubts it, but I tell her it's important, and get out of the building as fast as my legs can carry me, eyes still filled with the unforgettable vision of Mr. Muttley attempting to dance. Once safely outside, I pry at the starship until it opens with a pop, revealing a small screen within. A large orange rabbit's face stares up at me.
"That you, Cottontail?" it asks.
"Hello, Margsly."

Perhaps I should explain. I live a double life. Like Billy Blaze as the famous Commander Keen, low income Zoe Cottontail of weapon shop renown is merely my public identity. I'm also a secret agent of R.A.B.T., a galactic organization of peace and justice for all. From time to time, I get a message from Margsly, my commander, who gives me a new assignment allowing me briefly to depart my regular life in search of strange new planets and species, or simply settling disputes in far off corners of the galaxy. When I weigh my two lives, I wish I could be going on missions for R.A.B.T. all the time, but Margsly forbids it. When I last asked, he said I needed to get my life in order before I quit it. I stalked out of his office. Now, his transmission has saved me from an extremely embarrassing situation, and I feel quite grateful enough to forgive any past annoyances.
Margsly gives me the basics of the situation. A turtle calling himself Devan Shell has been dumped in our laps by a galactic hero called Jazz Jackrabbit. Due to a mixture of proximity and availability, I have been selected as part of the squad which must take him to jail and oversee the trial. Shell is currently unconscious, in a warehouse about three blocks from the Bar and Bathrooms. I salute my commander and close the button, ending communication.
A few minutes quick walk gets me to the warehouse, and I walk inside, noting the lack of guards. A turtle with broken glasses is lying on the ground, eyes closed and motionless. My partner for the assignment waves, and I look in his direction. The rabbit returns my gaze, smiling. He is blue furred, wearing a baggy brown outfit and green goggles. He extends a paw, and I shake it.
"Razz."
"Zoe."
"Zoe Cottontail? The woman who crushed the Deserto revolution?"
I blush, and nod. He whistles. "Wow. This must be a pretty high profile case. I'm new to the field, myself. It was either this, or prison for misuse of hazardous chemicals." He glances at the turtle. "Looks like he's beginning to stir. Got a uniform?"
I shake my head. Sad as it may seem, I have never been able to afford a R.A.B.T. standard issue uniform from wardrobe and outfitting. Fortunately, Razz's suitcase has a spare which is about my size, and we get into costume, changing clothes while politely not watching the other. I tap the other starship button three times, and my hair changes color to a luxuriant black. Repigmenting is an expensive gadget, but Margsly insists it's a necessity with hair as obvious as mine, as I refuse to simply cut it. There is a mirror in the warehouse, and I check my appearance. Perfect. My secret identity is safe for now.
Turning around, I notice Razz has redesigned himself as well. Gone is his baggy outfitting, and with it, his casual demeanor. Razz, now brown furred and uniformed, projects an aura of confidence and authority, the sort of person you could safely entrust a dangerous individual to. I self consciously smooth down a wrinkle on my uniform, then notice his change of color.
"You said you were new. How'd you afford a repigmentor?"
"Zoe," he grins, shaking the turtle awake, "I invented them three years ago. They're a little smaller now than my first prototypes, which could only change the four primary colors, but it would hardly be fair for me to not have a few floating around."
We escort Devan out of the warehouse, and while Razz simultaneously makes jokes and explains how he was almost arrested for blowing up half the street he lived on, I get the feeling I've made a new friend.
The jail is only a half hour's walk, and we get inside without any trouble. The police captain looks up from behind his desk at our R.A.B.T. insignias and gets out a sheet of paper. "Name?" he asks, staring at the turtle.
"Devan Shell."
"Offense?"
"Murder."
"Length of stay?"
"Until his trial tomorrow."
"Any special cell requirements?"
I look at the prisoner. He does not seem to be able to phase through walls, melt objects in front of him, or possess any of the other powers which might make containment difficult. "None."
"Very good. Just give me your R.A.B.T. numbers for future reference, and that'll be all." I give my number, 26. Razz is 130. I've evidently been in this job longer than I thought. The police captain takes Shell away towards the cells, and Razz and I leave the building, parting ways soon afterwards - I walk off towards the nearest bus stop, and Razz opens a folding hover-board and flies away.

I am halfway to the bus stop before I realize that I am still wearing Razz's spare uniform, and my normal clothes - including transmitter, repigmentor and apartment keys - are still in his suitcase. Figures. Life is good, but only as long as I'm on assignment, and the rest of the time it hits bottom. After weighing my options for a while, I find an alley and curl up in a ball.