Agent Zed, Master of All He Surveys, is smug.

Three intergalactic smuggling operations foiled before breakfast (what the fuck did the Dentazi need all those oranges for, anyway?), and final clearance granted for the first MiB-backed delegation to the love pits of Sargaxi VIII (who the hell would he send out on that?) by the (-THUD-) afternoon. (-THUD-) Yup, he is truly In Charge (-THUD-), on top of everything. (-THUD-) Got it all (-THUD-) under control. (-WHOOSH-) Hell, he's in such a good mood, (-BANG-) he might even go check in on (-THUD-) that damn Rollerball arena and see (-THUD-) if V managed (-THUD-) to--.


Zed jerks his head around to look behind him. Nothing. Huh. Must be time for the annual CAT-scan. Maybe he's finally cracking up. Ah, whatever.

--Ah, that's right. Still had to follow up on those fresh rumors of Trump being a Blovian Voipslug. Not that Zed would be surprised if the Donald really was, (-THUD-) but if the word got out, (-THUD-) they'd have two fleets of crazed Voipslug hunters coming down on their heads (-THUD-, -THUD-, -THUD-, -BLOOP-) every damn weekend. (-THUD-)


Zed jerks around again. Still nothing.

--Of course, the top-shelf (-THUD-) pains-in-the-ass (-THUD-) were still the damn (-THUD-) Annelids. (-BINK-) Crazy, fucking worms, (-THUD-) they were just going (-BOINK-) out of their way to (-WHIRR-) crank up that damn Prank War (-THUD-) to eleven. (-THUD-) Like Zed didn't have--. (-THUD-)

With a roar of rage, Zed spins on his heel to see a hallway just as empty as before. Except--. What was that sensor rod sticking out past the corner of that side hallway there?

Squinting in annoyance, Zed stomps back toward the side hall for a closer look, only to see the sensor jerk back out of sight, followed by a rapid -THUD-, -THUD-, -THUD-, -THUD- that damn near rattles Zed's teeth right out of his skull.

"GODDAMMIT, THAT IS IT!!" Zed roars and breaks into a--. Well, not exactly a run, but a pretty impressive hustle.

Zed fucking hates to hustle.

He rounds the corner with an enormous, "HAH!" of triumph as he comes face-to-face with--.

--Nothing at all.

-THUD-, -THUD-, -THUD-, -THUD- from around the next corner.

Zed can only manage a strangled bellow by this point, but he's got enough inertia built up to bring his bulk to a genuine rush.

Zed fucking hates to rush.

Almost as much as he hates to round a corner just as the thudding stops to be followed by an ominous -WHIIINE- as the flamer weapon of a fully armed Inner Sphere STILETTO TR3067 whips around to point directly at Zed's skull, followed by the staccato snaps of its targeting system zeroing in right between his eyes.


Zed doesn't actually dive for cover so much as belly flop for it, but instead of a hellfire strike, there's a familiar voice over the Stiletto's recorded voicebox:

And with that, the Stilleto does a little dance away down the hall and out of sight.

Followed by a moment of silence before:

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