A/N: Okay, so this is my second story posted and the first one for a long time. The next few chapters will be longer; my aim is at least 4k per, but... well, we'll see. This is long overdue, and I have most of it planned out, so I hope it gets pleased readers. There isn't a lot of fics for this fandom in particular, so... yes. Enjoy!

I should also mention ahead of time, I will put warnings at the top of every chapter that contains anything some readers might find offensive. This story will be have mature content, but I will be sure to say so!

DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are, or ever will be mine. I am putting this in the first chapter only; as that is the one all people read first. Or, at least I do.

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Officer Ozzy Jones was having the worst day. It was the kind where the Fates work against you and karma is a bitch. As Bruce Almighty would have said, "God has taken his bird and his bush."

It had started that way too, which was only putting salt on the wound. He should have seen it coming, really. His alarm went off at 5 a.m. on his day off; he'd forgotten he didn't work the next day. Unable to go back to sleep, Ozzy had headed for the kitchen. To his extreme displeasure, he found out he had officially run out of coffee. And to top his morning off, he'd poured cereal before remembering he was out of milk. So yeah, it was safe to say things weren't going to get better.

The rebel cop had rubbed his eyes tiredly, distracted by the chilled tiles beneath his feet. He had been about to go get dressed when the door was knocked on rather obnoxiously. Sauntering over, he peeked through the peep hole, closing one eye and squinting. It was his landlord and personal Hell, Mr. Stevens. The man was disgusting in every aspect, from looks down to the core of his personality. Ozzy opened the door with a creak, trying his best to look guilty. His landlord started off by yelling obscenities at him, spittle flying from his mouth with each syllable. The cop supposed it wasn't the man's fault he was so repulsive. His whole name was Carl Stevens, a failed businessman who now worked at the local fast food restaurant and probably made more money than the cop. He spoke in nasal tones, and coughed as only a life-long smoker can. His hair was greying and thin, and where it didn't cover greasy from lack of showers. If the building itself didn't reek, he could easily have filled the gap with his lack of hygiene. If he was being entirely honest with himself, Ozzy would have said he hated this man. But it wasn't in his nature to hate people, and so he held his tongue on this matter.

"Are you listening to me, boy? Two weeks overdue!"

Oh, right. He was being reprimanded. The man smelled like stale beer.

"This is your last warning! I mean it Oz, last warning!"

One of his teeth was missing too. Ozzy debating making him lose another.

"Pay. Your. Rent. You've worn me thin!"

Really? Because it actually looked like he'd gained a few pounds.

"You have two days!"

Mr. Stevens left then, with one stern finger shake and a hateful glare, he stumbled away. Ozzy closed the door and put the chain lock back in place automatically. There was hardly much to keep safe, but it was reflex. He ran a hand through is hair and groaned, closing his eyes. Two days to come up with last months rent, and then a week for this months. Shit. Did no one have respect for the law keepers anymore? Apparently not. With a sigh, he went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Half a loaf of bread, a can of Pepsi and a carton of expired orange juice. It would appear he was eating out again.

In today's economy, it was cheaper to eat fast food, but that didn't mean it wasn't expensive. Ever since the mayor had been elected the city had fallen under hard times. Everyone was affected from the low to high class citizens. Times were hard, and poverty was no rarity in the City of Frank. Not even the crime world was left untouched.

There were two main crime lords in Frank; the Nex gang run by Thrax, and the Mac's, run by Variola. Both dabbled in gambling, alcohol, prostitution, and everything else under the table. But more recently, they were becoming bolder, with public shootings and more bodies in more conspicuous places. They didn't seem to care that the police were making a big deal of it; they considered themselves immune to the law, and it was this that made the citizens doubt their police reliability. Each crime committed was a big slap to their faces, and the newspaper was all over it.

Ozzy had been a higher ranking officer before he screwed up majorly. There was a hostage situation at a bank; a quick snatch and run plan gone wrong. He had been taking out borrowed money from his best friend when it happened. The criminal had held a gun to a woman's head, and screamed he would shoot if anyone moved. Of course the police were already on their way, but Ozzy was never one to wait patiently. He had watched the man carefully for several minutes, and he was clearly unstable. Shaking uncontrollably, there was no question in his mind that the man was going to pull the trigger, accident or no. So he shot the guy square in the chest.

He still remembered the scream of the woman and the sound of blood splattering a marble floor. It wasn't something a person could just forget.

So, despite the fact that no hostages were harmed, eye witnesses claimed he had shot for poor reasons, and the judgment began. The chief had immediately demoted him and took away most of his privileges. It had been a shock for him, but clearly not to his co-workers. They teased him mercilessly for his rank loss, and instantly gained a bad rep with the force. And so, his tiny rebellion began.

That had been several years ago now, and at the age of 24, he was ready to get back on his feet. Which was an issue, as his pay had been cut by order of the mayor, who deemed the city 'safe' and 'without flaw'. Of course this was bullshit, as anyone with eyes could see. He was a big problem for the city, but gangs were to. The cases he was so often assigned to were those of gang activity. Chief Silver had deemed him able to work on these cases specifically, as Ozzy had somewhat personal experience that only he was privy to. Having grown up in the slums of Frank on the East Side, he knew more about gangs from witnessing events to overhearing rumours. It would have been out of the question due to it being a compromising issue for the reports and actions taken, but Silver was short staffed. As much as Ozzy annoyed him to no end, there was no question he would do what he wanted either way.

So, with lack of money in his wallet and bank virtually empty, Ozzy was forced to call in favours from a friend. But he was tired of living off of other people, like a piece of vermin or parasite. He wanted to cut his own path, even if it meant trouble. It was time he made something of himself, he knew. And what better way to do that then to shut down the gangs in Frank?

Ozzy tossed out the orange juice and went to his room. It was simple and almost monkish, with a single bed and a simple bedside table. A pale blue dressed he had hauled up from the dumpster so long ago had been restored and now held his few clothes. Slipping off his pajamas, he tugged on a pair of black pants while simultaneously slipping a belt through the loops. Next came a white t-shirt and gun harness, which he loosened slightly. He had been working out more recently, and new muscle was beginning to make his clothes tighter. Ozzy pulled his shoes on and grabbed his wallet, keys, and jacket as he left the apartment. Off to the café it was.

Upon reaching Central Perk, Ozzy purchased a blueberry muffin and a large coffee. He inhaled the rich aromas of baking and was about to bite into his breakfast when his cell buzzed. Slightly annoyed, the cop maneuvered his muffin into the same hand as his coffee, and answered his cell.

"Hey, Ozzy here, what's up?"

"It's Silver. Listen. There's been a shooting."

"It's the Nex, isn't it?"

After receiving the necessary place of the crime, Ozzy shoved his food into his pocket and took a big gulp of scalding black coffee. It burned unpleasantly on the way down, but now it wouldn't overflow as he ran the two blocks to the crime scene. His car was currently out of commission. Knowing that he might catch the bastard, or at least get some kind of useful evidence to aid in his capture, made his heart beat faster. The cop had always had a need for pursuit, even if it was against impossible odds.

He arrived at the scene in good time, breathing harshly and leaning on his knees to catch his breath. His black leather jacket trapped his body heat inside, which wasn't always a good thing. "Hey man, what took you so long?" Reese, a good friend of Ozzy's clapped him on the back, a grin on his freckled face. "Ugh, Reese, just don't even…" the shorter cop sighed, and inhaled deeply before straightening, looking at the area in front of him. "Alright, take it easy man. Look, let me catch you up to speed, alright?" The man's grin faded gradually as he led Ozzy to the crime scene. He lifted the yellow 'Caution' tape and slid underneath, nodding to the cops who made sure no civilians entered. Ozzy followed and ignored the looks of disdain he was given, squaring his shoulders as he walked.

The shooting had been quick, albeit a shock to the passersby. On one of the busiest streets, a man by the name of Douglas Morrison had been shot in the head, killing him instantly. The sidewalk he had been killed on was now vacant, though it would have been crowded so early in the morning. It was somewhat of a central street; and a bus stop rested not ten feet from where he'd fallen. Morrison had been a dealer for the Nex, but it was clear he had overstayed his welcome. Ozzy looked at the corpse with intense brown eyes, sprawled and laying in a pool of crimson.

"So what happened?" He asked, pulling on a pair of white latex gloves Reese offered him. Normally he was the intel gatherer, but on rare occasions he was allowed to deal with the bodies. "From what witnesses say, he looked troubled. The guy probably knew what was coming; making a break for it. Or trying to anyway. The splatter-" he pointed out some key places as he spoke "-suggests that he was shot at point blank range. Probably a 9mm, but we won't know for sure until the other guys get here." He sighed and knelt down beside Ozzy, looking at the cops face for signs of his thoughts. "What are you thinking about?" Ozzy glanced at Reese for a mere second, before standing and looking around. "Are there any cameras around that would've caught this on tape?" As he spoke he saw one in the corner of a building entrance, and at the same time Reese answered yes, and that they were currently being acquired. The rebel cop nodded his approval, and determination creased his brow. "This was Thrax, there's nothing else to it. And this time we've got tapes to prove it. That bastard is going down."

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Meanwhile, the criminal lord in question sat reclined in his favourite leather chair. The room was darkened by black curtains; the only light source a small table lamp and the television. It was a well-furnished room, with hardwood floors and expensive décor all the way through. His face remained impassive, as he watched the live news cast from where he'd been less than an hour ago. The reporter, Leah Estrogen, spoke quickly and with clarity, always to the point and forever attempting to make things interesting.

Thrax was about to change the channel when an officer was asked the question, "Who did this?" The man was intriguing to the crime lord for reasons he couldn't explain. He seemed to weigh the question before answering, and when he did there was defiance in his voice that sparked his interest.

"This was the work of Thrax," he said seriously, looking at the reporter with something akin to anger. Another man in the background, a lanky fellow with red hair and freckles, was attempting to discreetly shut the cop up. He whispered something in the cops ear, and the shorter one shrugged him away. "The aristocrat? There have been similar accusations, Mr. Jones." Leah raised a fine black eyebrow, her violet eyes intrigued by this inside information. "What makes you think it really is him? Do you have evidence?" Mr. Jones, as Thrax knew him, opened his mouth to answer when the taller man pulled him out of camera view and stepped in. "At this time, it is too early to say who did it and what their motives were. All we can say with certainty is that this was no accident."

Thrax watched the background instead of the two people talking, his attention stolen by the cop who had spoken first. He was running a hand through his hair, looking distressed and tired. The crime lord took a sip of his scotch. The amber liquid went down his throat smoothly, the ice clinking against the polished glass. He smirked and turned off the television as he stood. Perhaps it would be a good idea to pay a visit to this officer of Frank.

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Nex is short for Rutilus Nex, which means "Read Death" in Latin; I figured it was an appropriate name for Thrax's gang.
Also, Variola is an OC of mine, and that is the technical term for Small Pox. His gang is called Mac, short for Mactabolis. The names are pretty cliche, but I like them.

A/N: Alright, so there is the first and smallest installment I know I put Ozzy in a more serious mood... but I promise it will get better. Reviews of course are always encouraging, but not necessary. Though it would make me want to update faster.