...and the Interesting Clothing Choices of Junkies

Just another morning in the civilian sector for retired Federated Army major, Dave Katz. Livin' the dream.

Author's Note: IT'S TIME FOR DAVE Something you'll notice as this goes along is that I've updated some of the things in the movie based on technology today. Why? Because I can and it's better that way. I do what I want. I leave other things for the ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚aesthetic˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ of the movie. Grittiness, for example. While being v colorful, the movie is also the grittiest. I'm keeping the filth. Anygay. Enjoy, dolls

David Isaiah Katz has never been a willing early riser. Seventeen years in the Federated Army did little to change that, even as it demanded him to be during active duty. But it had been just over six months since he retired and started working the civilian sector, and he couldn't wake up for shit. He was probably five or ten minutes late to everything. It usually took his alarm and every single noisy little thing in his tiny-ass apartment going off all at once just to rouse him. At least, it did on the mornings when he was actually asleep deep enough to count. Or asleep at all.

If it wasn't nightmares it was insomnia.

Well, fuck him, right? That's what you get for joining the FA right out of school.

.

That particular morning it was a nightmare. One he had often.

It was fire, billowing outward, like the bubbling surface of a star right before it decides to go supernova. Like the initial, almost inward blast of a craft exploding in the vacuum of space. Having dodged many spacecraft explosion from the cockpit of a fighter, he could see it clear as cloudless day in his dreams. The curling distortions. The clawing darkness. The intense reds, yellows, oranges, and at its heart, bright, all-consuming white. In his nightmare, death's grin opened wide to swallow him whole, right down to his immortal soul, screaming toward him.

He woke with a start, gasping and flailing, shooting upright and staring into the dim nothing in front of him. Even with his eyes open, he swore that gaping maw was still coming at him, coming for him.

Before he could blink it all away and come back to himself, his alarm started beeping near his head. He glanced at the time on the tiny screen. Too-fucking early. He closed his eyes and forced a deep breath down to the bottom of his lungs, reorienting like his service-mandated therapist had taught him. When he let it out slowly from pursed lips he also opened his eyes and did a quick inventory of his surroundings. Random clutter, personal effects thrown haphazardly on every available surface, that stupid glittery mobile someone had jokingly given him at his "retirement party," his cat's food and water dishes tucked away near the wall by the telescreen... Same shitty apartment.

The alarm hit it's tenth repetition of consecutive beeps and everything in the apartment came to life.

Dave sighed and swung his legs around over the side of his little bed, groaning into his hands as he rubbed his face. He hated the fucking song blasting through his space. (Which is exactly why he picked it to play every morning, forcing him out of bed to either turn it off or just leave for work.)

His "Quit Coach 360" whirred and dropped blended cigs into two of the three available slots. The other had his vape refill.

"When we work together, you succeed!" it chirped too happily in its stilted robot voice. It was annoying and overly chipper always, and half the time Dave wanted to put his fist through the control panel on it, but that morning, he pretended to fist-bump it from the distance of his bed. It was honestly helping him kick the smoking habit he had picked up his fifth year in the FA (some things were always the same), a task he had almost accomplished before his marriage had fallen apart. The nicotine was the real problem but with the help of good old cannabis and vape pens, he was weaning off. His vape refills were already down to quarter-strength, which was a big thing since he was smoking the equivalent of two packs every day just before he retired.

His cat meowed from the other side of the door, a questioning little imitation of human cadence. Like a small "hello?" It forced Dave to stand up, tapping the side of his fist to the police control circles on the wall.

KEEP CLEAR

"Yeah, trying to," he mumbled.

If his cat wasn't needing in and his bed hadn't already slid away into storage, he would be tempted to just fall back into it. Annoyingly, his phone started ringing from the cradle on the wall. It was the tone of an audio call and Dave was at least thankful for that. He snatched it up on the way to the door. One minute, just one, to be able to think would be nice.

"What?" he answered with.

"Good morning to you, starshine," a voice with a familiar dead sarcasm said from the other end just as Dave hit the button to the cat door.

"Hey there, Sweetheart," he crooned at her, tipping the speaker of the phone down from his face as he did.

"Aw, Honey Buns, you haven't called me that since basic."

"And you haven't called me that since you lost your triggerfinger. I was talking to the cat," Dave shot back, wobbling over to the dispenser and relieving it of one of the cigs.

"Oh, right, I forgot you prefer a pet to the real thing," Finger mocked. Dave needed to find a lighter or some matches or something. His brain needed the nicotine and tobacco to deal with his buddy. And the pot mixed in didn't hurt.

"Yeah, well, pussy never strays."

Finger snorted. "I forget you just left the service and then you say shit like that. If your ma could hear you, man."

"She'd wonder where she went wrong," Dave interjected with a snort to punctuate. "So. Let's thank God she's on the moon."

"Hey, refresh my memory," Finger went on, not even trying to fake a sense of casual, like he might be proceeding in a just-to-make-sure sort of way. "Do you even like cunt?"

He was probably asking because he was looking to set Dave up.

"Naw, not my thing even a little bit. Cat's as close as I get to pussy."

Dave was poking around as he spoke but really started digging on one shelf when he thought he might have remembered leaving a matchbook on it. He found a joke trophy that said "King of Suck: you just fail at everything" his squadmates got him one night after a playful game of drunk laser ball where Dave couldn't follow the ball for the life of him. Then there was his only framed wedding photo of him in his dress drabs, beret and all, a decorated officer standing proudly at the side of a shorter man in a white, three-piece, tailored tux.

He'd thought it had been the kind of lasting love his parents had before his dad died, and once he was promoted to Major, he had popped the question.

"Cat's as close as you get to anything, these days," Finger grumbled. "You need to get out more. You're not seriously still pining over that cheating fuckstick?"

Dave didn't answer, moving on to another shelf. The matches had to be nearby. He never tossed them anywhere else.

"Get out of your apartment and meet someone. Or fuck around a little at least. There are billions of guys on earth alone that you could screw."

"I don't want billions, dickwad," Dave snipped. "I just want one. One that will stay the night, indefinitely. Someone perfect for me."

He found the matchbook and half were missing but that didn't matter. He ripped one out, struck it, and lit the end of his cig with a long inhale.

"Well, you know what they say about finding your Prince Perfect," Finger said, completely unsympathetic. "You gotta fuck a lot of assholes first."

Dave coughed out a laugh on the exhale.

"Fuck, Finger, you tryin' to kill me?"

"What can I say? You bring out the best in me." Dave could just imagine his shit-eating grin.

"What best?" He asked, grinning himself. Finger chuckled.

He left the cig hanging from his lips and scratched his fingers through tangled curls that Dave had barely allowed to grow out longer than army regulation. Enough to be unruly when not styled out of the way. He caught sight of part of a familiar face and tugged a glossy free from the haphazard pile of shit.

"Eugh!"

"What? What is it?" Finger asked.

It was a picture of Finger shortly after his finger had been patched up. There he was in his BDUs sans jacket, thrusting out his slightly blood-smeared hand, last two fingers curled and the fore completely missing from the first knuckle up, effectively flipping off the camera from close up. His stumpy finger was a mess of field work, ugly stitching, swollen flesh, and pink-tinged regen goop smeared over the mess.

"Just found an old photo of you," Dave mumbled around his cigarette end, before lifting his hand to take a long drag, the cherry burning bright. He reached over and flicked the ash into the sink just as Finger spoke.

"You sound mistaken. Had to be one of you."

Dave scoffed.

"Anyway," Finger said, serious and monotone again. "I need you to bring the cab in for a six-month overhaul."

"Hah," Dave laughed, once, loudly. "Yeah, right. Don't need it."

"Katz—" Oh no, he was in trouble now. "I was your number two for at least a thousand missions. I know how you drive. Bring the cab in. Today."

"It's a cab, Finger," Dave almost whined. "Not a fighter, not a carrier, not a frigate, and definitely not a destroyer. You think I can't handle civilian transport?"

"I think I know how you are. You don't know the definition of sane," Finger accused and Dave couldn't help giving his kitchen unit a 'touché' look since his boss and sometimes buddy couldn't see it. "How many points you got left on your license?"

"Fifty-something for sure," Dave confidently lied and immediately took a short drag.

"Yeah. Sure. Okay," Finger mocked and Dave knew he didn't believe him. "Bring the cab in. Before lunch."

Dave sighed.

"Alright. Alright," he groused. "Before lunch. Got it. See you then."

And he hung up before Finger could say anything else.

He was gonna be extra late but whatever. It was Finger's fault anyway. He finished off his cig and dropped the butt into the waste collector next to the sink.

He needed to get dressed and as soon as he reached into his tiny closet for a shirt (the brightest fucking green without being neon or lime) and a pair of comfortable tac pants, a voice blared over the tv. He regret – just for half a second – teaching the cat how to turn on the stupid screen.

Diego Diamond's voice, obnoxiously loud and exaggeratedly accented (or maybe Dave was just biased since that's all his customers ever wanted to fucking listen to), filled the apartment, advertising a contest. The cat's tail flicked about on the rolled out bed as she watched and purred. She clearly had a higher opinion of the man and his...extravagance...than Dave. (Not that Dave hated it, per se...)

He pocketed his phone, his multipass, his vape and the refill, and he stored away his matches and the other cig in a tin for later. He would holster his gun off the wall on the way out. One last check and he turned that direction.

"Don't watch too much of that shit, Sweetheart," he called back to the cat. "It'll rot your brain."

Upon opening the door, he was met not with an empty hallway but instead his perception of the hall shifted and revealed itself to be a picture likeness attached to a tweaker's head. The guy was practically vibrating. Clearly he aching for a fix.

"Gimme the cash!" He demanded with a grin adjacent to adjusted. In his hands was a high powered rifle, obviously not something a citizen should have been able to get their hands on.

"Ah, hey! Been here long?" Dave asked cheerfully, pressing his shoulder into a lean against the doorframe. No need to rile the poor guy up.

"Y-Yeah, yeah, long enough," the guy stuttered, and shoved the barrel of the gun into Dave's face. " C'mon! Gimme the cash!"

Dave wasn't scared, wasn't even upset. This guy wasn't the first. Since he'd moved into this section of apartments, Ms. Dovel kitty-corner across the hall had started coming over with home-cooked meals and baked goods in appreciation for his running interference.

"Is that a Z-140?" Dave questioned, already knowing the answer, but saying it with a smile like he might if he were chatting with an old service buddy. "Alleviated titanium. Neuro-charged assault model."

"Yeah? Yeah!" The guy nodded, confused.

Dave had to clench his teeth on the grin that would give him away.

"'S'a good thing for me that it's not loaded," Dave said, carefully keeping his smile friendly.

The guy's near-constant vibrating paused for a full beat.

"What?"

"You have to—" Dave almost laughed. "The little yellow button? You have to press it."

The guy laughed nervously, glancing down at the gun. He almost didn't deserve what Dave was doing to him. Ah well, he was threatening civilians and probably going to kill innocent bystanders with his idiocy.

"Take your time," Dave encouraged. The guy's shaking actually got worse as he glanced between the button and Dave's face. Dave moved to lift the arm he wasn't leaning on. "Do you want me to—?"

The guy did not. He shoved the rifle more insistently back into Dave's face from where it had drifted slightly to the side. And then, he very carefully crept his thumb to the yellow button and pushed. The gun clicked and he laughed. Dave allowed himself the grin he'd been holding back.

"There! Now, gimme the cash!"

Dumbass. Good thing Dave was here.

The rifle whirred and the charge powered down. The guy stared at the gun in worry. He had no idea. Not a fucking clue.

Dave curled up the arm he'd dropped down next to the doorframe, the one he'd hidden with his body as he'd taken his handgun from the holster hanging on the wall there. The barrel of his own gun tapped the guy's chest, pointed up right under his chin. He'd let himself get too close to Dave, and now his gun was unloaded and another was ready to blow his brains out the top of his head.

The guy raised his trigger hand up in surrender.

"That," Dave said patiently genial for the situation, "is a very dangerous gun. And since I have the certs for it, I think I'll hold onto it for you."

He straightened up, keeping the barrel of his gun to the guy's chest, now pointed to fire into his heart. A quick press of a release on the wall had a storage rack dropping down. He carefully took the rifle from the would-be mugger and added it to his (growing) collection. (He'd probably have to start selling them back to the army soon.)

"You know, that's a nice hat," Dave said, really taking in the ridiculousness of it wobbling around on the guy's head as he tried to discreetly shuffle back.

"Yeah? You like it?" The guy asked, all nervous smile and shaking croak of a voice.

"Tell you what," Dave went on, feeling a bit of genuine amusement creep into his grin. "If you come back three months clean with a sponsor, I'll pay you for the gun."

"Really?" The guy said around the teeth he was grinding. He was maybe coming down off something or higher than shit and shocked and still terrified, but maybe less so with Dave's offer kindly presented.

"Sure, just bring me proof," Dave said and nodded, serious.

"I'll– I'll look you up!" The guy chuckled and did a kind of little dance away before sprinting the rest off the way down the hall.

"Major David I. Katz!" Dave called after him, hoping the guy would take him up on the offer. After the first few confiscations, he'd started trying to give incentive to these people to get their shit together.

He holstered his gun and transferred the rigging to his thigh.

Of all the ways to start the day...

AN: Honestly, playing with the hows and whys of Fifth Element is so much fucking fun. So much of the movie is just accepting what you're presented with at face value and so like, the possibilities are fucking endless. I am taking full advantage

(Fun fact, his middle name is Isaiah because I have an original character named David whose middle name is Isaac and I felt like doing that for myself and my one friend reading this who might get a kick out of it)