[A/N: Okay…so maybe not every Wednesday. That whole thing about real life and procrastinating; yeah that happened. And I didn't want to release another chapter until I was at least somewhat happy with it. Hopefully There's a little something in this one that makes up for the delay.

But anyway: it's about time we had some crime in this crime fanfic, don't you think?]

o}{0}{o

It was 8:40pm and raining with perspiration when Ozzy and Drix got a call in from dispatch. An operator had received a distress signal about antigen gunfire outside Lalouette's Pyramid, one of the many swanky hotels and casinos situated along the Wind Pipe Strip. Paradendritics had raced to the location to find a cell shot multiple times. Technicians had worked arduously in an attempt to stabilise him, but he couldn't be saved, and was pronounced dead at the scene.

So now the duo was on their way to join the cytocide investigation.

Heavy droplets danced across the windscreen of Ozzy's car, smearing in a blur as the wipers failed to clear them away fast enough.

'Nasty night for it. I'd have thought the mayor would be trying to do something about these night sweats,' Drix pondered.

'Folks are treatin' Colonic like the solar plexus radiates out his behind, but last I checked he didn't control the weather,' Ozzy snorted.

Drix couldn't help but smile to himself over that. Ozzy would always be cynical about authority figures, even those he had helped promote to power. Still, Drix had recently been reading up on sleep hyperhidrosis, ever since the nocturnal downpours had become a more frequent occurrence, and it had given him cause for concern.

'But it could be symptomatic of any number of serious associated conditions. From hyperthyroidism to lymphoma. I was just reading this fascinating journal at the library about the correlation between the human immunodeficiency virus and-'

'And if that's your idea of a slammin' night out, then take me home.'

When Drix looked putout by Ozzy's jokey snub, the cell sighed.

Cracking a mollifying grin, he tried to re-assure his friend, 'Look chill, pill. I'm just playin'. Frank likes to snooze on the couch. It's pushed up against the radiator. Nothin' to worry your head about.'

Ozzy veered off the Carotid Artery interchange, heading into the south end of The Strip. They were quickly submerged in a spectacle of light, as the cervical nerves flashed electrochemical impulses down from the brain to the rest of the body. Neon axons in every possible colour and configuration weaved into a sea of signage and advertisement billboards.

The Pipe was a funnel of sensory overload, where exchange was constant, and change was inevitable. Every walk of micro-organism filtered through, enticed by the glitz, glamour and gluttony, but most of all by the possibility of striking it lucky and amassing a small fortune in calcium chips by the end of the night.

Drix thought it was all way too tacky and overblown, and that Frank probably really would develop hyperthyroidism at this rate.

'The Pipes and the promise of winning: they cross like Frank's fingers behind his back when he tells Shane he only had salad for lunch.' Ozzy quipped, pulling to a squealing halt in the Thyroid Plaza.

o}{0}{o

Responding Immunity had already secured the surrounding area. The flashing lights of their parked patrol cars were rendered insignificant against the backdrop of auroral decadence.

A marquee had been erected to the left of the entrance to the Lalouette's Pyramid Casino; next to a large ornate support column that Ozzy was fairly certain didn't actually support anything. It worked to protect the evidence from the torrential sweat, and obscured the victim's remains from the few bystanders milling about.

A uniformed officer was standing guard by the marquee's flap. Tall, expansive (particularly in the chest region), with a tight cilium bun and scarlet lipstick. She was a white blood cell they both recognised from the Third Precinct. Rhonda Pectoralis. A scary mix between ward matron and heavyweight boxer; she took no spit from anybody.

Jerking her head at them in recognition, she unfolded her brawny arms into a less intimidating pose as they crossed the police tapeworm and came to stand in front of her.

'Evenin' boys,' she rumbled, in a voice that was equal parts fruity and husky.

'Ain't nobody fonder of my lady Rhonda. Queen of the Amazon cells. Now, what we got here?'

Rhonda rolled her eyes at Ozzy's greeting, and kept her face slack as she responded, 'Straight up cold-blooded murder, Jonesy. The perp unloaded a full cartridge into our cell. Never stood a chance. Barclay's team are in there still documenting the body.'

'Have they been able to identify the victim?' Drix asked.

'Receptor prints match the record for a Darrell Roots. Went by the nickname 'Smoove'. Various previous opioid possession charges. Supposedly rehabilitated four years ago and clean now. Wife and a kid. Worked as a barber in Scalpfield,' Rhonda rattled off smoothly.

Ozzy sounded contemplative as he muttered, 'Rough place to try and live honest, what with the illegal lice breeders, scratching, and the Dandruff Disciples biker gang.'

'And a particularly stressful profession, considering the current receding hairline,' Drix added, 'Any Witnesses?'

'Not when I got here. If there were any most of 'em probably fled when the firing started. The rest would'a slunk off when they heard immunity sirens.'

'Aight, so we're lookin' at a endorphin deal gone wrong.' Ozzy surmised, matter-of-factly.

'You shouldn't make deductions without first analysing the facts, Jones,' Drix chided.

'Okay Sherlock, but it's a pretty safe bet ain't it?'

'Did-did you just make a gambling pun on purpose?'

'Is Osmosis Jones here yet?'

Their chitchat was interrupted by a cell backing out of the marquee, wearing a white examiners suit and carrying an evidence bag containing something gelatinous that none of them wanted to dwell on too long.

She swiftly deposited the bag in a hard-shell transport container by the side of the flap, pulling off her protective mask, gloves and hood to reveal a pretty, if somewhat angular face, framed by long, flaxen cilia immaculately braided out of the way.

'Oh, I see that our Saviour has finally graced us with his presence,' she remarked, but her tone was a playful one.

'What's happenin', earth angel.' Ozzy responded, laying on the charm once again, 'Drix: meet Collagenette Barclay. Finest forensic cytologist in all of Frank. And when I say fine, I mean fine.'

She shot Ozzy a warning glance before extending a hand in greeting to Drix.

'The pleasure's mine. You can call me Genie.'

''Cause she works magic, she's blue, and if you rub her the right way all your wishes come true.'

'Jones…'

Ozzy's smirk subsided, as he wilted under the disapproving looks he was receiving on all sides. He decided to make a swift getaway.

'If you need me, I'll be in the tent,' he mumbled, slinking through the flap and out of view.

Drix fiddled with his cannon, not quite meeting Genie's eyes as he faltered, 'Miss, uh-Ma'am, I'd like to apologise for my partner's uncouth remarks-'

'Thanks, Mr Drix. But it's not like I haven't heard them before. Jones and I have worked together in the past.'

'You sure it was just working?'

'Yes, thank you, Rhonda.'

'Mm-hmm. Well if that boy don't settle down he's either gonna find himself slapped with a child support claim, or slapped by Leah Estrogen. Probably both,' Rhonda declared, placing her large hands on even larger hips.

'You know its all bark and no bite. That cell is loyal as a canine bacterium and crazy about Leah,' Genie sighed, 'Anyway, I prefer my males a bit beefier. You know: the strong, protective type… '

She turned redder than an enflamed gum line when Rhonda gave Drix a pointed look.

'I should get back to the deceased now,' she said hurriedly, now her turn to avoid making eye contact as she addressed the pill, 'If you'll come with me.'

Nonplussed by Genie's sudden change in demeanour and Rhonda's triumphant smirk, Drix followed the cytopologist into the marquee, where he was introduced to her two male subordinates.

One was a champagne pink dendritic cell known simply as Hemato (Drix didn't know if it was his first or last name, and nobody was forthcoming with that information), who had ridiculously curly folds sprouting out of his head like an afro, and who seemed way too happy for someone kneeling in swirling pools of sweat and cytoplasm, face practically thrust inside the hole-riddled chest cavity of the dead cell.

The other was a bespectacled neuron cell named Jack Lumbar, who despite being tall and reedy had a cherubic face and looked far too young to be a certified crime scene analyst. His reticence seemed to rival the exuberance of his peer, as he meticulously photographed the expended shell casings scattered about and their position in relation to the body.

Ozzy did a quick count up.

'Seven casings. That's overkill. Whoever it was that shot him wanted Roots dead.'

Hemato twisted on his haunches to face him, pulling away his mask to reveal an impish grin.

'Not just that, but the first bullet was shot at point blank range, straight to the Nucleolus.'

Hemato pointed with two fingers, and mimed shooting Ozzy in the chest.

'Our boy knew what he was doing. That's a kill shot if ever I saw one. But he still kept going. There's more to this attack than Reynaud's-cold assassination. He was fuelled by hatred. Ruthless. One pissed off mother-'

'We get it Hemato,' Genie interjected, 'the killer used an apoptosis inducing weapon, but before being turned into the cell equivalent of a colander, there's no sign that the victim was anything less than perfectly healthy.'

'So you're more likely looking for a germ packing Black Market heat than a rogue immunity agent,' Jack Lumbar concluded quietly.

'The sweat has compromised most of the associative evidence. But there are indications that the body was tampered with perimortem,' Genie relayed briskly, 'There are no identifying personal effects present. No wallet, keys, cellular phone, or wedding ring. I've spoken to the first responders and they've confirmed that the body hasn't been moved and nothing has been removed from the scene by personnel. It's highly likely that the killer stripped the victim of valuables following the assault.'

'Any sign that the departed was looking to score some Pep?' Ozzy asked.

'None. The body is clean - colloquially speaking - and there isn't even a sniff of opioids in the surrounding area. I've made a thorough search,' Jack answered solemnly.

Ozzy looked slightly deflated when he said, 'Yeah, well the murdering excuse-for-a-mucus probably took back his stash when he jacked the dude's personables.'

'Or another scum-sucking bacterium could have looted the corpse before emergency response arrived,' Jack chipped in. 'That happens all the time, apparently.'

'No witnesses, no leads, and sweat-stained evidence. This investigation's gonna be easier than diffusin' through a semi-permeable membrane,' Ozzy declared, tone oozing sarcasm.

Having remained quiet throughout the analysis, Drix finally spoke, 'You would think they'd have a surveillance system at a place like this.'

Everyone turned to stare at him. Ozzy's expression was particularly comical.

'Sorry for intruding on your theorising,' the pill mumbled.

'It's not that, it's just-we're being a bunch of dead brain cells!' Genie decried.

Hemato cheerfully slapped a hand to his forehead, as if making an attempt to stop the flow of stupidity, and Jack arched a quizzical eyebrow at her reference to the death of his kind.

Ignoring them both, she rushed out through the marquee flap, and they all scrambled after her.

o}{0}{o

Only ten nanometres from the shooting spot they found a CCTV nerve ending mounted high on the glandular wall and pointing towards the north side of the plaza.

'Well spit, what do ya need us guys for? That thing will have caught everything!' Hemato groaned, throwing his arms up dramatically in mock exasperation, 'Still, at least we racked up some tissue time outside the lymph for once, hey Lumby?'

'Does this mean I can get back to my binocular disparity experiments now?' the neuron asked, looking earnest.

o}{0}{o

Light was gently cascading through tall, filthy windows. Debris particles clung thickly to the panes, diffusing a warm haze across the barren enamel tiles.

Ozzy was standing in the middle of an abandoned open-plan factory floor, probably somewhere in the Upper Pancreas District. He couldn't be sure; he had no idea how he'd come to be there, or why. The logistics of his situation didn't concern him; he was too pre-occupied by the sight of the body.

It had to be a body. The figure's outline was clearly discernable under the stained tarp. This was another murder scene, and this time he was alone with the recently deceased.

He took a tentative step forward, his shadow falling across the lifeless form. Steeling himself, he lent forward and pulled off the covering, tossing it away in one swift motion.

And found his eyes meeting the glazed stare of Leah's corpse.

He felt his legs turn to jelly, and give out underneath him. Collapsing beside his dead girlfriend, he ran a trembling thumb across her cheek. Felt the coldness of her pallid membrane.

'It's a shame, really. That girl had it going on. All the way up from her velvet heels. And boy was she feisty.'

Ozzy turned his head towards the previously unnoticed observer to his private moment of grief. The individual's position, leaning against the far wall, cast him in shadow. Ozzy couldn't distinguish his facial features. It didn't really matter; there was no mistaking that syrupy voice.

'Wore her skirts a little too short though, made it a little too obvious. I prefer a challenge,' the virus mused.

'Thrax…' Ozzy breathed.

'In the flesh, baby,' he crooned, striding forward.

Light bathed across his back, causing his red matrix to appear glowing with internal fire.

'Did…did you do this?'

'Feelin' a little slow tonight, are we Jones?' Thrax leered, 'Do ya see any other viral killers hanging around?'

Too many powerful emotions were fighting for dominance inside Ozzy. It rendered him mute; unable to form a response that adequately encapsulated his pure loathing for the virus, his shock, the utter despair at his loss, and his craving for retribution.

Thrax's grin spread wider as he watched Ozzy's inner torment broadcast across his face. Indifferent to the cell's seething silence, he continued the conversation on his own.

'Thought me and you needed some quality alone time. 'Least here I can make that happen. It was so easy to strangle that pretty little neck. Even easier than yours! Not to mention Therapeutic. Listenin' to that whore moan. If I'd known before, well, maybe I'd a' taken the time out to choke a botulism every once in a while. Guess my priorities were elsewhere.'

Fighting against the spasms of revulsion surging through him, Ozzy remembered he had his granzyme gun holstered under his jacket. He hurriedly pulled it out, fumbling, almost dropping it, before pointing the barrel directly between Thrax's eyes. More or less. Ozzy was loath to admit it, but he really was a subpar marksman.

'Come on, Jones. Haven't you had enough killing me for one lifetime?' Thrax sighed, unfazed by the threat. He started walking calmly across the room towards Ozzy.

The anguished T cell fired off a shot that impacted above the virus's left eye, ripping through in a spray of protease, and leaving a gaping exit wound as the ballistic fragments embedded themselves in the wall behind.

Thrax paused in his approach. But he didn't keel over into a twitching pile of rapidly expiring pathogen, as Ozzy would have hoped.

'I guess not,' the virus muttered, sneer gone, the humour in his voice supplanted by dripping venom, 'Even though you were so thorough last time. Didn't you enjoy obliterating me, baby? I'd have liked to think you got a sick little kick out of it.'

Ozzy stared transfixed at the grisly hole blown clean out of the virus's forehead. Thrax was inching his way closer to him again.

'Didn't you feel the slightest bit guilty?'

'Frank no!' Ozzy snarled back, finding his voice, 'You were tryin' to burn us up! You've already taken down multiple humans. Massacred the trillions that lived in 'em. You got off on their destruction. Even old ladies and little kids, you sick faecal coliform! Allowed to break out, you'd have been worse than Dengue and Marburg put together!'

'Flattery won't get you anywhere. But they should paraphrase that last one for my entry in the medical books.'

Ozzy was seized by the desire to wipe the returning smirk clean off Thrax's face. And he knew just what to say to get under the virus's matrix.

'Well halitosis, there won't be any entry now! Wish I could take credit for it, but you pretty much killed yourself. Got stuck and fell in alcohol all on your own, ya big rectal thermometer.' Ozzy jeered, plastering on the widest Cheshire cat grin he could muster, and practically aglow with bravado. 'Now the cause of those people's death will forever be a mystery to medical science. Statistically insignificant. Ain't nobody gonna remember you. Stick that on your claw…and…choke on the…fumes…'

His insolence floundered at the sight of the transformation that was taking place before him. Thrax's mouth was stretching impossibly long; a gaping maw as he gurgled out:

'Can you even begin to imagine what it felt like?'

He staggered nearer, his matrix pigmentation transmuting to the same putrid green it had been when he was liquefying in the beaker. His eyes fizzled and shrivelled in their sockets, cracking like a riverbed after a long drought. His dreads melted to oily black tendrils, dribbling down across his head.

'…Ethanol eating through my membrane…'

Large globs of matter began disgorging from his arms and torso, leaving a sludgy trail in his nightmarish wake.

Desperately, Ozzy raised his gun and shot again at the deformed virus, but the blast passed into him with a gag-inducing suctioning noise, and slime enveloped the hole.

'…Eviscerating my proteins and dissolving my lipids…'

A web of holes was opening up across Thrax's mangled face. His limbs twisting and stretching out into a stringy mass. He had traversed the gap that the large room had presented. Leah's body was the only obstacle between them now.

'…Release couldn't come quick enough…'

The quagmire that had once been Thrax's lower body began to ooze across Leah's carcass, engulfing it. Ozzy let out a howl of protest, but he couldn't risk plunging his hands into the feculence to try and get her back. Infuriated by his own impotence, He began firing burst after burst into Thrax, continuing to pull ineffectually at the trigger even when the magazine had been completely emptied.

'Quit it. It's getting tiresome.'

A gnarled hand, index claw ablaze, sprang out and latched onto the gun barrel. Ozzy let out of a yelp of pain as the scolding heat boiled the end into a lump of molten granules. He hurriedly dropped the grizzled remains of his weapon.

Screwing up his eyes and bracing himself, the cell knew that at any moment he would be plunged into the primordial swamp that had once been a deadly contagion.

'You know what? In spite of all this, I think we should put the whole 'you heroically curing me' thing behind us.'

Suddenly the virus was back to his sleek red self. He stood there; tall, formidable, and completely unmarked, as if the last few minutes had never happened. Leah was nowhere to be seen.

Thrax pulled the traumatised cell unceremoniously to his feet, and began dusting him off. His hands moved deftly over Ozzy's front as he straightening the cell's jacket. Ozzy surprised himself when he didn't instinctively recoil from the virus's touch.

'I could never stay mad at you. Not when you're making it up to me in such a…unexpected and special way.'

'Thrax…' Ozzy choked, completely baffled by the virus's sudden attentiveness. The monster who had once tried to kill him, who had just brutally strangled the love of his life, was caring for him like he was a toddler cell who had fallen over in the playmarrow.

Where was Leah's body? How had Thrax mutated himself, and then reverted to normal in an instant? Was he going completely nuts?

'Just relax and let Big Daddy tend to you.'

But Ozzy tensed up when the virus started stroking his head cilia back into its usual quaff. The gesture was too intimate. He became constricted with nausea as he looked up at Thrax's snug face. Because it felt so soothing, and he knew that it was so completely taboo.

'Get away from me!' he whimpered, 'I don't want to make it up to you. I want you the Frank out of here!'

Ozzy had hoped to sound defiant, but his voice had come out weak and pathetic, like that of a frightened child.

The virus withdrew, and regarded him with bemusement.

'But you know why I am still here, don't you baby?'

Ozzy clenched his teeth. Of course he didn't know. If he had, he would have set to work correcting the reason straight away, and this patronizing sack-of-sebum would have been the echo of a fart in the wind by now.

Thrax gave him a momentary dissatisfied look, and then shrugged it off along with the lack of response.

'It's the chain, Jones. The cells o' this body don't have a clue what it's capable of. Thinkin' it just contains hypothalamic beads off some long-dead unhygienic suckers. But I created that cord from my own protein strings. You haven't truly beaten me long as it's still out there. Part of you realises that. That's why I come visiting every night. I'm a reminder that your job ain't done yet. But get your hands on the chain; keep it close and I'll be out your dreams for good. Cross Frank's heart.'

'Like you swearin' on Frank's life could convince me,' Ozzy spat back with a humourless laugh. 'This body means less than spit to you.'

'It's not like I can swear on my own,' the virus retorted coolly, eyebrow cocked. 'Besides, you're gonna need that chain. Otherwise it's only a matter of time before you really feel the heat.'

'Why are you tellin' me this? Why would you help me?'

Thrax slowly and deliberately reached out his hand, and once again Ozzy failed to make an evasive move or block the attempt. The red palm pressed gently against his stomach, clawed fingers splayed.

A pleasant, warm sensation began spreading through Ozzy from the point of contact. He inhaled sharply as Thrax leaned in, bringing his mouth close to the side of the cells head. He felt the brush of the virus's dreads against his neck, the humid warmth of his breath as he whispered:

'Go get it, baby.'

There were mere inches between them now. Their proximity was intoxicating to Ozzy. He felt his eyelids half-close in ecstasy. The rational voices screaming in his head about how much he hated Thrax were drowned out by a thrum of primal desire. He couldn't fight this. It was like trying to defy the pull of gravity, or stop the circulation of blood through sheer force of will.

Thrax's lips looked so inviting, and Ozzy had been so insatiably hungry. All he wanted was a little taste. He swallowed thickly, his own lips parting slightly in anticipation.

That was when Thrax pushed him hard in the gut.

Caught off-balance, He felt himself falling backwards.

o}{0}{o

Ozzy jerked awake, letting out a squawk as he toppled off the bed. Secretion clung to his membrane, and he was trembling violently. The blankets had been thrown off, and now lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He saw that the bed was deserted; it's other usual occupant conspicuously absent. Fear gripped him.

He pelted down the corridor, skidding into the main chamber and nearly careened headlong over the side table in his frantic search. As it turned out, Leah was curled up on the sofa. She stirred at the commotion he was making, shooting him a drowsy glare.

'You kept whispering his name, and you kicked me in the back,' she muttered after a long moment, tone heavy with fatigue.

'Oh. Sorry,' he responded lamely.

She cast him a once over inspection, taking in the sight of his clammy cilia plastered to his head, his shaking frame, and the dark bags of his eyes.

'You look awful,' she croaked.

'Well dang, can't say the same for you. Stop bein' so perfect and gorgeous at three in the morning, it ain't natural. Makin' us mere mortals look like spit,' he teased, trying to inject some light-heartedness into the gloom.

She chuckled, but it sounded hollow. Letting out an involuntary moan of effort, she pulled up sluggishly into a sitting position, cupping her face in her palms and massaging gently in an act of self-soothing and awakening.

When she lowered her hands to look at him again, her expression was dull.

'We can't go on like this, Ozzy.'

'I know,' he said flatly.

'Do you really, though? Me an' Drix try to talk about it but you just clamp up and it goes on the same. Do you realise how close I am to being done?'

Her words dropped like a lead weight in his stomach.

'Girl, don't—don't talk like that-'

'I'm sorry, Ozzy, I just want to forget,' she cut him off abruptly, 'Forget what he did to me. To Frank. But you keep on reminding me. You can't seem to let it go. You need professional help.'

There was a pregnant pause as he considered her implicit ultimatum.

'You're right. I know I have to stop this,' He answered slowly, realisation dawning. 'That's why I already started gettin' help.'

'Really?' she breathed with surprise and relief, 'Oh, thank Frank.'

'I know what I got to do, now.'

'Come here, baby,' she cooed, opening up inviting arms, beckoning him to her silk nightgown-covered bosom.

He joined her on the couch, where they embraced, practically melting into one another in their shared exhaustion.

But later on Ozzy lay staring at the pockmarked ceiling of their bedroom, long after Leah had managed to drift off again. He was too painfully aware of how cold her feet were; her legs entwined in his own were like ice compared to the tingling warmth of his cytoplasm, heat still emanating from the point where Thrax had touched him.