[FIC] Chip Off The Old Block, part 1 (Ch. Y+5)
Posted: Tue Feb 17, 2004 1:22 am
Good and Bad. Yin and Yang. The evolution of Mithril came with great opportunities…and with great risks.
The mission in the Crimea had been a success, but presented a tremendous problem for organization. It might have been possible to cover-up Mithril’s involvement in the Wormwood Threat, but the likelihood for success was low, according to the Bureau of Statistics and Probability. Instead, the powers that be saw a silver lining---if Mithril came into the open after averting a global catastrophe of epic proportions, the reaction of the international community should be positive. Especially if the organization laid claim to the laurels it had earned previously during the Scalar Crisis. Sooner or later, Mitril would be uncovered. Such a discovery could very easily be painted in a very poor light---no one likes to be deceived. A deception on such a massive scale---and for such a lengthy period of time---was likely to ruffle a large number of feathers no matter how altruistic Mithril made itself out to be.
The ripples were still being felt across the globe, and many of the responses had been extremely negative. Some of that ill will came at the prompting of less philanthropic shadow groups, none of whom were prepared to work out in the open---and all of whom would greatly benefit by the dissolution of their arch rivals.. Nevertheless, the vast majority of reactions had been positive, or at worst neutral. Mithril’s existence as an independent force was still being argued in the political and legal arenas, with no official resolution expected any year soon. Thanks to the hard work of Minister of Finance Borodenko, Mithril’s coffers would not suffer any shortages in the immediate future. If anything, investors were appearing in increasingly greater numbers. Likewise, nations were quick to offer their backing. Some merely hoped to share in whatever Black Technology was still exclusive to Mithril. Most, however, were rather concerned about the United State’s rather close relationship with the once secret mercenary force.
The nation of Japan was no exception. Unbeknownst to many, it had its own connection to Mithril. Once the organization made itself known, the government rushed to cement a more official relationship. In essence, that was the reason that Sousuke was at the JSDF base on one of his vacation days.
An HBD-5 Arm Slave had been delivered late Sunday night, supposedly under a shroud of secrecy. A small contingency of Mithril troops were on guard, supplanting the sovereign soldiers. The Halberd was the hot topic of discussion between the military and political leaders of Japan---the officials were poised to make a very lucrative offer to Mithril, should the mecha be as capable as stories made it out to be. Major Sagara would be handling the HBD-5 during the validation demonstrations.
A member of the JSDF, Sousuke could very well have been ordered to run the exhibition. Still contracting out to Mithril, he could have been coerced from yet another direction. Instead, he volunteered---he did not make his reasons known, however. It would be the day after Moto’s eighth birthday, and he had promised his son the chance to sit in an Arm Slave. The X8 was a fine machine, and would have sufficed. The Halberd, however, held a special place in his son’s heart. It was one of the mechas that had kept his father safe during his combat missions. He had a picture of one on his wall, next to a painting of Arbalest and a classified photograph of the Aegis.
When the day arrived, the military base was a veritable hornet’s nest of activity. Ceremonies preceded and followed the actual showing. The HBD-5 had turned out to be everything it had been touted to be---everything and more. The Lambda Driver capabilities especially had been quite an eye opener. Crowds seemed intent to linger forever, necessitating forceful escort off the premises for many eager observers. The security forces began to rest easy when they heard that a Mithril transport helicopter had launched from the TDD-2.
It had been the grandest of days for Moto. First, he got to go with Father, not Tomoe or two year old Shusaku. Second, without having Mother there to birdseye him, he had made quite free with the refreshments. On a number of occasions, his father had told him it was impolite to carry two or three cups of punch at a time, or to stuff his pockets full of finger sandwiches and small pastries. Third, he had been given the wondrous opportunity to sit through fanciful ceremonies, with brass bands, an over flight by fighter jets, speeches, and a testimonial to his father’s skills. The ceremonies bracketed the A.S. demonstration, the very substance of a young boy’s dreams. Fourth, and best of all, he had seen the HBD-5 up close and personal. Personal was a rather apropos term---the A.I. Had shocked everyone, except Moto, by turning itself on and interfacing with the boy. Sousuke, aware of his son’s Whispered talents, was both proud and concerned. Mostly the latter. The number of people who could interact with the Halberds was steadily growing, but anyone capable of activating the highly advanced A.I.s was a valuable commodity---to official forces and secret groups alike.
Sousuke hoped that a large bullseye hadn’t been figuratively painted on his firstborn’s back. That would be danger enough. In addition, when she found out---and she ALWAYS finds out---Kaname would have his hide.
He had let Moto sit in the Arm Slave, after his son promised not to touch anything. Moto had kept his word---at least physically. Before his father had any idea what had occurred, Moto had initiated some form of contact with the A.I., prompting the machine to show him a number of teaching programs. Start-Up Procedures. Simple. Calibration steps and Systems Initialization. Child’s play. Mobility and Mechanical Manipulation. Not very much of a challenge. Weapons Systems and Combat functions. Peace of cake. Lambda Driver and related capabilities. Challenging, but not overly so.
Moto could operate the Halberd. At least in theory.
No one would have guessed that such a talent would prove crucial.
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He could not be identified, even if he were captured. The imposter was quite certain of that. The urge to smile, to flaunt his hidden knowledge, was annoyingly strong---there was no need to prance or tease, as the fools would learn of their mistakes soon enough. A significant demonstration, especially one of this nature, is very diffult to keep secret, especially if paid ears were everywhere. Furthermore, large crowds of dignitaries and officials---ones from different organizations that had little contact with one another, if any at all---provided all sorts of opportunities to those who were gifted in espionage and subterfuge.
His mission was straightforward, but not simple. There were other doppelgangers there with him, each having an important task to perform. They were accompanied by a number of operatives with false identities, men who had spent months to years working at those agencies that were once felt likely to be of significant value in the future. Their group’s planning had been prophetic, bordering on precognitive. This mission’s planning had been precise, taking every possible contingency into consideration. The fruits of their labor would be more than worth the effort.
Sharing a joke with a real military attache, he laughed longer and harder than the humor called for. The poor sap was looking at him with a concerned eye. He simply didn’t know the real joke. The HBD-5 would be stolen right out from under the watchful nose of the JSDF and Mithril. It would be taken to a heavily defended location and disassembled. After enough data was collected to allow for reverse engineering, the actual parts themselves would be auctioned off at exorbitant prices. No items would remain after the event. Not too long after that, the jewels of Black Technology would be available to anyone with enough money. Official clearence, pledges of accountability, ethics, and scruples would no longer matter.
The vest inside his expensive suit was filled with a large number of tranquilizer darts, each having no metallic parts. Like a cliché from good and bad spy movies alike, his official briefcase contained items that could be locked together to form a projectile weapon. He could assemble the tools of his trade in total darkness if need be. His proficiency with the weapons was phenomenal. After all, that was why he had been selected.
The parameters of the mission were not his to select, or to question. If they were, he would be using weapons that killed, not ones that simply disabled. He failed to see the logic involved. They were going to steal a very sensitive piece of equipment. The men responsible for that technology---and the profits they stood to gain from it---would put all of their resources behind its recovery. Would they really go to greater lengths, or use more severe methods, if the innocents were killed instead of incapacitated? Would they really be slowed down by the need to consider some of the survivors to be possible moles and inside men? Would they be fooled even for a minute by some of the planted evidence? Ah well. It’s not mine to question why. It’s mine to do or die.
He checked his watch. It was time to begin.
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Sousuke did not like the circus and sideshow atmosphere that had accompanied the exhibition. He knew the reasons, but this was serious business, not a used car lot. In addition, he was very uncomfortable with the number of strangers still milling around the base. Security concerns did not go down just because someone decided to turn things into a festive occasion. The opposite was invariably true.
He stopped a moment, to consider if he was simply being paranoid, or if he was overly concerned because Moto was on the grounds. No, security measures were always lax in his opinion---despite the fact that he had raised concerns on numerous occasions. The systems and human measures were geared towards non-military personnel and conventional disturbances---they would prove little impediment to determined professionals. The Mithril professionals were experienced, but were spread somewhat thin given the enormity of the proceedings.
”Who is going to steel a twelve ton Arm Slave?” was the response he got to his complaints. His standard answer of ”Do you have the clearence level, and do you have the time to read the list?” did not win him any converts. ”Major Sagara, you of all people should know that Mithril is out in the open now. The days of cloaks and daggers are over.” No one ever wanted to hear about the other organizations, the ones that were STILL working in the shadows.
Making a point to seem busy with inconsequential matters, he kept an eye on the Halberd as he moved a number of supplies from point A to point B to point C and back to point A again. Too many nonessential personnel and guests hanging about. This looks like a good time for a drill. There will be no reason for all of those people to return when the drill is over. He walked over to a control box on the wall and punched in his I.D. code. Throwing a switch, he triggered a fire drill. He didn’t care if any of his superiors took exception at his timing.
Now, to find Moto and keep him close. Punching a restricted number into his cellular phone, he called the Mithril dispatcher to find out the E.T.A. for the transport copter.
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A Fire Drill? NOW? What was the chance that an automatic protocol was operational, despite the the special arrangements? Low. Someone was suspicious, or at the very least, admirably paranoid. No matter, the operation would begin a bit prematurely.
The covert agent activated his high frequency transmitter, setting off the small subcutaneous devices in his comrades.
Time to make this day TRULY memorable.
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Zenzai cakes. Check.
Tried on HAZMAT suit. Check.
Pork Gyo Za. Check.
Got a look at schematics for T-2 and X-10. Check.
Daifuku sweets. Check. And check again.
Drew a picture for Father’s cork board. Check.
Yakitori with Teriyaki sauce. Check.
Crawled under and inside one of the base Armored Cars. Check.
Steamed shrimp dumplings. Working on it.
Moto had a large linen napkin unfolded on the table top. He was busy stuffing it with dumplings and filled-pancakes. The table had been abandoned. Everything was going to waste. Mother hated waste. Besides, it would be nice to bring something back for Tomoe and Shusaku. Being considerate, Father called it.
Just as he was tying up his booty, Moto heard his father’s voice.
“Moto, have you been behaving yourself? Where is Sgt. Akimota?”
“The sergeant went to the rest room. He hasn’t returned yet. I have not been admonished for my actions, sir.” Moto tried to keep his impromptu linen bag inconspicuous.
Sousuke rubbed his son’s head affectionately. “I’m not going to confiscate your snacks, Moto. You were being considerate for your sister and brother, were you not?” He tried not to smile.
“Naturally, father. You have trained me very well. Despite what Mother says!”
Sousuke allowed himself a grin. “Yes. I see. I hope you are not thinking of going into politics, son. You would probably have a talent for diplomacy.”
“Father!” Moto was scandalized, until he realized his father was joking. His mother and father did not care much for politicians and diplomats, and the feelings had trickled down to the children.
“It’s time to be serious for a minute, Moto.” Sousuke squatted down, bringing his face on a level closer to that of his boy’s. “I’m not entirely comfortable with the number of strangers on the base today, even though there may be a valid reason for it. You remember my lectures on hiding in plain sight and capitalizing on opportunities, and how that pertains to covert enemy operations?”
“Yes, Father. This is common sense, not something like Mother’s woman’s intuition? We can speak of it again if things do not go as you expect? There are logical reasons?” Moto wondered why no one spoke of man’s intuition. He knew better than to ask his mother that.
“In case I give you the Danger signal, or you discover a desperate situation on your own, I want you to hide in the Halberd. There will be risks with that plan, and duties. Tell me your thoughts on both.” Sousuke wanted to judge his son’s reasoning ability.
“A question first, Father. If I may.”
“Go ahead.” Sousuke was curious what his son’s agile mind had grabbed on to this time.
“Father, didn’t you say they were going to rename the Halberd the Halisen?”
“Oh.” Sousuke’s eyes went big for a moment, his surprise noted by his son. Moto smiled. He liked to see his father surprised. “That was just a joke.”
“Really?” Moto smiled. “If I hide in the Arm Slave, Father…I’m supposed to call Mithril?”
“Yes. Very good. The red button near the transmitter. A voice should respond after a connection is made. The person on the other end will be qualified to ask you questions and to take your report.” Sousuke patted his son on the shoulder.
“Defensive systems, with call signal shut-down?” He remembered viewing a brief tutorial on the automatic capabilities of the machine.
“Yes. The red light below the optical array will flash, warning any friendly personal to steer clear. You will not disengage, no matter who you think might be in danger.”
“OK, Father. Anyone could be a spy? Except for you and me?”
“That is correct. What is the greatest danger you face, and the one reason I almost hesitate following this course of action?” Sousuke’s face was very grim. He couldn’t help himself. The heart of the HBD-5 would be one of the safest places in the course of an emergency. But, if an enemy force were to succeed in hijacking the Arm Slave….
“Father. If the Halberd is the object of an enemy mission, then I would be trapped if they succeed.”
“Yes. Worse, if they were to escape with the machine, then Mithril might take actions to destroy the technology if recapture seemed too risky or unlikely. There is only so much the automated defense system can accomplish. Did you see the Eject lever in one of the instructional segments that the A.I. Showed you?” If not, Sousuke would need to describe the cabin layout for his son.
“I did, Father. Pulling it halfway back releases it after ten seconds. Pulling it all of the way back activates rockets and a chute. I understand.” Best not to try the latter indoors or in a truck or ship.
Moto’s thoughts went a couple of steps forward. If the automatic systems proved ineffective, the option for active defense---and offensive actions---existed. He knew better than to make his thoughts known to his father.
“Very good. Let’s hope it never comes to that. I feel comfortable covering all possible situations. If you think you have enough snacks, let‘s move back towards the hangar.”
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It was too simple.
MUCH too simple.
And, with no blood, there was no thrill.
The imposter made use of the fire drill, watching as the real guards and maintenance people in this corner of the complex scurried to man their positions or make an orderly withdrawl. Higher ranking officials shepherded guests. That’s it, folks. Walk down that narrow hallway like bulls led to the slaughterhouse. Sweet dreams, all.
He was running out of darts. But, he was also running out of targets. For the umpteenth time he cursed the luck of the draw. The fun stuff was outside. The strike on the armed Mithril personnel. That would be a challenge---and, in certain circumstances, deadly force had been OK’d.
His fellow operatives often commented on his keen senses. It was a joke amongst them. They’d ring a bell and see if he’d drool. They’d bought him a scratching post. They’d hung a stuffed bat in his locker. No doubt they were all jealous. Those senses served him well.
A sound. Someone moving quietly. Very quietly. Someone skilled. A desk fan was blowing in his direction. Two odors? Likely two individuals. The smell of food. His stomach growled. That was a sound he did not want to hear---did not want someone else to pick up.
There was certainly a thrill now.
Keeping low, he removed his shoes and duck-walked over to a recess between two counter tops. His eyesight growing accustomed to the dark, he should have an advantage over anyone stepping into the better lit areas of the office he had hidden in. He watched a near invisible string he had strung across the poorly visible doorway. It moved ever so slightly. Someone was crawling into the room.
He reached inside his dress uniform for a small re-breather and a flat gas grenade taped to his abdomen. That would be a good way to take down his cautious adversary.
There was no time.
Maybe he didn’t want too much excitement after all.
A form rushed into his field of vision quickly, pistol out and firing. Shots hit the wall behind him, at a point his head had been occupying before he instinctively dropped to the floor. Shit!!! How? There must have been some subtle set-up he had missed in his quick perusal. This was no ordinary soldier.
He tugged hard. The adhesive tape tore loose a handfull of hairs as he readied the grenade. He threw the device towards the likely area his opponent’s roll had carried him to. He cursed as the weapon was shot out of the air, no longer functional. I’m going to save one dart for the bastard who excluded the use of deadly force. Hell, if it was a matter of survival, who could blame him? If only he had pocketed a pistol---he had seen plenty of them out in the open, hanging in holsters or in obvious weapons lockers.
A cloud of thick white particles filled the air. The discharge of a large fire extinguisher! Smokescreen. This could be to his advantage as well as his detriment. Quickly, he ran through a number of options. He decided to leap over the two closely situated desks, making a run for the door. He would seek a setting of his choosing before moving onward.
His jump had been silent. Still, two shots grazed him while he was airborne. As he neared the door, he was caught by surprise. The second person was a child. Landing, he refrained from firing, intent on knocking the boy aside, making his getaway. He was caught by surprise a second time.
The boy swung a cloth bag towards him, letting it open and discharge its contents. Pelted by a plethora of foodstuffs, the man felt his leg swept out from under him by a deft martial arts move. The damn child was an burgeoning adept!. Falling on his back, he knew he was finished.
“Stand up, hands on your head.” The voice behind him was an adult. No wavering. No fear. The sound of impending death, if any wrong move was made. A look at the boy’s face killed his idea of grabbing him as a hostage. The boy stepped back, but did not retreat. His eye movements were no doubt a signal to the unseen gunman.
There was another sound. Another set of footsteps. Then, the sound of a compressed air gun just as the gunman’s pistol fired at the new target.
“Excellent work as always, Major Sagara” a wheezy masculine voice said after the Thump of a falling body was heard. “A shame we are not on the same side any more.”
The imposter turned to see a high ranking base official holding a dart gun similar to his own. “You did well just to survive. Let’s get back to work. There’s no time to delay.” The officer spoke with the tone of voice of a man accustomed to giving orders. “The boy!”
The child had turned and run. The officer had fired and missed. The imposter quickly brought his gun to bear, but held his shot. He was running low on darts. Besides, what harm could a young child do?
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Moto ran.
He ran like a rabbit chased by hounds. He ran like his life depended on it.
The base, which no more than an hour ago had been a panoply of sights and sounds, was strangely quiet. The young boy rightly supposed that anyone he say that was awake, alive, unbound, or acting on their own cognition, was the enemy. The word simultaneously filled him with excitement and with terror. Enemy. Father had talked about having this enemy or that, many times. Now he, Miyamoto Sagara, had an enemy of his very own.
He was anxious. What had happened to his father? Was he alive, but unconscious….a prisoner? Or, had he been killed, a victim of this evil plot that cared nothing of young boys and their families? Father gave me an order. I MUST follow it. I will get to the Arm Slave. I will do my duty.
The lessons his father had taught him from an early age paid off. So did the viewing of the countless movies and television shows. He was wise enough to know that cliches that worked on film mighty not work in real life. But, he was clever enough to know that real life could mimic art. The knowing was important, for certain. Deciding what to do with one knows was just as important.
Moto stood staring at the large grill that led to the ventilation system. He would chance it, realizing that one wrong move might cause a noise that gave him away, or might knock loose some dust or plaster that was just as damning. On his hands and knees, or flat on his belly, he made his way from room to room until he ended up at another grill, one overlooking the hangar area.
He saw what there was to see. Men dragged unconscious bodies out of the way, securing them with rope or wire. A large tractor was situated in front of the Halberd, with a number of men running large cables between the two machines. Six M8 Arm Slaves, their hatches opened, were being prepped for duty.
“Hey, get those damned things ready. Those of us with piloting skills need to be out on the tarmac, not sitting on our duffs swilling coffee and stuffing our faces. If the fine folks at Mithril land some troops and those frickin’ metal lumps aren’t ready to go, the blame will be on your shoulders. Move it people!” A man in an A.S. suit held a steaming cup of coffee. Similarly clad men and women lounged on rows of folding metal chairs or sat eating from plates piled high with food.
Some of the men working as support personnel gave the A.S. pilot the finger. He couldn’t see, but Moto could. The man with the messy hair and dark glasses, sitting at a radio console, was also in his field of vision. He was speaking in Russian, but Moto could understand a fair amount of what was being said. An Mi-26 Halo helicopter had taken off out of the well of a modified Super Tanker and was enroute to the base. It would be escorted by a number of VTOL fighters of a designation he was unfamiliar with. Operatives placed in commercial and military air traffic control jobs would make certain no word of their presence would make its way to suspicious ears.
Moto had read about modern Russian helicopters. The Mi-26 was one of the largest copters in the word, well able to carry a single Halberd. He had no doubt what the enemy’s plan was.
Moto looked about the room as best he could from his vantage point. There was a vent ten yards from the HBD-5. If he could find the right turnoff, he should be able to make it there---if the vents were all on the same system. Crawling in the dark, he had an idea what a mole must feel like. He found his way to the viewpoint he wanted.
“Man, I can’t wait to get the bonus check from this mission.” A slovenly overweight main in stained overalls worked with a large wrench in one hand and a haphazard overstacked sandwhich in the other. “SHIT!!!” Most of the meat and cheese shot out in different directions, landing on the cement floor. The man rebuilt his sandwhich any way. “Those big shots at Mithril ain’t so big, are they. Those Jap toy soldiers ain’t nothing, either.” He walked over and kicked an unconscious man hard in the head. “This motherf@cker gave me a hard time ever since I got here. He doesn’t look so tough anymore. They was all too stupid to know I was workin' for someone else.”
“More elbow grease and less talk, or else I might kick your fat head, then you wouldn't be working for anyone. I don’t want to be the last one lining up to get on the damn heli when it gets here. With my luck, there will be one seat too few.” A thin man with a greasy goatee finished checking on the hydraulic system of an X-8. “It’ll probably be your f@cking fault---you take up at least three seats. I’m going to suggest we hand your sorry ass OUTSIDE the thing.” Finishing his work, he gave the lounging pilots a 'thumbs up' sign.
The helicopter is critical. Moto added another reason to stop that bird if he could. The scenarios played across the darkened screen in his mind. If he could get into the Arm Slave unseen, and was able to lay low, he could use the mechanical arms of the machine to tear large holes in the Mi-26. That would ground the copter and strand the enemy forces. It would also put him in the middle of a lot of angry men. Similarly, he could wait until he was near the copter to activate the automatic defense system, ordering the A.I. To lay down a circumferential ring of fire from its weapons---if they were still loaded after the demonstration. The auto-destruct device might prove useful, if overly melodramatic. It might be hard to set it…get out of harm’s way…and then hope that no one figured out what was going on in time to shut things down.
Of course, he COULD simply go out with all guns blazing, taking out the Mi-26 with the Halberd’s teeth and claws, so to speak. Of course, he was just a kid, and that scene was straight out of his daydreams. He’d probably trip, shoot himself in the foot, or park the damn thing for them under the helicopter by accident!
What was an eight year old supposed to be able to accomplish? True, he wasn’t just any young boy---but, the task ahead of him was daunting. He was scared. Uncertain.
First, you should always decide what you want to do his mother had told him on many occasions. Then, you should figure out the best way to get it done. All of that is useless, if you aren’t willing to get the task done. She was right.
He nodded his head. Wiping a tear from his eye, he remembered something Tomoe was apt to say and Shusaku would ape. Do it. Just do it. I bet I could. If he could pull this off, it would be quite a coup! Tomoe couldn’t even dream about doing any of this.
There were men throughout the hangar, but only one man stood near the HBD-5, a tow cable in his hand. For a moment, Moto visualized him as a goalkeeper. The men nearest to that man were the fullbacks. This was just like the soccer games his squad had played in against teams of older boys. He had been slightly intimidated at first. Those boys had been bigger and stronger. But, they had NOT been faster or more skilled. He was able to score in those games. He could score here, now.
He could do this.
If he could get his legs moving again.
5.….6.….4.…..3.….4.….7
5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
He had to remember those numbers. He wished he had a pen, so he could write them down on his hand.
5.….6.….4.….4.…no…..3.…4.….7
5.….6.….4.….4.….COME ON MOTO!!!. He couldn’t let his excitement cause him to fixate on that simple mistake. What would Father think?
5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
He needed to get those on the keypad before anyone could stop him. He then needed to get inside and secure the hatch before anyone could ruin his plan.
*Kick out the grill
*Jump on the stack of crates
*Slide to the floor
*Run up to the HBD-5
*Punch in the numbers…..5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
*Climb in the machine and hit the Emergency Close button.
*Make contact with the A.I.
*Place a call to Mithril
Even saying it sounded hard. But, he was going to do his father proud. He held his breath and kicked with all of his strength.
Nothing happened.
Frightened, he looked around the room. Fortunately, the noise level was such that his banging on the grill hadn’t been heard, or didn’t seem out of place.
Closing his eyes, he kicked again. And again. And again.
The grill broke free, then hung down into space. He couldn’t stop his last kick. The metal panel broke free, bounced off the crates, and hit the large man’s hand, making him drop his sandwhich into a pail of grease.
“Damn it all to Hell! Where the f@ck did this thing….?” The man looked up. His eyes widened. “A kid. What is a kid doing up there?”
That was Moto’s cue.
Sliding out from his perch, he landed hard on the pile of crates below. Hitting on the edge of one, he had to windmill his arms dramatically to keep his balance. The crate tilted, ready to slide off its spot. Jumping to another box, Moto sent the crate falling.
Just then turning to see what his large companion had been babbling about, the thinner man had no time to yell as the huge container of spare parts hit him square in the face, slamming him to the ground.
Tomoe would have loved that. Moto jumped from box to box like a squirrel going from branch to branch. The best route down would take him uncomfortably close to the angry man holding a small strip of bread crust. He had a rather large wrench in hand.
The mechanic didn’t stop to check on the condition of his companion. The spreading pool of red near one end of the large crate made that moot. He no longer mourned the loss of his light repast. What was done was done. No, his goal was to put at least one good lick on that damn kid, leaping around like he was some kind of frickin’ monkey. He took up a stance like a batter awaiting the next pitch.
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End of pt. 1
The mission in the Crimea had been a success, but presented a tremendous problem for organization. It might have been possible to cover-up Mithril’s involvement in the Wormwood Threat, but the likelihood for success was low, according to the Bureau of Statistics and Probability. Instead, the powers that be saw a silver lining---if Mithril came into the open after averting a global catastrophe of epic proportions, the reaction of the international community should be positive. Especially if the organization laid claim to the laurels it had earned previously during the Scalar Crisis. Sooner or later, Mitril would be uncovered. Such a discovery could very easily be painted in a very poor light---no one likes to be deceived. A deception on such a massive scale---and for such a lengthy period of time---was likely to ruffle a large number of feathers no matter how altruistic Mithril made itself out to be.
The ripples were still being felt across the globe, and many of the responses had been extremely negative. Some of that ill will came at the prompting of less philanthropic shadow groups, none of whom were prepared to work out in the open---and all of whom would greatly benefit by the dissolution of their arch rivals.. Nevertheless, the vast majority of reactions had been positive, or at worst neutral. Mithril’s existence as an independent force was still being argued in the political and legal arenas, with no official resolution expected any year soon. Thanks to the hard work of Minister of Finance Borodenko, Mithril’s coffers would not suffer any shortages in the immediate future. If anything, investors were appearing in increasingly greater numbers. Likewise, nations were quick to offer their backing. Some merely hoped to share in whatever Black Technology was still exclusive to Mithril. Most, however, were rather concerned about the United State’s rather close relationship with the once secret mercenary force.
The nation of Japan was no exception. Unbeknownst to many, it had its own connection to Mithril. Once the organization made itself known, the government rushed to cement a more official relationship. In essence, that was the reason that Sousuke was at the JSDF base on one of his vacation days.
An HBD-5 Arm Slave had been delivered late Sunday night, supposedly under a shroud of secrecy. A small contingency of Mithril troops were on guard, supplanting the sovereign soldiers. The Halberd was the hot topic of discussion between the military and political leaders of Japan---the officials were poised to make a very lucrative offer to Mithril, should the mecha be as capable as stories made it out to be. Major Sagara would be handling the HBD-5 during the validation demonstrations.
A member of the JSDF, Sousuke could very well have been ordered to run the exhibition. Still contracting out to Mithril, he could have been coerced from yet another direction. Instead, he volunteered---he did not make his reasons known, however. It would be the day after Moto’s eighth birthday, and he had promised his son the chance to sit in an Arm Slave. The X8 was a fine machine, and would have sufficed. The Halberd, however, held a special place in his son’s heart. It was one of the mechas that had kept his father safe during his combat missions. He had a picture of one on his wall, next to a painting of Arbalest and a classified photograph of the Aegis.
When the day arrived, the military base was a veritable hornet’s nest of activity. Ceremonies preceded and followed the actual showing. The HBD-5 had turned out to be everything it had been touted to be---everything and more. The Lambda Driver capabilities especially had been quite an eye opener. Crowds seemed intent to linger forever, necessitating forceful escort off the premises for many eager observers. The security forces began to rest easy when they heard that a Mithril transport helicopter had launched from the TDD-2.
It had been the grandest of days for Moto. First, he got to go with Father, not Tomoe or two year old Shusaku. Second, without having Mother there to birdseye him, he had made quite free with the refreshments. On a number of occasions, his father had told him it was impolite to carry two or three cups of punch at a time, or to stuff his pockets full of finger sandwiches and small pastries. Third, he had been given the wondrous opportunity to sit through fanciful ceremonies, with brass bands, an over flight by fighter jets, speeches, and a testimonial to his father’s skills. The ceremonies bracketed the A.S. demonstration, the very substance of a young boy’s dreams. Fourth, and best of all, he had seen the HBD-5 up close and personal. Personal was a rather apropos term---the A.I. Had shocked everyone, except Moto, by turning itself on and interfacing with the boy. Sousuke, aware of his son’s Whispered talents, was both proud and concerned. Mostly the latter. The number of people who could interact with the Halberds was steadily growing, but anyone capable of activating the highly advanced A.I.s was a valuable commodity---to official forces and secret groups alike.
Sousuke hoped that a large bullseye hadn’t been figuratively painted on his firstborn’s back. That would be danger enough. In addition, when she found out---and she ALWAYS finds out---Kaname would have his hide.
He had let Moto sit in the Arm Slave, after his son promised not to touch anything. Moto had kept his word---at least physically. Before his father had any idea what had occurred, Moto had initiated some form of contact with the A.I., prompting the machine to show him a number of teaching programs. Start-Up Procedures. Simple. Calibration steps and Systems Initialization. Child’s play. Mobility and Mechanical Manipulation. Not very much of a challenge. Weapons Systems and Combat functions. Peace of cake. Lambda Driver and related capabilities. Challenging, but not overly so.
Moto could operate the Halberd. At least in theory.
No one would have guessed that such a talent would prove crucial.
************************************************************
He could not be identified, even if he were captured. The imposter was quite certain of that. The urge to smile, to flaunt his hidden knowledge, was annoyingly strong---there was no need to prance or tease, as the fools would learn of their mistakes soon enough. A significant demonstration, especially one of this nature, is very diffult to keep secret, especially if paid ears were everywhere. Furthermore, large crowds of dignitaries and officials---ones from different organizations that had little contact with one another, if any at all---provided all sorts of opportunities to those who were gifted in espionage and subterfuge.
His mission was straightforward, but not simple. There were other doppelgangers there with him, each having an important task to perform. They were accompanied by a number of operatives with false identities, men who had spent months to years working at those agencies that were once felt likely to be of significant value in the future. Their group’s planning had been prophetic, bordering on precognitive. This mission’s planning had been precise, taking every possible contingency into consideration. The fruits of their labor would be more than worth the effort.
Sharing a joke with a real military attache, he laughed longer and harder than the humor called for. The poor sap was looking at him with a concerned eye. He simply didn’t know the real joke. The HBD-5 would be stolen right out from under the watchful nose of the JSDF and Mithril. It would be taken to a heavily defended location and disassembled. After enough data was collected to allow for reverse engineering, the actual parts themselves would be auctioned off at exorbitant prices. No items would remain after the event. Not too long after that, the jewels of Black Technology would be available to anyone with enough money. Official clearence, pledges of accountability, ethics, and scruples would no longer matter.
The vest inside his expensive suit was filled with a large number of tranquilizer darts, each having no metallic parts. Like a cliché from good and bad spy movies alike, his official briefcase contained items that could be locked together to form a projectile weapon. He could assemble the tools of his trade in total darkness if need be. His proficiency with the weapons was phenomenal. After all, that was why he had been selected.
The parameters of the mission were not his to select, or to question. If they were, he would be using weapons that killed, not ones that simply disabled. He failed to see the logic involved. They were going to steal a very sensitive piece of equipment. The men responsible for that technology---and the profits they stood to gain from it---would put all of their resources behind its recovery. Would they really go to greater lengths, or use more severe methods, if the innocents were killed instead of incapacitated? Would they really be slowed down by the need to consider some of the survivors to be possible moles and inside men? Would they be fooled even for a minute by some of the planted evidence? Ah well. It’s not mine to question why. It’s mine to do or die.
He checked his watch. It was time to begin.
************************************************************
Sousuke did not like the circus and sideshow atmosphere that had accompanied the exhibition. He knew the reasons, but this was serious business, not a used car lot. In addition, he was very uncomfortable with the number of strangers still milling around the base. Security concerns did not go down just because someone decided to turn things into a festive occasion. The opposite was invariably true.
He stopped a moment, to consider if he was simply being paranoid, or if he was overly concerned because Moto was on the grounds. No, security measures were always lax in his opinion---despite the fact that he had raised concerns on numerous occasions. The systems and human measures were geared towards non-military personnel and conventional disturbances---they would prove little impediment to determined professionals. The Mithril professionals were experienced, but were spread somewhat thin given the enormity of the proceedings.
”Who is going to steel a twelve ton Arm Slave?” was the response he got to his complaints. His standard answer of ”Do you have the clearence level, and do you have the time to read the list?” did not win him any converts. ”Major Sagara, you of all people should know that Mithril is out in the open now. The days of cloaks and daggers are over.” No one ever wanted to hear about the other organizations, the ones that were STILL working in the shadows.
Making a point to seem busy with inconsequential matters, he kept an eye on the Halberd as he moved a number of supplies from point A to point B to point C and back to point A again. Too many nonessential personnel and guests hanging about. This looks like a good time for a drill. There will be no reason for all of those people to return when the drill is over. He walked over to a control box on the wall and punched in his I.D. code. Throwing a switch, he triggered a fire drill. He didn’t care if any of his superiors took exception at his timing.
Now, to find Moto and keep him close. Punching a restricted number into his cellular phone, he called the Mithril dispatcher to find out the E.T.A. for the transport copter.
************************************************************
A Fire Drill? NOW? What was the chance that an automatic protocol was operational, despite the the special arrangements? Low. Someone was suspicious, or at the very least, admirably paranoid. No matter, the operation would begin a bit prematurely.
The covert agent activated his high frequency transmitter, setting off the small subcutaneous devices in his comrades.
Time to make this day TRULY memorable.
************************************************************
Zenzai cakes. Check.
Tried on HAZMAT suit. Check.
Pork Gyo Za. Check.
Got a look at schematics for T-2 and X-10. Check.
Daifuku sweets. Check. And check again.
Drew a picture for Father’s cork board. Check.
Yakitori with Teriyaki sauce. Check.
Crawled under and inside one of the base Armored Cars. Check.
Steamed shrimp dumplings. Working on it.
Moto had a large linen napkin unfolded on the table top. He was busy stuffing it with dumplings and filled-pancakes. The table had been abandoned. Everything was going to waste. Mother hated waste. Besides, it would be nice to bring something back for Tomoe and Shusaku. Being considerate, Father called it.
Just as he was tying up his booty, Moto heard his father’s voice.
“Moto, have you been behaving yourself? Where is Sgt. Akimota?”
“The sergeant went to the rest room. He hasn’t returned yet. I have not been admonished for my actions, sir.” Moto tried to keep his impromptu linen bag inconspicuous.
Sousuke rubbed his son’s head affectionately. “I’m not going to confiscate your snacks, Moto. You were being considerate for your sister and brother, were you not?” He tried not to smile.
“Naturally, father. You have trained me very well. Despite what Mother says!”
Sousuke allowed himself a grin. “Yes. I see. I hope you are not thinking of going into politics, son. You would probably have a talent for diplomacy.”
“Father!” Moto was scandalized, until he realized his father was joking. His mother and father did not care much for politicians and diplomats, and the feelings had trickled down to the children.
“It’s time to be serious for a minute, Moto.” Sousuke squatted down, bringing his face on a level closer to that of his boy’s. “I’m not entirely comfortable with the number of strangers on the base today, even though there may be a valid reason for it. You remember my lectures on hiding in plain sight and capitalizing on opportunities, and how that pertains to covert enemy operations?”
“Yes, Father. This is common sense, not something like Mother’s woman’s intuition? We can speak of it again if things do not go as you expect? There are logical reasons?” Moto wondered why no one spoke of man’s intuition. He knew better than to ask his mother that.
“In case I give you the Danger signal, or you discover a desperate situation on your own, I want you to hide in the Halberd. There will be risks with that plan, and duties. Tell me your thoughts on both.” Sousuke wanted to judge his son’s reasoning ability.
“A question first, Father. If I may.”
“Go ahead.” Sousuke was curious what his son’s agile mind had grabbed on to this time.
“Father, didn’t you say they were going to rename the Halberd the Halisen?”
“Oh.” Sousuke’s eyes went big for a moment, his surprise noted by his son. Moto smiled. He liked to see his father surprised. “That was just a joke.”
“Really?” Moto smiled. “If I hide in the Arm Slave, Father…I’m supposed to call Mithril?”
“Yes. Very good. The red button near the transmitter. A voice should respond after a connection is made. The person on the other end will be qualified to ask you questions and to take your report.” Sousuke patted his son on the shoulder.
“Defensive systems, with call signal shut-down?” He remembered viewing a brief tutorial on the automatic capabilities of the machine.
“Yes. The red light below the optical array will flash, warning any friendly personal to steer clear. You will not disengage, no matter who you think might be in danger.”
“OK, Father. Anyone could be a spy? Except for you and me?”
“That is correct. What is the greatest danger you face, and the one reason I almost hesitate following this course of action?” Sousuke’s face was very grim. He couldn’t help himself. The heart of the HBD-5 would be one of the safest places in the course of an emergency. But, if an enemy force were to succeed in hijacking the Arm Slave….
“Father. If the Halberd is the object of an enemy mission, then I would be trapped if they succeed.”
“Yes. Worse, if they were to escape with the machine, then Mithril might take actions to destroy the technology if recapture seemed too risky or unlikely. There is only so much the automated defense system can accomplish. Did you see the Eject lever in one of the instructional segments that the A.I. Showed you?” If not, Sousuke would need to describe the cabin layout for his son.
“I did, Father. Pulling it halfway back releases it after ten seconds. Pulling it all of the way back activates rockets and a chute. I understand.” Best not to try the latter indoors or in a truck or ship.
Moto’s thoughts went a couple of steps forward. If the automatic systems proved ineffective, the option for active defense---and offensive actions---existed. He knew better than to make his thoughts known to his father.
“Very good. Let’s hope it never comes to that. I feel comfortable covering all possible situations. If you think you have enough snacks, let‘s move back towards the hangar.”
************************************************************
It was too simple.
MUCH too simple.
And, with no blood, there was no thrill.
The imposter made use of the fire drill, watching as the real guards and maintenance people in this corner of the complex scurried to man their positions or make an orderly withdrawl. Higher ranking officials shepherded guests. That’s it, folks. Walk down that narrow hallway like bulls led to the slaughterhouse. Sweet dreams, all.
He was running out of darts. But, he was also running out of targets. For the umpteenth time he cursed the luck of the draw. The fun stuff was outside. The strike on the armed Mithril personnel. That would be a challenge---and, in certain circumstances, deadly force had been OK’d.
His fellow operatives often commented on his keen senses. It was a joke amongst them. They’d ring a bell and see if he’d drool. They’d bought him a scratching post. They’d hung a stuffed bat in his locker. No doubt they were all jealous. Those senses served him well.
A sound. Someone moving quietly. Very quietly. Someone skilled. A desk fan was blowing in his direction. Two odors? Likely two individuals. The smell of food. His stomach growled. That was a sound he did not want to hear---did not want someone else to pick up.
There was certainly a thrill now.
Keeping low, he removed his shoes and duck-walked over to a recess between two counter tops. His eyesight growing accustomed to the dark, he should have an advantage over anyone stepping into the better lit areas of the office he had hidden in. He watched a near invisible string he had strung across the poorly visible doorway. It moved ever so slightly. Someone was crawling into the room.
He reached inside his dress uniform for a small re-breather and a flat gas grenade taped to his abdomen. That would be a good way to take down his cautious adversary.
There was no time.
Maybe he didn’t want too much excitement after all.
A form rushed into his field of vision quickly, pistol out and firing. Shots hit the wall behind him, at a point his head had been occupying before he instinctively dropped to the floor. Shit!!! How? There must have been some subtle set-up he had missed in his quick perusal. This was no ordinary soldier.
He tugged hard. The adhesive tape tore loose a handfull of hairs as he readied the grenade. He threw the device towards the likely area his opponent’s roll had carried him to. He cursed as the weapon was shot out of the air, no longer functional. I’m going to save one dart for the bastard who excluded the use of deadly force. Hell, if it was a matter of survival, who could blame him? If only he had pocketed a pistol---he had seen plenty of them out in the open, hanging in holsters or in obvious weapons lockers.
A cloud of thick white particles filled the air. The discharge of a large fire extinguisher! Smokescreen. This could be to his advantage as well as his detriment. Quickly, he ran through a number of options. He decided to leap over the two closely situated desks, making a run for the door. He would seek a setting of his choosing before moving onward.
His jump had been silent. Still, two shots grazed him while he was airborne. As he neared the door, he was caught by surprise. The second person was a child. Landing, he refrained from firing, intent on knocking the boy aside, making his getaway. He was caught by surprise a second time.
The boy swung a cloth bag towards him, letting it open and discharge its contents. Pelted by a plethora of foodstuffs, the man felt his leg swept out from under him by a deft martial arts move. The damn child was an burgeoning adept!. Falling on his back, he knew he was finished.
“Stand up, hands on your head.” The voice behind him was an adult. No wavering. No fear. The sound of impending death, if any wrong move was made. A look at the boy’s face killed his idea of grabbing him as a hostage. The boy stepped back, but did not retreat. His eye movements were no doubt a signal to the unseen gunman.
There was another sound. Another set of footsteps. Then, the sound of a compressed air gun just as the gunman’s pistol fired at the new target.
“Excellent work as always, Major Sagara” a wheezy masculine voice said after the Thump of a falling body was heard. “A shame we are not on the same side any more.”
The imposter turned to see a high ranking base official holding a dart gun similar to his own. “You did well just to survive. Let’s get back to work. There’s no time to delay.” The officer spoke with the tone of voice of a man accustomed to giving orders. “The boy!”
The child had turned and run. The officer had fired and missed. The imposter quickly brought his gun to bear, but held his shot. He was running low on darts. Besides, what harm could a young child do?
************************************************************
Moto ran.
He ran like a rabbit chased by hounds. He ran like his life depended on it.
The base, which no more than an hour ago had been a panoply of sights and sounds, was strangely quiet. The young boy rightly supposed that anyone he say that was awake, alive, unbound, or acting on their own cognition, was the enemy. The word simultaneously filled him with excitement and with terror. Enemy. Father had talked about having this enemy or that, many times. Now he, Miyamoto Sagara, had an enemy of his very own.
He was anxious. What had happened to his father? Was he alive, but unconscious….a prisoner? Or, had he been killed, a victim of this evil plot that cared nothing of young boys and their families? Father gave me an order. I MUST follow it. I will get to the Arm Slave. I will do my duty.
The lessons his father had taught him from an early age paid off. So did the viewing of the countless movies and television shows. He was wise enough to know that cliches that worked on film mighty not work in real life. But, he was clever enough to know that real life could mimic art. The knowing was important, for certain. Deciding what to do with one knows was just as important.
Moto stood staring at the large grill that led to the ventilation system. He would chance it, realizing that one wrong move might cause a noise that gave him away, or might knock loose some dust or plaster that was just as damning. On his hands and knees, or flat on his belly, he made his way from room to room until he ended up at another grill, one overlooking the hangar area.
He saw what there was to see. Men dragged unconscious bodies out of the way, securing them with rope or wire. A large tractor was situated in front of the Halberd, with a number of men running large cables between the two machines. Six M8 Arm Slaves, their hatches opened, were being prepped for duty.
“Hey, get those damned things ready. Those of us with piloting skills need to be out on the tarmac, not sitting on our duffs swilling coffee and stuffing our faces. If the fine folks at Mithril land some troops and those frickin’ metal lumps aren’t ready to go, the blame will be on your shoulders. Move it people!” A man in an A.S. suit held a steaming cup of coffee. Similarly clad men and women lounged on rows of folding metal chairs or sat eating from plates piled high with food.
Some of the men working as support personnel gave the A.S. pilot the finger. He couldn’t see, but Moto could. The man with the messy hair and dark glasses, sitting at a radio console, was also in his field of vision. He was speaking in Russian, but Moto could understand a fair amount of what was being said. An Mi-26 Halo helicopter had taken off out of the well of a modified Super Tanker and was enroute to the base. It would be escorted by a number of VTOL fighters of a designation he was unfamiliar with. Operatives placed in commercial and military air traffic control jobs would make certain no word of their presence would make its way to suspicious ears.
Moto had read about modern Russian helicopters. The Mi-26 was one of the largest copters in the word, well able to carry a single Halberd. He had no doubt what the enemy’s plan was.
Moto looked about the room as best he could from his vantage point. There was a vent ten yards from the HBD-5. If he could find the right turnoff, he should be able to make it there---if the vents were all on the same system. Crawling in the dark, he had an idea what a mole must feel like. He found his way to the viewpoint he wanted.
“Man, I can’t wait to get the bonus check from this mission.” A slovenly overweight main in stained overalls worked with a large wrench in one hand and a haphazard overstacked sandwhich in the other. “SHIT!!!” Most of the meat and cheese shot out in different directions, landing on the cement floor. The man rebuilt his sandwhich any way. “Those big shots at Mithril ain’t so big, are they. Those Jap toy soldiers ain’t nothing, either.” He walked over and kicked an unconscious man hard in the head. “This motherf@cker gave me a hard time ever since I got here. He doesn’t look so tough anymore. They was all too stupid to know I was workin' for someone else.”
“More elbow grease and less talk, or else I might kick your fat head, then you wouldn't be working for anyone. I don’t want to be the last one lining up to get on the damn heli when it gets here. With my luck, there will be one seat too few.” A thin man with a greasy goatee finished checking on the hydraulic system of an X-8. “It’ll probably be your f@cking fault---you take up at least three seats. I’m going to suggest we hand your sorry ass OUTSIDE the thing.” Finishing his work, he gave the lounging pilots a 'thumbs up' sign.
The helicopter is critical. Moto added another reason to stop that bird if he could. The scenarios played across the darkened screen in his mind. If he could get into the Arm Slave unseen, and was able to lay low, he could use the mechanical arms of the machine to tear large holes in the Mi-26. That would ground the copter and strand the enemy forces. It would also put him in the middle of a lot of angry men. Similarly, he could wait until he was near the copter to activate the automatic defense system, ordering the A.I. To lay down a circumferential ring of fire from its weapons---if they were still loaded after the demonstration. The auto-destruct device might prove useful, if overly melodramatic. It might be hard to set it…get out of harm’s way…and then hope that no one figured out what was going on in time to shut things down.
Of course, he COULD simply go out with all guns blazing, taking out the Mi-26 with the Halberd’s teeth and claws, so to speak. Of course, he was just a kid, and that scene was straight out of his daydreams. He’d probably trip, shoot himself in the foot, or park the damn thing for them under the helicopter by accident!
What was an eight year old supposed to be able to accomplish? True, he wasn’t just any young boy---but, the task ahead of him was daunting. He was scared. Uncertain.
First, you should always decide what you want to do his mother had told him on many occasions. Then, you should figure out the best way to get it done. All of that is useless, if you aren’t willing to get the task done. She was right.
He nodded his head. Wiping a tear from his eye, he remembered something Tomoe was apt to say and Shusaku would ape. Do it. Just do it. I bet I could. If he could pull this off, it would be quite a coup! Tomoe couldn’t even dream about doing any of this.
There were men throughout the hangar, but only one man stood near the HBD-5, a tow cable in his hand. For a moment, Moto visualized him as a goalkeeper. The men nearest to that man were the fullbacks. This was just like the soccer games his squad had played in against teams of older boys. He had been slightly intimidated at first. Those boys had been bigger and stronger. But, they had NOT been faster or more skilled. He was able to score in those games. He could score here, now.
He could do this.
If he could get his legs moving again.
5.….6.….4.…..3.….4.….7
5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
He had to remember those numbers. He wished he had a pen, so he could write them down on his hand.
5.….6.….4.….4.…no…..3.…4.….7
5.….6.….4.….4.….COME ON MOTO!!!. He couldn’t let his excitement cause him to fixate on that simple mistake. What would Father think?
5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
He needed to get those on the keypad before anyone could stop him. He then needed to get inside and secure the hatch before anyone could ruin his plan.
*Kick out the grill
*Jump on the stack of crates
*Slide to the floor
*Run up to the HBD-5
*Punch in the numbers…..5.….6.….4.….3.….4.….7
*Climb in the machine and hit the Emergency Close button.
*Make contact with the A.I.
*Place a call to Mithril
Even saying it sounded hard. But, he was going to do his father proud. He held his breath and kicked with all of his strength.
Nothing happened.
Frightened, he looked around the room. Fortunately, the noise level was such that his banging on the grill hadn’t been heard, or didn’t seem out of place.
Closing his eyes, he kicked again. And again. And again.
The grill broke free, then hung down into space. He couldn’t stop his last kick. The metal panel broke free, bounced off the crates, and hit the large man’s hand, making him drop his sandwhich into a pail of grease.
“Damn it all to Hell! Where the f@ck did this thing….?” The man looked up. His eyes widened. “A kid. What is a kid doing up there?”
That was Moto’s cue.
Sliding out from his perch, he landed hard on the pile of crates below. Hitting on the edge of one, he had to windmill his arms dramatically to keep his balance. The crate tilted, ready to slide off its spot. Jumping to another box, Moto sent the crate falling.
Just then turning to see what his large companion had been babbling about, the thinner man had no time to yell as the huge container of spare parts hit him square in the face, slamming him to the ground.
Tomoe would have loved that. Moto jumped from box to box like a squirrel going from branch to branch. The best route down would take him uncomfortably close to the angry man holding a small strip of bread crust. He had a rather large wrench in hand.
The mechanic didn’t stop to check on the condition of his companion. The spreading pool of red near one end of the large crate made that moot. He no longer mourned the loss of his light repast. What was done was done. No, his goal was to put at least one good lick on that damn kid, leaping around like he was some kind of frickin’ monkey. He took up a stance like a batter awaiting the next pitch.
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End of pt. 1
It's getting late so can't spend too much time
Consider yourself lucky...
