Author's note:
This fic is set in the Patlabor world, in the year 2008, and
in the town of Columbus, Ohio. The characters are all
original, so don't be too disappointed when you don't see
anyone you recognize.
At any rate, if enough people like this fic, I'd like to
release more Patlabor Stateside in episode format, probably
once every two weeks or so. Any and all comments are
welcome--if people are enjoying Patlabor Stateside, I'd love
to hear about it (and if there are any problems, I'd like to
hear about those too). C&C should be sent to Bart Kelsey
(kelsey.14@osu.edu).
Disclaimer: The original Patlabor series was created by
Masami Yuuki. This is a tribute to it, and thus is not
intended to step on his toes or the toes of anyone else
involved in its production. :)
*****
Patlabor Stateside
Episode #1: Your Tax Dollars at Work
by Bart Kelsey
Captain Todd Styles, commander of the newly
commissioned Columbus Police, Mechanized Division, was not a
morning person...and this morning in particular had so far
been worse than most. His stress level over the past few
days had been phenomenal; making arrangements for the
opening of a new police station wasn't exactly an easy task.
And, to make matters worse, in his already-troubled state,
he had neglected to go to the grocery store, and thus was
fresh out of coffee.
Caffeine withdrawal, as his friend Tony Allison so
eloquently put it, was a bitch.
Styles shut the door of his ugly green 2002 Ford Escort
and eyed the building in front of him. He inhaled deeply,
taking in the mildly unpleasant smell of the fresh paint on
the walls of the recently converted warehouse. He rummaged
through his pocket and produced a key chain, then shuffled
sleepily towards the front door. His coat, which he had
unknowingly shut in his car door, jerked him rudely
backwards, causing him to drop the remainder of his bagel,
jam-side-down, on the blacktop.
He opened the door to his Escort and released himself,
and then kicked the errant bagel disdainfully under his car.
/Damned if I'm gonna bother picking that up./
He rubbed his eyes and looked up again, surveying his
new place of employment. The writing, painted on the front
wall in large, modern, black letters, read "Columbus Area
Mobile Police."
"'Morning, sir." Ron Paccini grinned wryly, poking his
head into the captain's office.
"Ron." Styles leaned back in his chair and took
another sip from his much-needed coffee.
"Anywhere in particular you want me to put my bags,
Captain?"
Styles yawned, then used his sleeve to wipe the coffee
out of his graying, neatly trimmed beard. "You got here
first. Pick a room."
"Good `nuff."
Ron Paccini had the unique distinction of being the
only labor pilot on the Columbus police squad before the
formation of the mechanized unit. Although not an
exceptional operator by any means, the sturdy, dark-haired
twenty-something had proven himself steady and reliable in
combat during his four years on the force.
Ron made his way up the stairs, entering the third and
farthest room on the right side of the hallway. Tossing his
bags up onto the top bunk, he was a bit surprised to see
Gabe Larson standing in the doorway behind him.
"Room in here for one more?"
"Sure thing, Gabe."
"Ron...Paccini, right?" Gabe offered a handshake,
which Ron accepted heartily.
"Last time I checked."
"Still pretty green? What the hell's that supposed to
mean?" Styles could make out a loud female voice in the
parking lot.
"No real combat experience. All that simulated crap is
nothing compared to reality. Out on the job, there's the
risk that you'll get yourself killed, which is something you
never get on the sim. All I'm saying is that you could very
well buckle under the pressure. That happens a lot with new
pilots."
A car door slammed shut, followed by another. "Me?
Buckle? I hardly think so. And who the hell are you to
talk about real combat experience? Unless I'm wrong, you're
just a mechanic--the /assistant/ mechanic, at that! You've
probably never driven a labor in your life!"
The volume of the voices increased significantly as the
front door opened. "Yeah? Well I'm not the one going
around acting all high and mighty about how awesome I'm
gonna be in combat!"
"Alright, you little prick! See if I ever give you a
ride to work again!"
"You're just mad `cause you know I'm--"
"Weaver! Morisato!" Styles yelled out into the
hallway as the pair passed his office door.
The two responded in unison. "Yes, sir?"
"Mr. Weaver and Miss Morisato...do me a favor and keep
it down, alright? I'm trying to get some work done in
here."
"Yes, sir," in unison, again.
"Carry on."
Styles set his coffee down on his desk and rubbed his
temples.
The seven of them--four pilots, two mechanics, and a
truck driver--were standing at something that vaguely
resembled attention. They were, for the most part, a young,
ragtag bunch, Larson and Allison being the only ones other
than the captain who were significantly past the age of
thirty.
It wasn't all that surprising, really. After six
consecutive years on the ballot, the Columbus Mobile Police
tax bill had been trimmed and pruned until it was small
enough that the taxpayers could swallow it. Their budget
was thus inadequate at best, which made it difficult to hire
any experienced help.
Todd Styles and Tony Allison had been transferred,
kicking and screaming, from the Columbus Metro Police. Ron
Paccini had also worked on the metro police force, but had
taken the transfer in stride, since operating law-
enforcement labors (or rather, operating a law-enforcement
labor) had already been his job. Gabe Larson, a ten-year
veteran of the NYPD Mech Unit and CAMP's only truly seasoned
labor pilot, had joined of his own volition, because it was
"a pleasant and relaxing alternative to taking a desk job."
The remaining four had been the best of a decidedly mediocre
stream of job applicants.
Styles shook his head quietly and turned his attention
back to the task of inspecting his `troops.'
"Weaver, tuck your shirt in. And from now on, wear
your regulation socks. They were given to you for a
reason." To say that he was subjecting each one of them to
careful scrutiny would have been somewhat inaccurate; he
ignored a host of minor inconsistencies in dress and posture
that would have taken hours to remedy had he cared enough to
take the time.
"Yes, sir." Mitch Weaver managed a sloppy salute with
his left hand as he stuffed his shirttail into his pants
with his right.
Somehow, Captain Styles was able to continue without
rolling his eyes. "I'm going to dispense with the
introductions, because I'm assuming that you all met each
other during orientation last week. Pilots, I'll need you
to suit up and report back here for training exercises in
twenty minutes. The rest of you make sure the labors are
operational."
"Both of them, sir?"
"Yes, Weaver, /both/ of them."
"You want me to pilot that /thing/? I wouldn't even
know where to start!" Jody Morisato glowered contemptuously
at the converted construction labor. The splotches of rust
on the mech's chest plate had been painted over in white,
giving it a strangely mottled appearance.
"What's the matter, Jody? Never seen a Corwin before?"
"Weaver, did I ask you to talk to me?"
"Hey, it was an honest question."
"Yes," said Jody, "I /have/ seen a Corwin...ten years
ago, on a construction site! Do you know how old I was ten
years ago?"
Weaver shrugged.
"Twelve. That damn thing's so outdated it's a wonder
it still works!"
"Miss Morisato," said Styles, "are you going to get
into that mech, or am I going to have to have Weaver put you
in there by force?"
"Captain, could you point out where on that little
paper I signed that it said I'd have to load some whiny b--"
Ron raised his hand. "I'll pilot it."
Styles nodded. "Very well, then. Morisato, you're in
the Apollo."
"Yes, sir." Without further comment, Jody climbed up
the metal ladder and into the cockpit of the other labor.
Although by no means new, the Apollo was much more modern,
and in significantly better shape than its counterpart.
Specifically built for law enforcement, it had a built-in
gun holster and a large fold-out shield on its right arm.
Jody closed the hatch behind her and strapped herself in.
"All systems go."
Beside her, Ron had done the same. The Corwin's engine
whirred as it lumbered slowly out of the bay door and into
the CAMP practice area, an open field a little over an acre
in size. On its way out, it stopped momentarily to pick up
its practice weapon, a thirty-foot padded sparring pole.
The Apollo followed suit, and soon the two of them were
standing at ready out in the plot behind the station.
Captain Styles and the remainder of his troupe of
marginally competent subordinates leaned up against the
outside of the HQ building. "Whenever you're ready," he
spoke into his headset.
The two labors sidestepped slowly, circling each other.
Jody took a quick swing at the Corwin's feet with her
sparring pole, only to have it knocked aside in a surprising
display of agility from the older, smaller mech.
Ron's counterattack was equally ineffective; Jody
blocked the high strike with her shield arm, then moved in
closer, hoping to outdo her opponent with sheer mass.
Her tactic worked. Taking a low swing with her weapon,
she forced the Corwin into an awkward stance, and then
simply charged into it, knocking it over backwards with a
resounding crash.
"You alright in there, Ron?" she said into the radio.
"Yeah, /I/ am, but my labor's not. Right leg's shorted
out from the knee down."
"Damn it all." Styles shook his head. "Well, looks
like that's all the training we'll be doing today. Tony,
would you do me a favor and run in and get that phone?"
The head mechanic nodded and walked in, only to return
about half a minute later. "Todd," he said, "looks like
we've got an assignment. Somebody taking a stolen labor on
a joyride through Upper Arlington."
Styles groaned inwardly. "Jody," he said into the
headset, "report inside and load your labor onto Transport
1, then get out and let Larson take over for you. We just
got a report of a stolen labor in Upper Arlington."
"With all due respect, Captain, I think I can handle
it."
"Alright, then. Carry on."
The metal giant bounded back through the bay doors and
stepped up onto the transport truck. Jody turned the Apollo
so that its back was facing the truck's raised bed, then
locked its hands and feet into position.
Satisfied that she was firmly attached to the
transport, she waited anxiously as the driver, a small,
quiet man named Tom Harris, climbed into the truck. "I'm
ready whenever you are."
"Ok, Apollo, lowering the bed now."
Tilting over backwards was an unpleasant sensation,
and, although she would never have admitted it to anyone, it
actually made her feel slightly sick. With the labor flat
on its back, the bed latched into place, and the truck
pulled out of the station, sirens wailing.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew had taken seats in the
break room, their eyes fixed anxiously on the television.
"/We now return you to this TV 4 News Special Report./"
"/Good afternoon, this is Adam Douglas reporting live
over Upper Arlington from the TV 4 Helicopter./" A rather
shaky camera shot zoomed in on a mid-sized blue labor
running down a suburban street. The word "LIVE" flashed in
the top left corner of the screen.
"/The labor on the screen has been identified as a
stolen Multicorp SL Series 2 construction labor. The pilot
and his or her intentions are as yet unknown./"
"This should be interesting." Weaver took a large,
open bag of potato chips from his lunch box and started
crunching.
The camera swung to the right, settling on a truck that
was approaching the area from downtown.
"/It's surprising that a crisis of this nature would
happen today, considering that it's the first day the Mobile
Police force is on active duty. After the bill only passed
by a slim margin, this is an excellent opportunity for the
new department to prove itself./"
The transport truck came to a stop, raising the bed
slowly and releasing Jody's labor. The Apollo immediately
climbed down and broke into a sprint, the impact of its feet
leaving a trail of behemoth-sized indentations in the road.
Ron took a sip from his soda. "Looks like she's
pushing it a little hard."
"Yeah, no kidding." Weaver bit into another chip.
"Who's gonna pay to fix the street?"
Styles picked up the intercom. "Morisato, slow it down
a little. The taxpayers aren't going to be too happy if
they end up having to resurface a road because of a police
mech."
"Yes, sir!" The Apollo, still in view of the
television camera, dug its heel sharply into the ground,
bringing itself to an abrupt halt, and leaving a hole in the
road that would put most bomb craters to shame. Styles
winced.
The Apollo, now in view of the runaway labor, drew its
massive firearm.
"Dammit, Morisato, put that gun away /now/! Do /not/
fire! I repeat, do /not/ fire!"
"Don't worry, sir, it's not loaded. I'm just trying to
scare him." Jody's next words on the intercom were echoed
faintly from the television. "Police! Power down your
labor and come out with your hands above your head!"
The fleeing construction labor looked back over its
shoulder and made something that technically wasn't a lewd
gesture, because it only had three fingers.
Jody, apparently forgetting her orders, once again
brought the Apollo to an all-out sprint, and in doing so,
squeezed the trigger of the supposedly empty gun.
It wasn't empty.
With a sound not unlike that of a thunderclap, the
pistol fired, releasing its projectile directly into the
rear of what would later be identified as a parked 2007
Porsche 911. The car exploded instantly, and the bullet,
not yet satisfied, bounced up off of the car and careened
into a nearby telephone pole, breaking it evenly in two.
Apparently overcome by surprise, Jody lost control of
her sprinting mech, sending it tumbling unceremoniously onto
the street, crushing three more parked cars and finally
coming to rest up against the side of a rather opulent-
looking house. The stolen labor came to a halt for a
moment, doing what appeared to be a slow, massive victory
dance. It then turned and continued on its merry way
through the neighborhood.
Styles looked away from the television and picked up
the intercom again. "You okay in there, Morisato?"
"A little bruised, sir, but other than that, yes.
Can't continue pursuit, though...I think one of the cables
snapped in the fall, because I'm not getting any status
readings below the Apollo's waist."
"Alright, then. Standby and I'll have Harris pick you
up."
"Yes sir."
"Harris, did you catch that?"
"Yes sir, moving in now."
Styles set the intercom back down on the table. "I
need a cigarette."
"/Your tax dollars at work...We'll be back to you with
more live coverage after this commercial break./"
Weaver shut off the TV and ate another potato chip.
"Sir, something tells me you're not gonna be getting a raise
any time soon."
Epilogue:
Fifteen-year-old Hank Butler was apprehended by a lone
police officer on a motorcycle three miles out of town when
his stolen labor ran out of power. Charges are pending.
Jody Morisato sustained minor injuries from her labor crash.
No one else was hurt in the incident, although damages are
estimated at approximately $600,000. Captain Styles started
smoking again. He did not get a raise. Telephone service
was promptly restored to the Upper Arlington area.
*****
Welp, that's all for now. Hope you enjoyed it. :) Next episode
should be out in two weeks or so.
Bart Kelsey
(kelsey.14@osu.edu)