Author's note: This episode picks up right where episode 4
ended.  Basically, it's meant to introduce a plot or two,
and tie up some loose ends left by the rather abrupt 
conclusion of the previous chapter.

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. :)

Previous episodes, along with current progress reports, are
archived on my Patlabor Stateside page, at:
http://www.cis.ohio-state.edu/~kelsey/fanfics.html

They can also be found at R&C Books:
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Bay/1375/

*****

     Laura quietly pushed open the door of the small
recovery room.  Mitch's figure lay in a bed up against the
left wall.  His head was tilted back and bandaged snugly,
and his slow, labored breaths were audible from across the
room.
     "Mitch?"
     He gave no reply.  Laura hurried to his bed and bent
over him.  His eyes were half-open, and he was gazing
feverishly at the ceiling.
     "Mitch!  Talk to me!"
     "Laura..." he said in a pained whisper.  "Need..."
     "What is it?  Should I get you a doctor?"
     "Need...nitrous...oxide...."
     Laura blinked.  Mitch, unable to maintain a straight
face any longer, broke out into a fit of hearty laughter.
"Oh, man," he said, wiping the tears out of his eyes.  "That
look on your face was priceless!"
     Laura shook her head, smiling despite herself.  "I
gather you're alright, then."

*

Patlabor Stateside
Episode #5: No Need for Employment
by Bart Kelsey

     David and Nicole Weaver arrived at the hospital around
midnight.  When viewing the two of them together, it became
plainly obvious where Mitch inherited his height, build, and
hair color.  Both David and Nicole were moderately thin
people, slightly less than six feet tall, and both had brown
hair, although David's was beginning to show gray in places.
     The two of them strode nervously into the hospital,
their brown jackets lifting up behind them in the cool,
midnight summer wind.  David reached the front door first
and let his wife in, then followed her up to the front desk.
     "We're here to see Andy Weaver," said David, adjusting
his glasses.
     The nurse at the front desk typed something into her
computer.  "Room 419," she read from the screen.  "He's in
recovery right now.  Says here they're keeping him overnight
for observation to make sure there weren't any serious
injuries.  You can go and see him if you--"  The nurse
looked up in time to see the middle-aged couple entering an
elevator at the far end of the lobby.  "--like," she
finished lamely.

     "This is Andy's room, right?" Mrs. Weaver asked of the
Asian girl in a police uniform who was leaning on the wall
outside room 419.
     She shook her head.
     "That's odd.  You are on the Labor Police, aren't you?"
     She nodded.
     "We called your captain up," Nicole continued.  "He
said Andy was here in the hospital with stitches in his
forehead.  Are we in the wrong place?"
     "Andy?"  The girl blinked.  "You mean Mitch?"
     Mrs. Weaver appeared surprised.  "He's still going by
Mitch?  Would have thought he'd started using his real name
again once he got out of college."
     "I wasn't aware he had any extra names," said the girl.
     Mr. Weaver grinned.  "I'm sure you've already guessed
this, but we're his parents.  My name is Dave, and this is
my wife Nicole."
     "Jody Morisato."  The girl smiled and shook their
hands.  "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
     When the two of them entered, they noted that, in
addition to their son, there were three other people in
police uniform scattered around the room.  A young man in
his late twenties with broad shoulders and neatly-trimmed
black hair was sitting in a padded chair in the far corner
of the room.  A tawny-haired woman, approximately the same
age, was standing nearby, absorbed in a conversation with
Mitch and the man in the chair.  The third, a man of about
fifty wearing a brown leather jacket over his uniform, was
leaning nonchalantly on the air conditioner.
     "Andy?"  Mitch's mother approached the bed and surveyed
the young patient, who had up to that point failed to notice
their entrance.
     Mitch looked up.  "Hi mom.  Hi dad.  How've you been?"
     "We were really worried about you after we saw the
accident on television, so we called your captain up and he
told us you were here."
     "Uh, mom, that wasn't an accident.  I did it on
purpose."
     "Son," said David, "when you applied for that mechanic
job with the labor  police, your mother and I assumed you
wouldn't be out in the crossfire.  You're going to get
yourself killed one of these days.  Now, if you don't want
to come and work at the law firm, at least try not to get
yourself hurt, ok?"
     "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that.  After what I just
did, I doubt they'll ever let me out of the station again."
     "Even so," said David, "I still want you to think about
coming to work for me."
     By this time, the other three police officers had gone
quiet and were pretending not to be listening to their
conversation.  "Andy," said Nicole, "why don't you introduce
us to your friends."
     Mitch propped himself up on the back of the bed.
"Everybody, this is my mom and dad.  Mom and dad, this is
Laura, Ron, and Gabe.  And from now on, please humor me and
call me Mitch, ok?"
     The three pilots waved, smiled, and/or mumbled
miscellaneous greetings.

     Todd Styles leaned back in his chair and took a weary
sip from his coffee.  "I'm think I'm going to fire him
tomorrow," he said to Tony, who was seated in his usual
place on the other side of Todd's desk.
     Tony shrugged.  "Are you sure it's for the best?  The
kid's an engineer, not a driver.  Technically, he should
never have been driving the transport in the first place."
     "Engineer, driver, whatever.  What he did today was,
without question, the dumbest thing I've ever seen anyone do
in all my time on the police force...and I've been a cop
since ten years before that little dolt was even conceived."
     "Dumb or not, Todd, it worked.  If it weren't for
Weaver, a lot of people might be dead or injured right now."
     "Sure, it worked /this time/, but the transport's
completely ruined.  The whole front end is smashed in, and
you told me yourself that the hydraulics on the bed are
pretty much shot.  Paying to have it repaired is only going
to be slightly less than buying a new one.  If he'd stuck to
good, clean police tactics, this never would have
happened...now I'm gonna catch hell from Gersht--again--
because of failure to use correct procedures.  I'll be lucky
if I keep my job.
     "And besides," he added, "who's to say he won't end up
killing anybody the next time he pulls a stunt like that?"
     "Alright, so what he did was costly, dangerous, and
stupid...you didn't seem to mind that so much a couple weeks
ago when Jody fired her weapon within city limits and blew
up that car, then ran into a house.  That cost us a hell of
a lot more than Weaver just did, and she didn't even catch
the crook.  Why is it that you're cracking down all of a
sudden?"
     "Listen, Tony.  I hate this job.  You know damn well
I'd be a detective by now if it weren't for that asshole
Gersht moving me out here to baby-sit all these nitwit pilot
wannabes."  He took another sip from his coffee.  "However,
this is the only job I have, and if I don't can Weaver, I'm
liable to get canned myself.  Now, if you don't mind, I've
got some paperwork to do."
     "Alright.  Night, Todd."  Tony Allison stood and exited
the office, quietly shutting the door behind him.  He walked
down the hallway toward the labor bay, and then stopped when
the wreckage of Transport 1 came into view, deciding that
maybe he should just put it off and start trying to fix it
tomorrow.  Instead, he made a right and entered the break
room, taking a seat at the table and switching on the
television.
     "/--similar incidents in Erie, Pennsylvania, and
Lexington, Kentucky.  No numbers are in just yet, but it's
estimated that the attacks have claimed at least thirty
lives, and left nearly a hundred more injured.  The pilot
apprehended in Lexington claims to be a member of the United
States Labor Militia, a right-wing extremist organization
fighting for what they believe is their Constitutional right
to own military labors.  We will keep you updated as--/"
     "Jesus."  Tony shut off the television and went out
into the mech bay to work on the transport.

*

     On this particular morning, Vince Gersht, smug prick,
was being more smug and more of a prick than on most
mornings.  He strode arrogantly into city, flashing a
haughty grin at whomever looked in his direction.
     He bounded proudly up three flights of stairs and
paraded into his office, taking extra care to make it quite
obvious to all the people who worked under him exactly how
happy and victorious he was feeling.
     As usual, Steve Wankmeier, his office lackey and people-
brusher-offer, scrambled to hide the solitaire game on his
computer and replace it with that spiffy-looking spreadsheet
screen.  And as usual, Vince noticed, but today he was just
feeling to jubilant to give a crap.
     After making quite sure that the solitaire program was
well covered by other, more businessy-looking windows, Steve
picked up his clipboard with all the random papers on it and
headed into Vince's office.
     "Ahhh, Mister Wankmeier," Vince said expansively.
"Lunch is on me today."
     "What's the occasion, sir?" Steve lisped.
     "Today," he said, "is the day I fire Todd Styles."
     "Ooh!  Ooh!  Can I watch?"  Steve clapped his hands and
jumped.
     Vince winced.  "On one condition.  Never, /ever/ do
that in my office again.  Understood?"
     "Yes, sir!"
     "Very well, then.  Inform the rest of the staff that
I'll be buying lunch ...  after which, I'll be giving our
friend Mister Styles a little telephone call and letting him
know exactly what I think about the conduct of his
officers."
     "Well, sir, if you don't mind me asking, why not just
do it right now?"
     Gersht patted his generous gut.  "Wouldn't want to
terminate him on an empty stomach.  I'd rather be completely
free of distractions so that I can savor every moment."
     "Excellent, sir!"  Steve turned to walk out the door.
     "Just one second there, Wankmeier."
     "Sir?"
     "I need you to type up a list of possible candidates
for a replacement, along with their qualifications.  Get it
to me by noon, in triplicate."
     Steve nodded dismally.  "I'll get right on it, sir."

     Styles glanced out his office window in time to see
Jody's blue Mustang pull into the front parking lot.  Two
car doors slammed shut as she and Mitch stormed angrily out
of the vehicle toward the front door.
     "Contradictive?  I am not contradictive!"
     "Yes you are.  You just contradicted me right there."
     "Well, how am I supposed to defend myself against that?
'Yup, I'm contradictive alright.  I never agree with
anything'."
     "Anyway, where do you get off, arguing with me after I
got injured last night?  Here I am in ungodly pain, and all
you can do is try to wrangle with me!"
     "You got three stitches in your forehead, you little
twerp!  If you call that ungodly pain, I shudder to think
how you'll be feeling after /I/ get through with you!"
     The voices grew steadily louder as Mitch and Jody
approached the door and entered the front hallway.
     "Little twerp?  I'm older and taller than you are!"
     "By six months and a quarter of an inch!  Anyway, you
started this whole thing, after I was nice enough to give
you a ride out here.  See if I ever make /that/ mistake
again!"
     Styles groaned and popped another aspirin in his mouth,
washing it down with a sip of coffee.  "Might as well get
this overwith now," he mumbled.
     "Mitch Weaver," he said into the PA, "please come to my
office."  He sighed heavily and shut the intercom off,
wondering exactly how he was going to break the bad news to
Weaver.
     "Captain?"
     "Come in, Mitch.  I need to speak with you."
     Mitch plodded meekly into the office.  Styles opened
his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a ringing
telephone.
     "Hello?"
     "This is Adam Douglas calling from Channel 4 Action
News.  Is Captain Styles there, by any chance?"
     "This is he."  Styles cleared his throat and wiped the
water out of his eyes.
     "Ah, Captain.  If it's possible, I'd like to set up an
interview about your excellent police work last night.  That
surprise tactic you ordered was downright brilliant.  At any
rate, we're running an special report at noon, so I'd like
to interview you around twelve-thirty, if that's at all
possible."
     "Yes, that would be fine."
     "Thank you, Captain."
     "Don't mention it."
     "You wanted to see me, sir?" Mitch ventured, once
Styles had hung up the telephone.
     Styles chugged the remainder of his lukewarm coffee.
"On the record, Mitch, congratulations.  What you did last
night saved a lot of lives and got us a favorable interview
on the news, which we desperately need."
     Mitch grinned.  "Thank you, Sir."
     "Off the record..."
     "Uh-oh."
     "...your little stunt last night was by far the dumbest
thing I've ever seen anyone pull in all my years on the
force!  It was only by the grace of God himself that the
phone rang when it did, because I was just about to fire
your sorry ass for reckless conduct!"
     Mitch drew in a breath and stood quietly, adding a
mental tick-mark to the rapidly growing number of times he
had heard Styles say 'all my years on the force.'
     "Unfortunately, firing you now would make me look even
worse than keeping you on, because that stupid move of yours
has made you into a community hero.  Now, if I ever catch
you trying anything like that again, I'm not going to be
lenient with you--bad press or otherwise.  Is that clear?"
     "Yes sir."
     "Dismissed."

*

     Steve Wankmeier kicked his feet back on his desk and
patted his stomach.  His boss, Vince Gersht, was preparing
to fire his long-time rival, Todd Styles, captain of the
Columbus Area Mobile Police.  After a victory of that
magnitude, Vince would surely be in a good mood for two,
maybe even three hours.
     Tapping a button on his mouse which brought up a small
television screen on his computer.
     "/--for joining us in our continuing coverage of last
night's terrorist incident.  Coming up next, Adam Douglas
has an exclusive interview with Columbus' own Mobile Police
captain, Todd Styles.  Adam?/"
     "/Thank you, Irene.  I'm standing here outside the
office of Captain Styles, truly a local hero in his own
right.  Last night, Captain Styles' brilliant surprise
tactic saved the city from what could have quite possibly
been a disastrous terrorist attack.  In this exclusive
Channel 4 Action News interview, we're going to bring you
the a personal account from the man behind this bold, daring
strike against terrorism./"
     The camera followed the news anchor into Todd's office,
where Todd was seated at the desk, looking unusually
friendly and outgoing.  He stood up, and extended a
welcoming arm.  "Come in, Mister Douglas."  The two of them
shook hands, and took seats on opposite sides of the
captain's desk.
     "Now, Captain Styles, I'm sure the public is dying to
know what it was that prompted you to think of using one of
your transport trucks as a weapon against the criminal
labor?"
     "Well, to be completely honest, Adam, the idea wasn't
mine.  The driver of the transport, Mitch Weaver, radioed me
and asked permission to attempt the maneuver.  I was of
course a little hesitant at first, but at that point it
seemed as if there was no other way out of the situation, so
I gave him the go-ahead."
     Adam nodded.  "Do you have any comments on the similar-
-but more successful--terrorist attacks in Lexington and
Erie?"
     "Certainly a tragic and unjust occurrence.  Those
responsible should--"
     And then Styles' telephone rang.  Todd glanced down at
it.  "Caller ID says I've got Commissioner Gersht on the
phone.  Mind if I put him on speaker, Adam?"
     "Go right ahead, Captain."
     Steve jumped up and bolted into Gersht's office,
knocking his chair over and kicking a sizeable stack of
important-looking documents off of his desk.
     
     Todd styles pressed the answer button on his speaker
phone and spoke:  "Columbus Area Mobile Police.  This is
Styles speaking.  You're on the air."
     "Ahh, Captain Styles," said Vince haughtily.  "It gives
me great pleasure to--"  There was a brief pause accompanied
by some scuffling noises on Vince's end of the line.  Styles
looked curiously at the telephone and shrugged toward the
camera.  Dimly, he could make out a pair of voices, one
angry, one downright frantic.  The frantic one seemed to be
talking about a live news broadcast of some sort, and the
angry one was apparently asking the frantic one just what
the hell he was yapping about.  After several seconds, the
scuffle subsided, and Vince spoke again.  "Excuse me for a
moment, Captain.  Something urgent has come up.  I'll be
right back."
     Another pause.
     "As I was saying," said Vince at length, much less
disdainfully this time, "it gives me great pleasure to call
and congratulate you on a job well done."
     "I'm sure it does, Vince," said Todd, smiling from ear
to ear.  "Thank you very much."
     There was a click as Gersht hung up the telephone.
     "Now," said Adam, "where were we?  Right, I was asking
you how you felt about the similar terrorist attacks in
Lexington and Erie."
     "Well," said Styles, "obviously there's a major problem
if terrorists are able to get ahold of the kind of weaponry
necessary to do something like that.  Although I've had no
official word on it, I'm sure that the American government
will stop at nothing until they're a hundred percent sure
that the public is safe from further attacks."
     "Do you have any leads as to where the terrorists are
located?"
     "Not just yet, Adam.  As far as I know, the pilot woke
up early this morning and is being held for questioning at
the metro police station.  They haven't released anything on
it just yet, but when dealing with fanatics and terrorists,
the general pattern is that they're very reluctant to give
out sensitive information.  As such, I wouldn't get my hopes
up for any details until the FBI has had a chance to conduct
an extensive investigation.  In the meantime, we'll just
have to keep our guard up, should anything of this nature
happen again between now and the time the Labor Militia has
been scattered."
     "Well, it appears we're about out of time, so thank you
very much for your input, Captain."
     "No problem.  Thank you."
     Once again, the pair of them stood and shook hands."
     "Annnnd...we're clear."  The videographer gave the OK
sign and began fiddling with the camera.
     Styles let out a sigh and quickly produced a box of
Marlboros from the top drawer of his desk.  He held the box
out to the news anchor.  "Cigarette?"
     "Don't smoke."
     "Suit yourself."  Styles flicked his lighter and lit
the cigarette, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his
temples.

*

     "Adam Douglas speaking."
     "Hi, Adam.  This is Dave Weaver calling.  Just wanted
to say thanks again.  I appreciate your help."
     "Oh, hey, it's no problem, Dave.  I feel bad about that
'tax dollars at work' thing I said earlier...if I'd know
your son was--"
     "Don't mention it, Adam.  If you ever need anything,
don't hesitate to give me a call, okay?"
     "No problem."
     "Anyway, sorry to keep you busy.  Talk to you later."
     "Bye."

Epilogue:  Both Todd Styles and Mitch Weaver managed to keep
their jobs, for the time being.  The labor pilot and
suspected terrorist has so far refused to give any answers
save that his name is Robert Beckerman, and that he belongs
to the United States Labor Militia.  An investigation is
currently underway.