Prototype TO-1
The container was at least insulated. God, he never thought he would wish for something as simple as some heat. But some heat he did get, fin-freaking-ally. One day they'll find his face frostbitten and finally install some insulation in him. Or at least give him a hat. Funnily enough, he was headed for cold again. And since the destination was Rhode Island, this wasn't any cheesy Lovecraft reference.
"The mission is simple."
Which one isn't? It always boils down to f*ck someone's day up.
"Daniel Allison is a registration dodging metahuman with control over ice and some ability to form ice out of water vapor. He has been on the run for the past three months."
Should I arrest him or give him a pat on the back?
"He has been cornered in an old apartment building in downtown Providence, he took the occupants hostage but has since released them after crisis negotiators stepped in. Unfortunately he has not surrendered himself to the Police and killed two policemen after attempting to apprehend him. IRIS was then contacted."
Nice backstory.
"You are to apprehend him or kill him. Due to the deaths, deadly force has been authorized."
Kill him, got it. One of the two suits finished speaking, the other one remained silent. Why was it always different people that gave him orders?
"Do you understand?"
How was that even a question?
"Yes, sir."
He answered without emotion in his voice. He wasn't a person to them, he may have not even been a human. He was a tool, a gun, to be aimed and fired. And currently they were pressing on the trigger.
"Good, according to latest intel Allison is holed up on the third floor. Do not disappoint us."
The doors of the container he was being transported in swung open, and he was blinded by the lights. Someone invited the media. He stepped out of the container and looked at the disheveled building ahead of him.
"-correspondent for CNN, we have visual confirmation that the Epoch LLC made TO-1 prototype has been deployed onto the scene. The prototype, while initially sparking outrage, has proven itself in-"
It was incredibly stupid a thought, but was his abbreviation chosen as some weird Terminator reference? He was escorted down a small alleyway made with police barriers. Has DMA not shown up yet, or was he the only person available right now between the two organizations? Some reporter broke the barrier.
"Is it true that despite Epoch's claims, you are in fact still capable of higher reasoning mr. Smith?"
How nice they used his real name, but he wasn't allowed to answer that question, at least not without making his supervisor's fingers anxious about pressing some buttons. He pushed them aside and continued straight on.
How did that song go that his father used to play?
"Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord."
He didn't get them previously. He was still not sure if he liked Vietnam era songs. But at least he now got them.
Getting closer the reports cleared out and he saw a large cordoned off area, a sort of courtyard before the main attraction. PPD officers had basically besieged the building. He felt like a rockstar that was to step onto a stage, a strange feeling given his predicament, and the fact the stage would be a dilapidated apartment building, and the only thing sung would be the death hymn of Daniel Allison.
He sometimes wished the lights of an ambulance would be less bright. They blinded him. Even if it spared him looking at a body pierced with icicles. Let it go, eh? Allison was certainly going.
He stepped into the open door. Immediately he saw a person turned into an ice sculpture. What a damn stupid way to go, especially in New England. They'll be chipping her body out for the next month. He moved through the hallway stretching towards a stairway at the end of it.
He moved without moving a single thing, the insane precision with which his artificial muscles moved and the lightweight of his chassis allowed him, with some finicking with centers of weight, to move rather silently. The hallway was lined with sound death traps otherwise known as opened doors on unoiled hinges. He got through easily, keeping one hand on his rifle hanging on his back.
He scaled up the stairs until he got to the third floor. At which point he began to move through yet another hallway. He had two hallways more to search after this one that outstretched onto the left and right respectively from the stairway.
About halfway through the hallway, an icicle shot towards him, piercing through a closed door next to him. He caught it and crushed it into tiny little pieces. Turning towards the door, he saw the small hole through which the projectile came.
I see a red door and I want it painted black.
He took out his pistol and pumped a couple rounds into it, easily piercing the cheap door. He heard an exasperated gasp and a couple steps backwards before stopping on a nearby wall. Bad move. His implant made some calculations before giving him an approximate position of Daniel.
He fired two more rounds to keep him there before moving to the room next to the one in which the suspect was holed in. Songs always play in his head when he was on missions, he sometimes wondered if it was his doing, or was his supervisor f*cking with him.
Oh, Daniel, my brother you are older than me.
He was before a wall, around the place where Allison was, between a dingy TV and a drawer. He stepped back, then threw a punch, his second hand holding his pistol.
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal
The thin wall easily disintegrated, as did Allison's right arm. So much for apprehending, they may sign him up to some augmentation program or something now. Death would be better. Allison fell down, stepping through the hole he made, he pointed his gun at Allison's head and pulled the trigger.
Your eyes have died, but you see more than I
Mission accomplished. He exited the room just as a piece of Allison's forearm detached from the ceiling and fell onto the floor next to bits to Allison's brains. They'll mop him up later.
Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky
He exited the building through the same way he entered it. He had just realised that some blood was probably splattered on him, maybe even some bits. He was met with a standing ovation from about half the crowd of spectators, reporters and policemen. The other half remained deathly silent. He nodded to one of the paramedics before making his way back to the container in which he was transported.
All it took was five minutes for a refugee on the run to be brought down by the long, reluctant, mechanical arm of the law. He could probably do faster next time. He wondered what his supervisor thought of this right now. Whatever, the adrenaline rush would end now, time for the long wait in the storage.
It wasn't even before they exited Connecticut that they were redirected to some place called Starcash Cafe in NY. Busy day? He didn't mind, a busy day keeps the warehouse away. It was early morning.
