Point Zero (_.3)

Point Zero: O'Hara

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Commissioned by Ichypa

Wordcount: 1000

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The UN had money to spare when it came to claiming Point Zero and it showed. Surplus military equipment it may have all been, but that didn’t mean my new wardrobe was anything less than right and proper. Full bodysuit with thermal regulation, shock dampeners, and independent power supply. Independent module slots for armor, gadgetry, and weapon systems. Customizable for all my personal bits and bobs too, so everything was an upgrade.

That was just the armor.

In terms of weaponry, I managed to snag electric gel grenades, which even the hardest of the gangs don’t have access to. Those were set to wreck any shields I came across. Then, for anyone armored up, I had a set of sonic mines to rattle people to mush. Honestly, the fact that I asked to keep my piddly, homemade laser system is a pain in the ass. I was sure that I could’ve gotten my hands on something like a plasma caster at least, if not something outright ludicrous like a miniaturized, multi-barrel assault cannon. 

Not only did I have ten times the amount of firepower I had before, but over the last month I had the space to train with them, as well as in other things, in order to wear the badge that was now on my chest. 

Grace O’Hara. 

Point Zero. 

Verdict Agent.

1st Division. Section 4.

If only dear old dad can see me now.

It’s certainly not a bad look.

“You look good.” 

“Dammit, Elliot!” My aforementioned, sneaky, and creepy commander loomed in my door. The hissy, junky piece of shit that let everyone know I was leaving or entering my room opened silently for the commander. Suit-clad, with a face that may as well be a mask, Elliot looked at me like a predator sizing up an opponent. Then, after a second, I was back to being useful prey. Oi, thanks for the monetary upgrade, but I’d very much like to avoid every tangling with ya, boss. “Make a little noise, so you don’t kill someone by being too bloody quiet!”

“No. I think it’s funny.” Elliot said it and meant it, too. To the uneducated peons, they’d miss the telltale signs of humor within my commander’s eyes. However, given my ability to look into the abyss that was Elliot’s gaze, I was able to see a single smark of smarmy arrogance in the dark depths. Yep. The commander definitely thought that joke was hilarious. “So, I will not..”

There was no culturally, politically, and humanely sensitive means to respond to those words, at least for my insensitive self, so I let go of the issue before I accidentally told off the one being in the building that can flatten the building with a good stare… and survive after everyone else died in the rubble.

Elliot waited for a response that never came, before smiling in that damnably, Elliot-like way that Elliot likes to smile.

“It’s time for your first case. It’s very interesting.” There are two things that Elliot thinks is interesting. New flavors of ice cream and horrible, gruesome situations which can’t be resolved by mechanized, automated infantry without compassion. So, since I was the clock, it seemed that I’m pretty much going to have a rather horrendous afternoon. “A world-famous ballerina’s legs have been stolen. We need to recover them and she wants to help.”

My brain decided to take a leave of absence for health reasons in the middle of the first sentence.

“Her legs… were stolen.”

“From the knees-down.” Elliot specified coolly. “And, she wishes to assist in their recovery.”

I had only a single set of words in response.

“Excuse my language, but what the fuck!?”

…

Verdict’s mode of transportation was normally via air transport. From a logistical standpoint, it makes sense. The machines are speedy, quick, and there’s only a handful of civilians who can buy one off the market, even with connections. While the peons whittle away their time, stuck behind queues or in traffic jams, Verdict Agent could safely travel to anywhere in the city via air lanes, which were uncongested due to the relative scarcity of the buildings. 

However, the problem remained that gangs could get their hands on some explosive, anti-armor hardware. 

An armored car has the advantage of having a bigger power source, given there’s no need for it to fly gracefully through the air, so it can have reactive armor and point defenses. The speedy, luxurious affair that was Verdict’s aerial transports didn’t offer such amenities. It was only armored, so that its inhabitants could be protected during a crash. Yes, indeed, the airborne coffin’s engines and thrusters might go out, but at least the body of whomever’s inside will be intact for recovery once it falls hundreds of meters from the city’s skyline. 

So, instead, Elliot and I were using public transportation. A bus to be exact. One that was being escorted by a contingent of three-meter tall armored, heavily armed drones. Through traffic via navigation system overrides on anything in our way. Was it inconspicuous? No. Was it a power play that would’ve had Machiavelli ruin his britches in ecstasy? Completely.

I had only a few moments to appreciate the fact that we were literally sending criminal scurrying away by just going from point A to point B, because the situation was getting more ludicrous by the second. 

Apparently, the Russian ballerina was a national icon, so we were getting some “assistance” from one of the world’s hyperpowers within the UN.

That assistance was in the form of an albino, twenty-one year old general with a track record of turning every frontline she went into a slaughterhouse for the enemy. 

My head was starting to hurt simply from trying to remember all the extraordinary things that were currently occurring.

The spirit is all-too-willing to revel in the absurdity, but the mind is steadily resembling mushy peas.

At the very least, without a doubt, the situation was not going to be a dull affair by any means.