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THE RETURN
Chapter Four - Put on your Warpaint
"I have inside information."
I have no idea what the **** Nick's talking about.
"Are you trying to tell me Ty Law is involved in this?"
"No, nothing like that. Listen, ***** is...pissed. And you know how he'll stop at nothing to get what he wants. All that Save Our Chiefs stuff...he feels wronged. Slighted. He's out of control."
No shit. Tell me something I don't know.
"So what's he gonna do? Sue the Hunts?"
"No, it's...far worse than that."
"Spill. I don't have time to read a forum."
"***** has spent the last two years acquiring top secret military hardware from around the globe. He's invested heavily in developing technologies in the field of heavy energy weapons, next-generation ballistics and, most important, human-cyborg relations."
It takes me a second to digest the news. It sounds like ***** wants to fund his own war machine. Like he's launching an offensive.
"Are you trying to tell me..."
A heavy sigh.
"Yes, it's true. Scott ***** is building a massive war mech, code-named 'Patriot Way Shitkicker 5000X.' It's the most sophisticated piece of man-machine battle tech the world has ever seen."
"He's going to take back the Truman Sports Complex in a hail of destruction, fire and crumbling 40-year old architecture. I'm afraid nothing will stop him. He's hell bent on re-assuming control of Arrowhead. He believes it's his birthright."
I'm in shock, but not too surprised. After all, it's Scott ****ing *****.
"So...how do we stop this."
He grins.
"Step into my office."
We exit the janitorial closet, stepping into darkness. We're in an enormous room. Not the Porkney gymnasium. Smells like used motor oil, dirty rags and coolant in here. Someone's building something. Something big.
Banks of lights flip on, one by one. There's something covered under a tarp, misshapen and all angles, with weird tube-shaped bulges forming odd peaks.
Nick grabs the tarp and yanks it off in one clean motion.
"I call it 'Warpaint Hellustrated.' *****'s not the only one with a grudge, you know. Plus, I've always loved computers."
I pick my jaw up off the ground and run one hand under it's smooth chrome underbelly. It's got a clean coat of red and gold paint running through the mechanical musculature. Sleek, aerodynamic lines. It looks really ****ing cool. And really ****ing expensive.
"How did you afford this?"
He winks.
"Ten years of insider subscriptions, how else. I was going to take out the Kansas City Star, but, you know, what would be the point..."
I point at the tubes.
"Premium cannons. They pack a punch!"
There's a large, circular dish lined with holes in the middle of the thing's chestplate.
"What's this?"
A knowing nod.
"That's your get-out-of-jail-free card. If you wind up getting your ass kicked, last resort. Close quarters only. But don't abuse it. It shuts down the entire mech for 10 minutes. Anything unshielded within 50 meters is getting a crater the size of an SUV blown right through it, though. I call that baby "The Deal Is Done."
Suddenly, the tech bay rumbles and I fall to my feet. It feels like an earthquake. Something outside is making a lot of noise. It fades.
Nick goes to a console, begins punching buttons. The mech roars to life, humming energy, pulsating with heat. A strange glow peeks out from between the joints.
"Saddle up. You hear that ruckus outside? *****'s got a lead on you already. This thing could be over in a matter of hours if we don't do something now. Right now."
I hop up, strap in, the cockpit slams shut and Warpaint Hellustrated screams into the clouds.
It's time to Save Our Chiefs. Again.
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