Layoffs are fun.
They're always couched in some corporate-correct term, like downsizing, rightsizing, financial uncapsizing, but in the end, it's the exact same thing. People lose their jobs.
Layoffs are a lot less fun when it happens to government employees. Imagine waking up to a voice message, after you've shaved, got the suit on. The message goes something like this: "Hello, sorry for the short notice. Please don't come in this morning. We're currently reshuffling personnel. Your possessions will be mailed to you sometime this afternoon. Thank you!"
When it comes to government employees, though, it's a little different. Instead of giving a voice message, they simply wait for you to step into your office. Then they ambush you. They ask you to turn in keys, badges, gear, then they escort you outside.
The process was already well underway when Ishida walked into city police central. Outside, there was a lineup of people waiting for taxis. Longtimers were crying. People were exchanging numbers and hugs.
Into the building, Ishida carried a thermos and a small messenger bag. He kept his eyes pointed dead-ahead, laser-focused on the elevator. Clip, clop, clip; he trotted across the white-tiled floor.
Just as he reached the elevator, a hand gripped his shoulder. He whirled to face the person.
It was Janet, from three offices down. She had a gun in her hand. "Shut up and press the button."
She was still wearing the employee leash, with the badge/card. The hair had changed from her original photo - she was now had red-tipped, black hair - but her eyes wore the same look: determined. The overlay on her picture jumped out at him: internal security.
He pressed the button in one go, leaning against the wall for support.
Headlights pressed against the station windows, the an armored vehicle crashed in.
Janet whirled as the sound of screams, motors, and shattering glass filled the air.
Ishida dropped his thermos and bag, scrabbling for his Hunter-VG. He pressed his panic button. Black swirling liquid formed on the floor below him, creeping up his legs and torso, solidifying into armor. It crept up his neck, but avoided his face, finally seperating into two chunks. His hachigane and his power suit.
He launched forward, cracking the tile floor with his kick-off. He sailed past Janet, right hand curled into a fist. The doors of the vehicle flew open; four suited gunmen poured out. Their rifles lit up as they opened fire. His suit inflated, absorbing the impact of the weapons. He landed on the ground in a semi-kneel, punching the floor. The floor twisted and buckled, sending a massive shockwave toward the vehicle. The wave blasted through the gunmen, lifted the vehicle, and hurled them all into the street.
Ishida's heart raced, every beat sounding like it was in his ears. He was caked in blood and sweat. The taste of cotton filled the air.
Nobody noticed Ishida slipping into work, late. It was usual of him, as of recent times. Every night, he'd wake up bathed in sweat, his lip cut, his cheek chewed. And every night he'd down a series of pills, blank out, and wake up mid-morning.
Well, it beat the morning rush hour traffic, that's for sure. The hangover and throbbing temples still sucked.
He looked at himself in his locker mirror. Two dark circles stared back at him. He growled at the mirror, then slammed his locker shut. He made his way to the elevator in relative silence, sipping at his thermos flask. The smell of duck soup filled the lobby, prompting the one receptionist to reach for a non-existent bun.
So far, according to routine. He pressed the button and waited.
Every night it was the same dream: he would be coming into work, people crying outside. He'd get near the elevator and would be interrupted by a gunman. He'd see a flash of headlights, then a hummer would skid in. He'd launch himself at the vehicle as suited gunmen poured out.
Some nights he'd slice them. Some nights it would turn into a kung fu film. Last night was different: last night he stomped the ground.
Why was it the same and yet different? More importantly, what did this departure mean? Was it an omen?
It couldn't be.
The elevator doors slid open with a shhhuup. Ishida stepped in. He pressed the 6th floor button and closed his eyes.
The image of the stomp froze in his mind. Could he actually pull it off? Would it be a good idea to?
"Are you OK? You look like you're about to fall asleep."
Ishida's eyes blurrily focused on the speaker's badge. Janet, Internal Security.
"Yeah..." Ishida's hand shook, spilling soup onto his shirt. "I just need to get my prescription changed."
"Are you sure? You should probably take a sick day." Janet paused. "You need to see the nurse. Let's go."
Ishida looked down at his hand. "You're right."
Anxiety. High blood pressure. Possibly fractured finger - in his right hand. A bruised thigh. But no clear medical reason for his nightmares. Just an order to take the day off and see a doctor.
Ishida Hayato, age 28, with a five year perfect streak. Shattered.
"Do you wish to train, Hayato?"
Ishida stared into traffic. Seated on the bus stop bench, he leaned forward. His thermos was open, the contents mostly drained.
"Or would you prefer some alone time?"
Ishida swigged his thermos.
Across the street, an armoured truck opened, two suited men with guns spilling out of the cab. Banks... typically didn't carry all that much cash, especially not here in Electopia.
Ishida blinked. Then he slowly stood up as the two men headed into a bank. His grip around the thermos tightened, dents forming in it. He flung it aside.
"Wave Change! For the honor of Electopia, I will purify these criminals! Samurai Scorpio, On The Air!"
Just like in the dream, black liquid pooled at his feet. It crawled up his body, forming into his trademark armor. A small tentacle wrapped around his forehead, gently sliding behind his hair. A second wrapped in front of his face, forming a welding visor. Stringlets became one with his hair, moving with a will of their own, forming into a ponytail. Small droplets became visible on his cheek sides and chin, forming into sideburns and a well-trimmed beard.
A sheath appeared on his left hip.
Traffic still cruised through the streets. He crouched, his thigh muscles loading like springs. He leapt... but didn't actually get off the ground. Not far, anyway.
He stood up straight. Then he spun, lifting his right leg almost above his head, pivoting his body. His spin continued, his foot crashing into a bus. He followed through by unloading his thigh muscles, pushing out in a powerful kick.
It merely dented the bus.
With a battlecry, he charged into the street, narrowly avoiding getting hit. Cars screeched to a halt, traffic ground into a standstill. The resulting jam extended for a mile.
He either didn't notice or didn't care.
A car had stopped just shy of his hip as he reach mid-way. Finally, he crashed across the street, and into the bank.
Time froze.
A gunman held the bank manager by his ear, the other covering the tellers with a large-magazine weapon.
"I SAID LOCK THE DOORS!"
The gunshot broke the spell as the manager crumpled to the ground.
"Bastards.",Samurai Scorpio leaned forward, crouched into a runner's stance. He lunged forward with surprising speed despite his armor, driven by determination rather than physics.
His left hand touched his sheathe.
The sword cleared the gap, sailing across the room, smashing hilt-first into the shooter's face.
Clip clop clip clop.
Samurai Scorpio followed, but at a much slower pace. The remaining gunman opened fire at the armored figure. The spray of lead was poorly aimed, but still managed to hit him. It just... didn't do much to stop him.
The katana disappeared. The next instant, it reappeared in his hand. He swung, twice, splitting the counter. He kicked, sending the riven counter towards the gunman. He span, swinging his blade toward the gunman. The gunman managed to block, at the expense of the gun.
Samurai Scorpio kicked with his left leg, a roundhouse kick to the man's knee. The gunman buckled as Samurai Scorpio drew back his sword.
"Lights out." Samurai Scorpio brought the hilt down on the man's forehead, hard.