Gathering Storm

Written by:

Impfac

Story by:

Eva the Diva

Impfac

Sentry22

With a metallic crash, the doors to the abandoned warehouse burst open. The six wheeled SWAT vehicle that had rammed through screeched to a stop moments before slamming into a group of crates stacked in front of the door. After the echo's of the tires scream ceased, the huge warehouse became silent. Sunlight streamed from broken, filth caked windows through the dusty air in long slanted beams.

The turret panned, scanning across the thousands of stacked wooden crates that receded endlessly into the 400 foot long building. The company that had owned the place apparently just went under, leaving most of its stock in place without ever clearing out. Everything valuable had long since been stolen, the rest vandalized. Debris filled the isles between the containers.

Sergeant Reed watched from his matt black cruiser outside, frowning. "That douche bag screwed us. I knew it. I wasted 40 guys time for nothing. Jesus."

The radio crackled. "Arrowhead to sparrow hawk, we don't see anyone, over."

Reed took the handset. "Thanks Andy. I'm going to send the rest of the guys in, see what we can. Sit tight."

"Roger sir."

Reed stepped out of his cruiser, automatically assuming position behind the door. He signaled the two teams on either side of the entrance. Blue clad officers streamed in, assault weapons at the ready. Splitting into smaller groups, they worked into the four ten foot isles between crates, advancing cautiously, slowly disappearing into the complex.

A minute later, a voice came over the radio. "Nothing sir. We just meet up with C and D squad in the mid-what the. Hey! Hey-Jesus Chri-"

The transmission stopped. From inside Reed heard a shot, followed quickly by the sound of dozens of guns opening up, screaming, a few small explosions, like grenades.

"It's an ambush!" Someone called over the radio, voice nearly drown out by weapons fire. "God get us out of here! They're everywh-"

Static.

The remaining cops began to charge in, faces grim. Reed ducked inside his car and grabbed his assault rifle, about to do the same when the sound of squealing tires made him turn. Robocop brought his car to a screeching halt next to Reeds cruiser.

"Robo! It's was an ambush. That asshole set us up!"

"Are there any other exits?"

"We got them covered."

"Get what men you can out. I'll clean this up."

Reed didn't have time to wonder. The SHOs big V8 roared, the Taurus launching forward. He swerved around a parked car, nicking its trunk with his side mirror, around the tank and between the towering bulk of wooden crates. The huge boxes blurred into a solid brown mass as the speedometer raced toward 60.

As he switched to heat scan, Murphy gritted his teeth. Dozens of uniformed bodies laid heaped in a clearing. In front of the Ford a huge machine gun that had been hidden in a rectangular box was blasting through crates, its operators face contorted in a joyous grin and he fired at pinned police.

Robocop jammed on the gas harder, the RPM redlining.

"You're mine."

He turned on the light bar and hit the serine. A cop hiding behind a crate in his path turned, stared in disbelief at the approaching vehicle for a moment, then dove for cover moments before the Taurus demolished his position only yards from the big gun.

The gunner jerked around, wide eyed. Realizing what was about to happen, he tried to lift the armored sides to escape but it was too late. At 62 miles per hour the Ford slammed into the gun, its weight driving it through a half dozen wooden crates in a hail of splinters before coming to a stop.

Again it was silent for a moment, but as a swat member emerged from hiding there was a burst of fire from a catwalk in the distance. His chest opened up even through the armor. Blood poured out of his mouth as he fell to his knees and dropped on his face, dead. Then the catwalk lit up, a half dozen men firing down on the police, cutting off their retreat.

The tank followed Robocop's path, pulling to the right to provide shelter for the remaining police so they could finally escape. A half dozen emerged, hunched over behind the tank as bullets zinged and sparked off its armor. As the last of them emerged, ten in total, another catwalk behind them brightened with flashes. Three men went down instantly, blood splattering the black armor of the tank. The rest dove for cover again.

Suddenly the firing trailed off, the wear house growing silent for a moment as the attackers attention was drawn away from the police.

Silent, except for the sound of metal creaking against metal. The pile of wood leaning against the door of the ruined Taurus shifted, then collapsed as the door opened and Robocop emerged, gun in hand.

Then the fire resumed, this time focused on the cyborg. Sparks lit his armor, bullets flying harmlessly off his titanium exterior. He looked up at the first catwalk, then behind him.

Then he aimed, his left arm extended, and fired, the Berretas unique roar ringing through the building. Someone screamed and a dark form toppled from the platform, sailing gracefully through the air then smashing into a crate. He turn on his heel, aiming and firing again and again, then spinning around smoothing and taking out another. The return fire instantly tapered off but he continued to fire, continued to send armed thugs from their hiding places to the long fall to oblivion.

Finally he stopped firing, still checking the catwalks but scanning nothing. A half dozen taken out, a few shoot only in the leg. He wanted to know why this happened.

The surviving police began to emerge to begin the grim task of checking their fallen comrades to see if any could be saved.

In the distance he heard the wail of ambulance sirens converging on their position. Someone had set them up, but he didn't think it was the fault of their informant. He was just a patsy, being feed a carefully controlled diet of misinformation. He would get death for setting an ambush up.

It was who was feeding him that information they needed.

He looked at the pile of disfigured bodies.

Whom ever had done this, what ever it took, Murphy would find them. And he would kill them.

Drums. An ariel image of Detroit. Images of conflict floating across the screen before forming a solid grid. A perky female reporter smiles as she introducers herself, then looks grim as the camera angle changes and an image of a smoldering warehouse appears.

"Welcome to the media minute. Our leading story tonight, 36 of Detroit's bravest lost their lives in an ambush in an inner city warehouse. The survivors credit their lives to the heroic actions of OCP's newest crime fighter, Robocop."

The image of a bloodied cop grew from the corner to fill the screen. "He's unstoppable. If it wasn't for him we never would have made it out of their. Thank god for Robocop."

"Three other officers are hospitalized, one in critical condition."

The camera shifted to the dark haired man.

"In other news, OCP has announced a restructuring of the Security Concepts division following the fall out over Dick Jones death. New CEO's are expected to be announced soon in the biggest reshaping in OCP's history. Robert Johnson, Security Concepts."

"This is an exciting time for OCP. After years of brilliant success Security Concepts has been stagnant, mired in corruption. That's about to change."

The image shifted back to the smiling reporter. In the corner a smoldering nuclear stack.

"Clean up of the Amazon fall out area is expected to begin soon, at an estimated cost of $1.4 billion to the Brazilian government."

The male reporter again. "And in our final news item, the much touted SUX-6000 has been recalled after widespread reports of deaths resulting from unexpected steering wheel detachment at high speeds, as well as unexplained engine fires, chronic transmission failure, and faulty seat belts and airbags. Several lawsuits are pending over the $45,000 sports car "

In unison; "This has been the media break minute. Give us sixty seconds, we'll give you the world!"

Johnson's heels clicked on the marble tiles of the hall. His boss was silent for a long time as they walked together, brooding. Johnson hated his pension for meetings anywhere but in an office or a conference room.

Finally, the Old Man spoke.

"I need you to find a permanent replacement to run Security Concepts, Johnson. And I need updates on the police strike. Construction of Delta City has all but ceased. This is a crisis, Douglas."

Johnson's eyebrows went up, surprised at the use of his first name.

"One of our rival corporations, Corporate Research Systems, has had a major restructuring in the face of bankruptcy. I think we have a great opportunity to snap up some experienced, battle tested execs. Their former vice president announced he'd be resigning too. He dealt largely with their military contracts."

The Old Man nodded. "I have heard much about him. I was going to give Dick Jones's job to him. I wish I had. It's too bad he has such foolish bosses. Approach him. Get the board in line too."

"Yes sir."

"What about this ambush on police yesterday? You have news?"

Johnson sifted through the manila folder he was carrying and produced a picture for the executive. "This is the Soviet anti-aircraft battery that was used by the attackers. Also," pulled out another glossy 10 by 12, "This is a rare special ops M-24 At-At assault rifle and next to it night vision goggles. Not something street thugs normally get their hands on. This was all planned well in advance."

"Where did they get these weapons?"

"Well... there are really only two organizations capable of getting this kind of fire power; governments, and corporations."

The Old Man looked at him with a raised brow, stopping. He handed the photos back. "That seems... highly unlikely."

"Those rifles run more than $20,000. The anti–aircraft gun would run several hundred thousa-"

"Point taken."

"And their only use was to kill police. It seems to be an emerging pattern after the warehouse robbery. If not for Robocop they'd have gotten away."

"Could that gun have destroyed Robocop?"

"From what I've been told, unlikely. It was designed to take out lightly armored aircraft with a high rate-"

"No. Understood. What about the rockets used on those ED-209's last week?"

Johnson hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "Well, honestly, probably not Sir. Robocop's exterior is high impact titanium with interior compartments-uh, he's tough Sir. And.... ED-209 isn't particularly durable, as we've discovered."

The Old Man resumed walking.

"Delta City is a one of a kind venture. Corporate owned cities could usher in a new era in corporate history. But the surge in crime accompanying the police strike has slowed work to a stand still. We don't have enough police to protect work sites and workers. And now this. OCP and Detroit are under siege. We cannot afford to give into the police unions demands, but we can't afford for this lawlessness to continue."

He stopped again and turned, face grim. "Do you understand that OCP is in crisis? That our future as a leading corporate power depends on Security Concepts?"

"I'm doing my best sir," Johnson objected, "But Security-"

The Old Man held up his hand, sighing. "It isn't you Johnson. I know you're doing all you can, having been forced into this position. Deploy the remaining ED-209's, ready or not. No one can know which ones are armed and which aren't. Continue negotiations with the union. Perhaps we could get them on board with a few well placed 'donations.'"

"I'll have someone try, but it's a remarkably clean union."

"Find something. Mistresses, illegitimate kids, stolen money, unpaid parking tickets, anything. And increase the bad press on the news. Sympathy is still with the cops."

"Yes sir."

"Is there anything else Johnson?"

"No sir."

"Good. Then I'm going to retire to my home and have a long bath."

Rojano leaned against the light pole, taking a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaling a series of smoke rings. In the distance a shot rang and a female voice screamed, but no sirens came. He smiled to himself. God bless unions. He'd broken up a few back in Panama during the civil war himself...

"Hey, you."

Rojano turned toward the voice, flicking the remains of his cigarette through the air. Three teenage boys in leather outfits sneered at him. Two had baseball bats with nails through the end, one a two foot length of pipe.

"Yeah, you. This is our block asshole. Why don't you hand over your wallet so's we can check your ID papers is in order, huh?"

Rojano smiled, strolling casually out of his circle of light and to the right of the group of punks. "Well well well, what do we have here. Neighborhood watch? How touching."

The heavy set one waived his pipe. "I'll touch you."

"Oh, you want to touch me eh?" He held his arm up, wrist limp, taunting in a feminine voice "Why I didn't know you three were 'special friends.' Is there a pride parade tonight?"

For a moment the kid with the pipe looked confused. Then realization slowly came into his eyes. "You callin' me a faggot? I'll bust your mother fucking head open!"

He charged at Rojano, shrieking, pipe raised. He brought the weapon down in a graceless arc at the older mans head, but Rojano darted under his swinging arm, grabbing it and pivoting, swinging his assailant around with the fat kids own weight and launching him at the other two. One managed to dive onto the street but the other was hit dead on, sending both to the pavement hard.

The one left standing looked at his friends, astonished. Rojano charged. The boy tried to get his bat up to swing but the Latino was upon him almost instantly. He leapt through the air, driving his heel into the center of the thugs chest and sending him flying.

The fat one staggered to his feet, groaning. Rojano twirled his pipe, grinning at his broad back. The boy straightened, turned... Rojano waited for their eyes to meet before he swung. The pipe shattered his right temple, going as far as his left eye. Blood and chunks of flesh sprayed across the pavement as the lifeless body fell to its knees then crumpled into a heap.

His smaller friend was already running down the street, looking behind frantically as he fled. Rojano just smiled and reached into his pocket, pulling out his sleek chromed revolver, lazily aiming, and taking the kids head off.

Rojano looked down at the remaining punk.

"Holy shit. Oh god oh god oh god-"He muttered, wide-eyed as he looked at his friends bodies and inching himself away, too afraid to attempt to outright flee. As he scooted along the pavement, a rancid puddle spread from between his legs and ran in a little stream down the pavement.

"Who do-did, rather, you work for?" Rojano asked, striding over.

"Don't kill me man! Please, I just wanted your wallet I swear-"

Rojano raised the still smoking pistol, leveling it at the kids head and cocking. "Shut the fuck up, punk. I want to know, who did your crew work for?"

"No one, I swear!" The kids croaked, voice high pitched and hysterical. Tears ran down his face. "Please, we just roughed up strangers for money-I"

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Both men turned toward the voice. A tall, dark haired figure in a long trench coat was watching them. A broad hat completed the cliché, the shadow it cast concealing his face.

"Are you stupid Rojano? You want to go to jail? To fuck this all up? Finish up, we have business."

The kids head jerked around. "Jesus I won't talk I-!" His words where cut off by the singe explosive report, the bullet passing through his eye and traveling through his skull. The body fell to the side, blood pouring out of the gaping hole where his eye was.

"Low profile, Rojano, low profile. That's what we're paying you for. That doesn't include executing street thugs. What if the police came?"

"The police? Ha! I haven't heard a car in this area in days. They won't come out here without back up, and with the strike that won't be happening. It's anarchy."

The figure turned, walking onto the sidewalk. Rojano jogged to catch up, falling by his side.

"You are right though sir. I'm sorry. But these thugs piss me off. Picking on an ordinary decent criminal like me. And if I can bust up another crew-"

"What happened at the warehouse? You got hit pretty hard."

"We accomplished what you asked. Thirty six dead cops. The strike got a lot larger after that. We also took down those ED-209s at the other warehouse."

"But everyone involved in the second ambush is dead or captured."

Rojano grimaced. "Robocop."

The man glanced at him, his dark eyes reflected in the street lights. "Robocop. Yes... he is a problem."

"If you provided those blue prints you promised-"

"Our attempts to gain access have thus far been... unsuccessful." The man stopped and turned. "But that doesn't matter. We'll find a way to remove that thing from the force, we promise."

Rojano's eyes narrowed. "And just who is this 'we' that can provide anti-aircraft guns and night vision-"

The man turned abruptly. "You have your orders. Three AM, Lark Street, pick up the white panel van that will be there. Don't open it until you're in a safe position. Do precisely what the orders inside call for, nothing more, nothing less, and await further contact."

Rojano kept the frown off his face. "Yes sir."

A black Lincoln pulled up to the corner just ahead, glimmering even in the faint light. It's slick black exterior reflected like a mirror.

"I want to make it so the only cops left on the street are ED-209's. You get control of Old Detroit, the drugs, the gambling, the prostitution-everything."

"And you get?"

The man smiled. "We'll be in touch."

The doors swooshed in silently, reveling a huge room done in marble. A long red carpet led from the door to the desk, at which the Old Man himself sat.

"Ah, Mr.Xui, former head of CRI." The Old Man's voice carried perfectly across the room. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Xui strode toward him, smiling. He extended his hand, which the Old Man shook.

"Please, take a seat. This," the Old Man opened a manila folder and produced a sheet of paper, which Xui took. "This is our offer. Vice President of Security Concepts."

Johnson's head jerked up slightly. He was under the impression they were approaching him for senior, not vice president of Security Concepts.

"We felt the package was more than generous."

"To be honest," Xui said, "I've known since what happened that I was likely to be approached. I've considered what I'd like to seen done in Security Concepts to turn things around."

"There will be time for that I assure you, and we will be listening. But, planning for the future aside, do you accept our offer?"

Xui smiled broadly. "It would be my honor."

With a hiss, the mechanic brakes of the ED-209 engaged as it hunkered, shutting down. The white coated tech adjusted his glasses, nervously looking around the ED-209 'hanger,' as they called it.

Assured he was alone, he opened the computer terminal on the right leg and plugged the laptop like diagnostic tool in.

It beeped, making him jump. He swiped both his security cards, entered his 14 digit password, swiped his cards again, and entered the final 10 digit PIN number. The computer whirred for a moment. The diagnostic screen game up in green. From here he could do anything wanted. He could program the gigantic metal beast to be loyal as a puppy, as ridiculously stupid as the idea was.

Instead, he entered the ED-209's 'specs' program and began downloading. After what seemed like an eternity-in reality only 47 seconds, according to the computer-everything to be know about the ED-209 was safely stored on a 128 bit triple encrypted disk. Two million dollars from his employer. He didn't know who-he didn't want to. As Joshua Raheem closed the terminal and began to pack up for the night, he didn't care who had paid him or what they did. He just wanted to get as far away from OCP with the disk as he could.

Murphy pulled the cruiser to a stop just before the pool of light cast by the bent light pole, brakes squealing softly. He'd been in the room during the interrogation of Kevin Swan, who had provided them with the poison info that had led them into the ambush. He confessed nothing, and Murphy knew he was telling the truth. It was more than the voice stress and heart beat-it was cop instinct.

He'd provided other addresses of less active criminal spots, but none had been acted on-until now.

Robocop looked at the large white cargo truck idling quietly in front of the abandoned warehouse and knew instantly something was wrong. The truck was unmarked, brand new, and people were hanging around it at three in the morning. Two large men leaned against the back, smoking and talking. If they moved, he wouldn't be able to follow without being spotted...

The truck door slid up from inside, and a tall, dark, Latino emerged. Robocop zoomed in. Crates and boxes. A gun barrel sticking out of one. Weapons.

He jammed on the gas. All three men jerked around, looking at the cruiser. The Latino dashed around the side, into the truck. The other two climbed inside, one nearly falling out as the driver jammed on the gas and jerked the unwieldy vehicle into the street.

Murphy switched the lights on, picking up the loudspeaker. "This is the police. You will not get away-alive. Give up now."

The men reached to pull the door down, delicately balanced. Robocop could see from the inside of the truck that there could be hundreds of guns in those crates.

He accelerated, closing the short gap between them and ramming the back of the truck. The fat one on the left propelled himself against the wall before he struck, finding a grip, but the other toppled out, smashing into the hood of the cruiser, clearing the windshield and taking off the sirens and light bar. The truck swerved but didn't stop.

The door went down.

Murphy pulled the cruiser to the left going more than fifty, but an oncoming car immediately confronted him, blaring it's horn, the driver expressing his displeasure out the window vehemently. He swerved back, tires squealing, then pulled out again, pulling up to the side of the truck. The Latino man looked out the window at him, unfazed. Robocop pulled out his gun, aiming through the passenger window at his door and firing.

The bullets ricocheted off the sides of the truck without even scratching it. He fired two more bursts without effect. The Latino was smiling at him.

The truck swerved toward him, forcing him to jam on the brakes. When the truck passed him, the back door wasn't closed, but wide open-and the fat man now had what looked like a rocket launcher. A plum of white smoke erupted from the back, the long missile heading straight toward the car.

Gritting his teeth, Murphy pulled the steering wheel hard. The cruiser careened across the road, the rocket striking the ground a car length behind, pushing the rear of the car into a hopeless fishtail. Robocop tried to regain control but it was too late. The car skidded across the street, slamming into the back of a parked Buick so violently the cruiser was propelled over its trunk and through the roof. The Taurus sailed through the air over another vehicle, sheering a light pole, and landed on another car with a massive crash of screaming metal.

A crowd began to form, trying to see if they could make out who was in the smoldering wreck of a police car, all afraid to approach. Then the door creaked open, glass and metal tinkering onto the sidewalk. On lookers gasped. Slowly, Robocop emerged, climbing out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

He looked down the street where the truck had disappeared.

In his mind the image of the Latino man staring at him with a gleeful smile played. The cop killer that had taken Boddicker's place. He had to find him and stop him. There would be no arrest.

Xui picked up his home phone, unable to answer before the voice on the other line was already asking him questions.

"Yes. I got the job. Of course. Just as we discussed." He frowned. "Well, no. Vice President. Well fuck you too. Johnson? We'll take care of him. I have a few ideas. The Old Man? Hard to tell. I know you say he's out of the loop, but I don't know... he seems pretty on top of things. He's sharp."

Xui listened for a moment, lifting his glass of wine and taking a sip. He fell into the folds of the plush black leather couch, scratching his stomach through his open shirt and yawning quietly.

"Yeah, well, it was always a dangerous idea, but we got a real problem Frank. That's right, that. Or him or whatever. We have to take him out-what? We do? We are!? You amazing bastard!" He glanced at the clock over his shoulder. "No, nothing else. Tell your wife I said high."

He listened for a moment, finishing off the last of his wine. "Yeah, me too. Look, it's getting late. I know. I know, Frank," he said, annoyed. "Things are looking up for us, Frank. Your guys takes it out, I do my job, it's all in place. Play it right and nothing can stop us, not the Old Man, not Robocop, not the FCC, not anyone."

The End

of episode one

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