A/N: He's back! Sorry for such a short chapter, but it's just a prologue. And, if while reading this you see a small number next to a word or sentence, extra info can be found at the bottom of the chapter.1
Warehouse District, Ikebukuro. 11:47pm
Tokyo, Japan
Sunday, May 31st 1990
The black motorcycle wove between the multitudes of cars clogging the freeway this evening, making its way the exit ramp that will take the rider into the shady Warehouse District of Ikebukuro. Strapped to the back of the bike was a silver briefcase, the package the rider was told to deliver to a local Yakuza boss in posthaste or else. The rider, female in body appearance, sporting a black leather jumpsuit matching boots and a yellow helmet with a darkened visor, didn't head the "or else" warning but still was making good time.
Getting off the freeway, the rider sped down deserted side streets and alleyways at full speed to avoid unwanted followers. The rider took pride in her work as an underworld courier, providing fast and unmolested service to the criminal element of Ikebukuro. Arriving here six months ago to search for something she lost and took on the courier job to generate some income and get a lead on her missing possession.
Up ahead the rider saw the location where the drop was going down, the other parties already in attendance waiting for their delivery. Without slowing down the rider flew past the parked cars and came to a dead stop in the middle of the warehouse. Twenty to thirty Yakuza were waiting and got a fright by the speeding bike that seemed to come out of nowhere. The boss of the operation, a menacing bald man with arms covered in tattoos stepped up to the rider.
"You have the package as requested?"
The rider nodded and reached for the silver briefcase then handed it to the Boss. He gave a grunting nod and one of his underlings rushed over with a black suitcase. "Fifteen million yen as you requested. It was a pleasure doing bi-."
A loud whistling filled the hollow building. It was coming from the entrance of the warehouse entrance, but when everyone turned to the sound no one was there. Then a six foot three man with very long red hair tied in a horse tail and tossed over his right shoulder came into view from the left side of the building. He stopped halfway across the doorway and turned to face the Yakuza and the rider.
They could tell right away that he was a Westerner from his pale complexion and hair color. He was wearing a brown suede jacket over a blue dress shirt, white pants and black shoes.
"Who the hell are you!" yelled the bald Yakuza boss.
"Who me? I'm whoever I want to be at the moment. And I know who all of you are, and you're all going to die."
Nobody spoke after that, the Yakuza trying to comprehend what this wako had just said. The rider was curious though, the man was defiantly an American, but his accent had a faint trace of Irish in it. He looked Irish too with is flaming red hair and Irish blue eyes
Then everyone laughed at that, even the red haired stranger. The rider didn't feel right about this, why was the American laughing? He was alone and just told thirty gangsters that they were going to die. Then the American arched his back in a hysterical laugh, and the realization dawned on the stranger when at least four pistols became visible when his jacket fell back.
The rider hit the deck just as the American reached to his waist and with great speed drew two Beretta M9's and put a 9mm round the Yakuza boss's forehead. The other Yakuza reacted too late, the American fired his weapons at them and used fluid motions with his feet to dodge what bullets did get fired at him in a graceful dance of death.1 When his guns were empty he dropped them just as two Yakuza tried to rush him from either side of him. He spun in place, drew two more Beretta's from his back, kneeled down and shot them both.
The eighteen Yakuza left alive tried to kill the American with their Mac 10 machine pistols, but he broke into a run (killing three), dove right into a somersault (killing six), then shot right back onto his feet and emptied his guns into three more gagsters. When he dropped these two a gangster ran up behind the American with a knife. Without even looking behind him he sidestepped the attacker, grabbed his arm, drew another Beretta from a shoulder holster and put a single bullet into the attacker's head and let his body drop.
The final four gangsters surrounded the American, their knives drawn. The rider was still on the cement floor, unable to comprehend how this crazy American took down close to thirty gangsters.
"Well, I'm waiting." Two took the challenge and charged at the American. The first one to reach him wasn't lucky. He was grabbed by the American, who tuned him around just in time for the second attacker to plunge his knife into the first attacker's chest. Stunned, he was shot five times by the American and dropped to the floor with his stabbed counterpart. Wasting no time the turned to the last two, who had made a break for the front door. They met their end with multiple bullets to their backs.
Seeing an opening, the rider made a mad dash to her bike, with emitted a loud braying sound like a horse, catching the American's attention.
"Who brought the horse? That's not very-."
When he turned from inspecting the last two dead gangsters to face the noise, he found no horse; just the rider on her black motorcycle near the back of the warehouse .She gave the engine a rev.
"Oh ho, a challenge of chicken! You're on honey!" He drew the last Beretta he had on his persons and raised three fingers. The rider knew what he was saying: a three count. She revved the bike and the American cocked the hammer and lowered one finger, then a second. . .
He broke into a run when his last finger dropped. The rider took off at the same time and the two began their game of chicken. The rider was confidante that the American wasn't crazy enough to stay on the collision course. But the distance was getting smaller and he wasn't backing down. Twenty seconds before impact he fired his Beretta twice, the bullets hitting the rider's helmet, which flew off revealing the nothingness under it. The result was that the rider's intension of leaping the bike over the American was forgotten when her headlessness was exposed
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Unnerving as seeing a headless rider was, the American adjusted his intention. Seconds before getting run over he leaped into the air and planted both of his feet into the riders chest(he was going for the head, but that seemed useless in light of recent discoveries) The rider was jettisoned off her bike and landed hard on the floor, which fell over and skidded out warehouse door.
The American landed on his feet and, keeping his weapon handy, strode over to the rider and stopped when he reached her.
"Well I'll be, Dullahan's really do exist."
The rider's body tensed up in fear. Usually when a human recognizes what she is it's followed by a mob running her off with pitchforks or they try to kidnap and experiment.
"No reason to be afraid of me like that. Can I help the lady up?" The American stuck out his hand to the rider. Still apprehensive, she slowly reached for his hand and grasped it. A gentle tug and she was back on her feet. "See, nothing terrible."
The rider reached around and took out a pad of paper and a small pencil and scribbled something down. She showed it to the American.
Thanks. Who are you anyway?
"I guess I could tell you, it's not like anyone would believe me if I told them I told a Dullahan my name. Lieutenant Commander. Shawn Meehan, Office of Naval Intelligence."
You're not here for me are you! Shawn read what she wrote and let a little laugh escape him.
"No, I'm here for your delivery." He walked over to the corpse of the bald Yakuza boss and picked up both the silver and black briefcases. He tossed the black one to the rider.
"Keep your loot, I don't care and niter dose the U.S. government as long as we get back what was stolen."
The rider set down the case and wrote something down. What is in their anyway? No one told me what it was.
"A stolen GPS encoder the Navy uses to encode their GPS systems. This one was stolen from Long Beach Naval Base three months ago by the very same man you accepted this delivery job from. Coincidently you won't half to give away his cut of the profit."
Why not?
"Because by this time tomorrow his body should be incinerated at the local garbage disposal site."
That made the rider shutter a little. 'So he was following me the whole time? Maybe he overheard the pick-up location, killed him then made his way here.' The rider started for her bike when Shawn called back to her. "Can I get your name?"
She stopped, scribbled something down and showed it to him. Celty Sturluson.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance Celty. If you're ever in Chicago, look me up, we'll have a good time."
Laughing to herself (to Shawn it looked like she suddenly had a twitch), Celty hopped on her ride and drove off into the night.
Shawn is using Gun Kata, a fictional gun-fighting martial art discipline that is a significant part of the film. It is based upon the premise that, given the positions of the participants in a gun battle, the trajectories of fire are statistically predictable. By pure memorization of the positions, one can fire at the most likely location of an enemy without aiming at him in the traditional sense of pointing a gun at a specific target. By the same token, the trajectories of incoming fire are also statistically predictable, so by assuming the appropriate stance, one can keep one's body clear of the most likely path of enemy bullets. For a visual, look up scene from the film Equilibrium on youtube.