Number: 19 Title: Call Me Crazy Type: Fan fiction Sailor Moon WARNING: EXTREME STUPIDITY AHEAD. ---------- Synopsis: ---------- A zany SM/Original idea about Makoto and a slightly nutty mercenary named Dillon. Yes, it's a love story. ---------- Rising Storm Dillon meets Makoto in much the same way Arcana does: in the middle of a firefight. Dillon is calmness under fire personified. His utterly cool exterior and ruthless abilities (having to do with hurting/killing people and blowing things up) are ruffled only by the prescence of this enigmatic green-eyed angel. Five days after their meeting, Tokyo is in lockdown and the Sailor Scouts are plotting to take back the Juban district when a distraught twenty-something mercenary shows up at their doorstep looking for Makoto. He acts like a high school kid on prom night, makes a total fool of himself, having eyes only for Makoto; gives her flowers and promises to call her soon and take her out. ---------- Betrayal of Innocence At her friends' urging, Makoto goes running after Dillon. This man, whom had saved her life and was only defending himself when they meet (in the previous chapter) is executing people like a vengeful God. Not only does this scare the crap out of her, but it also frightens the local Yakuza into leaving him alone. He's very polite and agreeable, but that makes sense. He's a mercenary, a businessman, not a professional killer like James Rahn. He tries to keep good relations, but does occasionally snuff out a problem-causer if the need arises. ---------- Rain of Blood Makoto runs into the night in fear of her life. Dillon leaves a message saying he wants to explain things. The whole group meets him, ready to do battle, and he breaks down and tells them all about his past. Dillon has worked for local, and state police, national guardsman forces of five countries, nearly every branch of the U.S. military, the GRU, the FBI, the CIA, and the U.N. His skills on the urban battlefield are exceptional, making him a must-have for any delicate operation around the world. He has a simple philosophy for life: he might die at any moment, but if he does, what will he care? It's the people that might outlive him that he should be nice to; it's the impressions he makes that will stick with people--what they remember of him will be his only claim to immortality. So, he's very selfless and has a very small ego, even though he's so damn good. He's utterly calm under fire, but Makoto really riles his hormones and he means well, so... ---------- A Chance in Hell The first date is held off a second time by a pressing situation in the deserts west of Japan. Dillon is off with a bunch of U.S. black-ops guys to break a Shi'ite terrorist cell on their home soil. The comander of the op sends a goofball with Dillon, who gets eight tenths of the group killed (and then gets it, curtesy of Dillon). He comes back in a bit of a funk, but the First Date goes ahead. Their first stop is a Jacky Chan movie, which both simply _love_. After that, it's off to a dance club where Dillon meets some trouble. He manages to show off his 'normal' manner to Makoto is quite impressed by his ability to be civil and dangerous at the same time. After that, it's a hearty meal (home-cooked by Makoto) in the park at midnight, followed by a long walk home. ---------- Devourer of Hope One week later, a man shows up looking for Dillon, ready to make him an offer that can't be refused. Dillon, for the time being, is in France, ready to depart for Japan again. The job is simple: deliver three suitcases of rocks to a contact in Hawaii for fifty million american dollars. Dillon smells a setup (a troll without a nose could smell this setup), and the next thing he knows, Makoto is taken prisoner by this mysterious figure. The sailor scouts are instantly involved because the man uses magic and normal weapons against his enemies. Dillon knows all sorts of useless trivia, but his expert subject is weapons. The sailor scouts have magic to spare, but don't know a handgun from a rocket launcher. Dillon pairs up with them in a romp across Austrailia where they meet the great Jakcy Chan and get into massive trouble with some U.N. 'peacekeeping forces.' Why do you need force to keep peace? [Contains the scene in Dillon's `apartment.'] ---------- A Matter of Course Sailing back by boat, you-guessed-it attacks, killing the crew. Not far behind her is Dillon's new Nemesis, with Makoto. Thus (finally!-Ed) begins the battle to end all battles. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------- Scenes: ---------- Rising Storm ------------ Makoto came out of the bank with a smile on her face. No problems with her meager finances and today wasn't a school day. She would be meeting Rei and Mina this evening to watch a movie or two; something romantic, and maybe-- It happened right then. A small blue Honda came fishtailing around the corner, practically on two wheels. It no longer had any doors or windows unmarked by bullet holes. The rear tires were shreds of rubber thinly covering it's sparking rims, and the engine screamed like a banshee's death wail. The car slid to a stop sideways directly in front of the stunned girl. The only passenger then disembarked amidst the shocked pedestrians. He was tall, nearly six feet in all, a giant among the light morning crowd. His black hair was slightly messed up, looking wind-blown. He wore a pair of black sunglasses with sideshields--to Makoto they looked like the goggles of some demented scientist from a TV show--and an equally black trenchcoat that made him look twice as wide as the car's doorway. One hand was empty, the fingers slack, with blood slowly dripping from them. The other was holding a handgun only a military nut could love; it was barely held even by this man's lean, strong fingers, and looked large enough to fling grenades at his enemies. Instantly, she almost felt sorry for the people that were following him. Following him? She tore her eyes away from his blank face and unseen eyes to scan the street. Normally, her senses would be screaming, anticipating a small- scale war, but she felt curiously calm and in control--not detached as she sometimes felt when fighting the Dark Kingdom. No armies of semi-intelligent life forms or zombie-eyed people came crawling from previously unnoticed alleyways, no wall of magical power came down to annihilate/imprison everyone in the square. Only a shocked silence flowed over her. "Duck." Makoto flicked her eyes back to the bulky man still standing before her. "What?" She asked. In response he reached out, moving impossibly fast for someone of his size, and grabbed her by the shoulder, drawing her down onto the ground. The squeal of car tires bit at her ears at the same instant, and everything went into slow motion. The man looked down at his gun, grabbing the top part with his bloody hand and pulling it back. Makoto had seen a few action movies in her time, but watching a precision-made device--a machine of violence given form in cold steel--up close sent chills down her spine. "Your ears," The man said, his voice level and his words slightly accented (English, she would have to guess). "Cover them." Whether or not she fully understood his Japanese became a moot point. What was going to happen next, preluded by the sound of many automatic weapons cocking and the thump of expensive Italian shoes hitting the asphalt, was becoming pretty damn obvious. In English, heavily accented by Japanese, a man shouted at them. "Show yourself." The trench coat-clad figure glanced at Makoto briefly. Seeing her holding her hands tight over her ears, he replyed through the shot-out frame of his stolen Honda. His .50-caliber retort lifted the point man off of his feet and threw him against the Lincoln he had rode here in. The following comments hit his right hand man in the leg, then in the face, knocking him down with equal speed. The remaining suits took up the debate with everything they had. Despite having her ears covered, Makoto could hear every gunshot with crystal clarity, each blast nearly deafening despite the stranger's warning. Even worse, she could feel the car shaking with every round it absorbed, though none (thankfully) came through. Before her, the industrial concrete bank front was exposed in a matter of seconds, the plastic facade ripped away by the deadly claws of nine- millimeter slugs and the sting of buckshot. Only a handful of human screams could be heard over the din, as the people that hadn't already ran for it tried to take cover in the shooting gallery the street had become. The stranger began talking to himself, his voice unwavering. The gunfire died down slightly, accompied by the sounds of footsteps spreading out around them. "The easiest way to get at a target behind a cover is to flank him from two other positions and trap him in the crossfire. There are two ways this attack can be nullified. One, the enemy's weapons may simply be too powerful, and he can wipe out both the flanking forces. Two, the enemy may charge the barrier and attack the main holding force when two-thirds of enemy are moving away from him." Even as he finished speaking, the man was moving, jumping over the car and rolling slowly to the right. Five men stood guard before him, three in the process of re-loading their weapons. He hit the ground and instantly started to dodge back to the left. The first spray of ammo from the suits went wide, leaving him precious time to get his own MP5 out. He fired from the hip, only pausing long enough for the gun's barrel to go from vertical to horizontal. The massive .50-cailber handgun he held in his other hand barked repeatedly, catching one of the suit's in the shoulder with a shot that was pure luck. As the bullets began to rake down the destroyed Honda's remains, coming within inches of the stranger's military-short haircut, he cut loose with a long burst from his submachine gun. The blast cut the men from left to right, across the gut. One stray round shattered the action of one of the suit's gun, redering it useless on the spot. The second man doubled over and just crumpled straight to the ground. The third was caught with a stunned expression on his face as is guts were ripped out of his back and used to give the black Lincoln a new paint job. The third man, already reeling back from the powerful handgun blast, was nearly cut in half from his right hip to his left shoulder as the 9mm slugs tore into his body with all the mercy chunks of super-sonic metal could muster. The last man in the shooting gallery fell backwards as the tail end of the burst cut into him, causing his aim to go wild, missing the stranger completely.