Thousands of people pushed, shuffled and strode past Bosatsu. He stood impassive, back against a cool concrete pillar watching the crowd - hunting for the target. Then he picked up the scent. His Hitachi scanner hummed lightly in his pocket, and as he pulled it out to glance at the green LED readout the subway train roared back out of sight into Tokyo's underground system. Thunder of footsteps. A tanoy call. Bosatsu moved quickly tracking his quarry. The guy in front - there, heading for the escalators with two-hundred others. A nondescript suit, a zaibatsu courier. On to the escalator. The suit up-ahead. Warm air blasted over them from the platform behind.
Bosatsu pocketed the Hitachi and then eased off the safety on his Lansing riot pistol. Bass notes thrummed as another subway train arrived at one of the other platforms. Hunter and hunted with a mass of innocents passed video-ads chattering in Japanese and overlayed with colourful zaibatsu logos and kanji script. As Bosatsu came to the top of the escalators he jostled with the crowd to get right behind the sarariman. They passed through the echoing main hall and up the steps. Phase 2 any second now, he thought. Sweat coursed down his back. The suit suddenly stopped dead in his tracks...shit! With a puff of smoke he carried on, his cigarette lit. Almost to the top of the concrete stairs - the noise of traffic and street life loud.Carbon monoxide, warm noodles, blossom, cigarettes. The city smell seeped down the stairs and down into the tunnels. Above the exit on a bright-lit sign "Tawaramachi" and the kanji for it too. No sweat.
Mid-day Tokyo. Suits and tourists. A wall of dressed flesh, flowing like fresh blood following lines of least resistance, threatening to wash him away. Now he could move; he checked the team's MPV at the curb. Double checked the suit directly ahead and pulled the Lansing. Instant action stretched in an elastic torture, his mind screaming "now, now, now!", his body seemingly distant and slow. Like his body was on Mars and he had to use a satellite uplink to give it orders. For a long second no-one noticed the fat pistol as he took aim, but in the instant he began squeezing the trigger, screams rang out, people moved with blinding speed and the target spun round in confusion. The 20mm shell left the barrel and with a spray of blood from the side of Mr Sarariman's head, connected. His cigarette fell from his mouth. He staggered backwards, delayed flight mechanisms in overdrive, and smacked into the solid sidewalk. No mess. Bosatsu spun the Lansing's cylinder until one of the shells marked "B" rotated into place. Two men with bullpups fell out of the MPV toward him. Screams and panic, electric terror as Bosatsu turned to the cowering people. "Stay back!", "Stay away!". His team-mates dragged the courier's drugged body back into the MPV. Bosatsu threatened, turned constantly, stroked the trigger. Then he was away toward and into the mini-van as it wheel-spun its way down Asakusa-dori Avenue. Perfect man, just perfect.