Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction / Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Gotta Knock a Little Harder ❯ Gotta Knock a Little Harder ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Synopsis: Ed and Ein have taken off to find Ed's father, and Faye is off rediscovering her past. Jet and Spike are left alone with each other.

They leave Earth and set a course back to Mars, but they don't even make it past the moon when Jet gets a message from an old friend, giving him a head's up, and first shot at a bountyhead worth about 100 million Woolongs. Last known position, headed right toward Earth.

A bounty that high is impossible to pass up, especially when it's about to be dumped right in their laps.

Easy money, right?

Unfortunately, things go a little wrong after they get the bounty on the Bebop, and secured.

Now where the hell did that wormhole come from?

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix.

Anime/Manga: Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction / Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Sci-fi / Drama | Type: Crossover | Uploaded On: 08.31.2005 | Updated On: 05.11.2007 | Pages: 16 | Words: 15.1K | Visits: 1.8K | Status: Completed

Gotta Knock a Little Harder

Suddenly it occurred to me; The reason for the run and hide; Had totaled my existence; Everything left on the other side; Could never be much worse that this; But could I go the distance… ~ Mai Yamane (Knockin' on Heaven's Door)

Gone. Just like that. Faye took off to rediscover her past, and Ed just… left. To find her Old Man, I guess.

I didn't realize how big and empty this old ship felt until now. How every step echoes. How every thought feels like a shout.

Spike? Well, he won't admit it, but I think he's taking it harder than I am. He's off hiding somewhere on the ship, alone. He'll come out when he's ready to get out of his own head. Probably about the time we make planetfall on Mars. It's just as well, I suppose. I'm not feeling very sociable, myself. Being inside my own head isn't the worst place to be. Not the best; but definitely not the worst.

Damn, I hope Ed and Ein are doing okay. And as much as I hate to admit it, I hope Faye is alright, too.

I hope they know they still have a home here, if they decide to come back.

[1.1.1.1]

Jet sat in the pilot's seat of the Bebop, watching the broken moon pass by in the port. His feet were propped on the control panel, unconcerned with the data rolling up the screen. The ship was on auto-pilot, and she knew where to go. He didn't need to tell her anything else, right now.

The comm chirped, pulling him out of his thoughts. He glared at it a moment, trying to decide if he really wanted to answer it, or not. But curiosity got the better of him. That and the angry red LED was warning him the Bebop was getting dangerously low on fuel. He was certain they'd make it back to Mars, but not so certain he'd have the woolongs to fill her again once he got there.

He sighed and dropped his feet onto the deck with a louder than usual clank. Even a low bountyhead was going to be better than none at all. And he sincerely hoped it was what the call was for.

He hesitated when he saw the location the transmission was coming from. Ganymede?

Jet grumbled low, and hit the connection. The face which appeared on the screen made his heart lurch.

“Alisa?”

“Jet, thank God it's you who answered.”

What the Hell could she want?

“Are you in trouble?” he blurted out, and immediately wished he hadn't.

She smiled a little sadly. “You never change—“

“Sorry.”

“—But that's not why I called.” She glanced nervously back over her shoulder, then back to the comm screen.

She's scared, Jet thought. But of what?

“Look, I shouldn't be telling you this—“

“If it's going to get you into trouble, maybe you shouldn't.”

She glared at him, and he felt the heat of her look clear across the Solar System. He winced.

“Jet, there's a bountyhead which hasn't been announced yet. I think you should take it.”

Not announced yet? He thought, as he lit a cigarette. But why is she telling me this? And who's putting up the woolongs?

“I don't take private bounties, Alisa. You know that,” he said. “Too many strings attached.”

“I know. But I think you really need to take this one. It's one hundred million.”

Jet nearly choked on the smoke. He hacked and coughed a moment, and when he finally got back under control, he peered close to the screen. He couldn't read much of anything on her face, but that was just like her. Hell, I had no idea she was unhappy, until I came home, and she was gone.

“Okay,” he said. “Fill me in.”

[2.2.2.2]

Spike wasn't asleep. In fact, he was wide awake and just staring at the ceiling, when he felt the ship lurch and change attitude. He could hardly miss it, since it nearly threw him out of bed.

Okay, he thought. We're turning around, and headed back to Earth. Great. Lovely.

He sighed and sat up. He felt around in the dark for his jacket, and the cigarettes in the pocket. He gave up on the idea of sleep, for now.

His prize wasn't within reach. He got out of the bed, and down on the cold deck on his hands and knees. He felt around under the bed. Ah-hah, he thought as he felt the familiar fabric of the old suit jacket with the tips of his fingers. Not quite within grasp. He crouched down further, and stuck his head under the bed. It was enough to reach… almost.

“Just a little more.”

The in-ship comm squawked, causing Spike to start and clonk his head on the metal bed frame. “Ow! Dammit.”

“Spike, get your ass up here, we have a job to do,” Jet said over the comm.

Spike just grumbled, and rubbed his head. He sat back on the bed with his cigarettes, and ignored the summons. There was only one reason they could be headed back to Earth. Two actually, and he was in no mood to deal with either of them.

“Spike, did you hear me?”

He shook a cigarette out of the pack, and put it between his lips.

“Spike!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Spike said as he brought the flame toward the tip of the cigarette. “Faye or Ed got themselves into trouble, and we're going to bail them out.”

“Wrong on both counts,” Jet said. “We have a bounty. For one hundred million.”

Spike stopped the flame before it lit the tobacco, and a fine brow arched.

[3.3.3.3]

Jet kept one eye on the sensors and another on the red dot of the Swordfish hovering in the distance. Last known location of the bountyhead was on a direct heading to Earth.

Odd, he thought. She wasn't even trying to cover her trail.

He read over the info Alisa sent him again. Brianne McKenna, age unknown. Jet looked at the picture which came with the file, and estimated late twenties. Cute, too, he thought. Hair's an interesting shade of red. Not that orangey-red like Ed's was. More like a garnet. Don't see that colour much these days, though. The popular dye jobs seem to be greens and purples.

There was something about the eyes that bothered him, though. It wasn't the colour. He rubbed his chin and smiled a little. He'd always had a weakness for green eyes, and hers were very green. Like an emerald.

He chuckled at the thought. Careful there, Old Dog. Next thing you know, you're going to compare every attribute to some precious stone and become infatuated. Bad idea.

But the eyes are disturbing. Not psychotic or blank. More… ancient. Like she's seen eternity, and is wearied by it.

But how does anyone not know their own age nowadays? Unless… He thought about Faye. Awakened from cryosleep, and had no memory of her past before that moment. Considering the amount of debt the sleepers wake up to, it's usually part of the record.

He looked it over, and her list of crimes; illegal drug use, and trafficking. Syndicate connections, naturally. Low-level lackey from the looks of it. But no debts.

He lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his seat. So what do we have here? What's between the lines? A private bounty of one hundred million woolongs put up by Gate Corp. Specifically the R & D section. For someone whose crimes don't even warrant a hundred thousand. She was employed with them for the past three years, though.

Addicted to Red Eye. That's some expensive stuff. A pricey habit. I'm sure she wasn't getting paid enough to support it. She'd have to find another way.

The only thing he could come up with which tied everything together in a nice, neat package was… espionage.

It left one loose end, though. Alisa. Jet still couldn't piece together how she was involved.

Of course she wasn't telling. He sighed, and rubbed his head. She needed to make her own choices, she told me. Even if they were bad ones. But damn if it isn't harder than hell to let her.

“You gotta let people help you once in awhile,” he mumbled.

“Come again?” Spike said over the comm.

Jet grimaced. He forgot it was left open.

“Nothin'. Thinking out loud.”

“Care to tell me why we're on this wild goose chase, then?”

“One hundred million woolongs, my friend,” Jet said.

“You believe that?”

“You think there's something that isn't in the file, Spike?”

“Runaway junkie with syndicate connections, and the bounty is put up by the Gate Corp's R & D? That doesn't sound a little fishy to you? Add to it, a `friend' asked you specifically, to get this one?”

Jet smiled a bit and rubbed his chin. “Well, when you put it that way—“

He was interrupted by a bleep from the sensor array. Someone was headed around the moon. “Head's up, Spike. We've got company.”

[4.4.4.4]

Spike caught sight of a spark as a small craft rounded the moon to the day side, and smiled. “Hello, Payday!”

He shot up and around, bringing the Swordfish back down behind the smaller craft. He fired off a few warning rounds to get the pilot's attention.

No reaction. No acceleration, no direction change, no nothing. “What the…?”

Spike sent a hail to the other craft, and got no response. He tried again, and still got no response.

“Great,” he muttered. “We got us a dead duck here, Jet.”

He could hear the other man cursing. Then, “Alright, I'll get a grapple on it. Maybe there's a reward for the craft's return.”

[5.5.5.5]

Spike docked in the bay after Jet grappled the craft in. By the time he was shut down and out of the Swordfish, the other man was already getting the hatch of the stolen craft open. “Anything in there worth anything?”

Jet leaned into the cockpit, and grunted. He came up with a limp, life-sized rag-doll with a head full of ropy, nasty long hair tossed over his shoulder. Her clothes, a threadbare t-shirt, a ratty vest, and a long skirt, looked like they had seen better days.

“So, the duck's not dead, after all,” Spike said.

Jet climbed backwards down the ladder, and his boots hit the deck with a hollow clank. “Nope. Just out like a light.”

He grunted again, and shifted the weight of the rag-doll. As he did, the jarring caused something to fall out of wherever it was squirreled away and roll to a stop at Spike's feet.

The younger man knelt down to pick it up.

“Now I wonder why that is,” he said, as he unfolded his lanky body and held up a vial with a diffuse sprayer for a cap. The weak light of the bay caught the deep red of the liquid inside.

Jet's bushy brows shot up, and he whistled low. “Looks like it's pure too.”

He took the vial with his free hand, and held it up to the light. “Jeeze, there must be enough Red Eye in that thing to stop a raging elephant in it's tracks.”

He tossed the vial back to Spike, who caught it deftly. “Lock it up. I'll get her secured.”

As he left the bay, he added, “She ain't gunna be pretty when she comes to, and starts jonesing for a fix.”

Spike looked at the vial of red liquid and shook his head. “I'm surprised she's not dead.”

[6.6.6.6]

Jet was kicked back on the chair in the lounge. Feet propped on the table. Arms crossed. Lightly dozing. The woman was laid out on the couch, one hand cuffed to the frame, and strapped securely to the couch around her waist. The waist strap was only for her own protection. He had no doubts he could handle her, even if she were in a rage.

It was his watch, but he didn't think she'd be coming around too soon.

Red Eye was a nasty amphetamine, with an even nastier crash once it wore off. And if she'd been doing stuff as strong as was in that vial for awhile, she was liable to be out until they got back to Mars.

He was supposed to take her back to the R & D section of Gate Corp on Ganymede, but considering he was owed a couple of “favors” from the head office, he doubted they'd complain too much if he just dropped her off, there. He wasn't sure what they wanted with her, and he wasn't sure he really cared. She's a paycheck. Nothing more, he told himself. The woman laying unconscious on the couch was a far cry from the image of the woman in the record, too. That makes it a little easier, he thought.

He heard her stir in the still conscious part of his mind, and opened one eye. Okay, maybe she won't stay out.

He sighed, and became more alert.

He watched silently as she groaned, and tried to bring her cuffed hand up to her face. It was stopped short, and her eyes popped open.

“Welcome aboard the Bebop,” Jet said.

She started, and looked in his direction. He got a good look at her eyes then. Febrile, he thought. Not good. Means she's starting the hard withdrawal. She's been off of the Red Eye for a little while.

Now why would a junkie deliberately resist taking something they're addicted to when they have it on hand? It doesn't make sense. But then, neither does trying to run away to Earth, either.

She reached up with her free hand, and patted around the vest she wore. Jet knew what she was looking for. “You're not going to find it, McKenna.”

She sighed, and dropped her hand. Giving up without a fight?

Jet's gut instinct was screaming at him now, telling him something was very, very wrong. He decided to take a moment, and listen to what else his gut told him. And right now, it's saying you should undo the waist strap, he thought.

He crossed the space between them, and knelt down. She remained still as he loosened the strap. “Need help sitting up?” he asked. She nodded.

He remained where he was after he helped her up, and watched her practically fold herself; drawing her knees up to her chest, and burying her face in them. Her free arm was hugging her stomach. The long, lanky hair was in desperate need of a wash, and she looked like she could do with some UV. Too skinny, he thought. Probably hasn't eaten in days. Probably barely eats when she does.

What a waste. What would crush a woman so much she let herself become a slave to that garbage? But the thought didn't ring true, to him. Something else nagged at the back of his mind, and he knew there was something else involved. Something more than simple addiction.

What caught his attention though, was when she folded herself up, the skirt came up, and revealed burn scars up her legs. He couldn't see how far up they went; the skirt covered most of them. And he wasn't rude enough to try. I'm not sure I want to know how it happened, he thought. Nor why those haven't been surgically repaired, either.

“You hungry?” he asked, but he knew what the answer would be.

She made a disgusted noise, and shook her head. Then she was wracked by a quaking which shook her body in waves. Her skin glistened with slick, oily sweat. Here we go.

“Can I have some of the Red Eye?” she asked into her knees.

Jet shook his head. “Sorry, I can't do that. I'll wipe the sweat off your face, I'll hold your head while you puke, and I'll hold you down when you convulse. But I'm not going to give you that shit.”

She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “You don't understand.”

“No, I understand all too well, I'm afraid. I'd love to help you through the withdrawal, but we ain't equipped for it. You're just going to have to kick this habit old school.”

She buried her face into her knees again, and she groaned. Her whole body shook violently.

Jet sensed, more than saw, Spike was up now, and parking himself in the chair with a cup of coffee. From the smell, he guessed the younger man was just out of the shower, and probably still just in a towel.

When the wave passed, she looked back at Jet. “Wh- where are you taking me?”

“Mars,” Spike answered. “Your employers want you back.”

She looked pained. “No,” she whispered. “Please.”

Jet shot Spike a dirty look. Spike as usual, was impervious to it.

He felt a tug at his shoulder with the cybernetic arm, and looked down to see her hand on the upper part of the arm.

Her whole body language had suddenly changed. Instead of sick, and in need of a fix, she was terrified. Her face, if possible, was paler than before, making the bruised smudges under her eyes stand out, and her lips nothing more than a gash of bloodless flesh. Her feet were on the floor, and she was leaning closer to him. “Please take me back to Earth. I don't want to die on Mars. Take me back to Earth before it's too late.”

“You're not going to die,” Jet tried to assure her. Although, considering Gate Corp's reputation, he wasn't all that sure.

She shook her head. “No. You don't understand. It's danger—“ Then she vomited.

“Whoa!”

“Dammit!”

It hit Jet full in the chest, and all over the deck. He was too stunned by the suddenness of it to get out of the way. An instant later, he had her by her shoulders, and was positioning her so he wouldn't get hit with the next volley. Just in time, as another gush of clear liquid shot out of her mouth and splattered on the deck.

“Well, that's real attractive,” Spike said.

“Go get a mop and a bucket.”

Never one to have a weak stomach, Jet just held her by the shoulders until she was through. Spike was nowhere to be seen, and he figured the kid was going to be out of sight until the crisis passed. Not afraid of blood and guts, but a little bit of puke, and he gets all squeamish. Jet just shook his head, and suppressed a chuckle.

The flood passed, and he felt her overly thin shoulders convulsing under his hands from a different cause. She was crying, and whispering, “I'm sorry,” over and over.

He helped her lay down. “Don't sweat it. The deck'll clean.” He needn't have bothered, she was unconscious.

Just about the time Spike returned with a mop and bucket, Jet caught a glint of something on the floor in the mess of clear fluids. Quite a few somethings, in fact. Hard and red.

He picked one up, much to the noisy dismay of Spike, and held it up to the light. “What do you make of this?” he asked.

“I think it's disgusting,” Spike said.

“It's a stone.”

“I've never seen Red Eye do that.”

“Neither have I. You think she's smuggling?”

“Pretty stupid way to do it. The stomach acid would damage precious stones, if they didn't slice up your stomach, first,” Spike said.

“Get me something to put these in, would ya?”

“As long as we're clear you're the one picking them out of that. Blegh!”

“Wimp.”

The woman groaned again. Jet readied himself for another round, and lurched to help her back up. Instead he was greeted with the sight of her eyes rolling back, and her body stiffening up in a seizure.

“And now the fun starts,” he said as he grabbed for the belt he'd used to hold her to the couch by her waist earlier. He straddled her chest, and pried her clenched jaw open enough to get the belt in, and then held on while she bucked violently.

Spike chose that moment to return, and he stopped dead in his tracks. A cigarette hung from his lips; a small canister was in one hand. “Should I come back later?”

Jet glared at him. Again, Spike was unaffected.

The older man never got a chance to comment, because suddenly, the seizures changed to a literal vibration which spread out from her solar plexis, through the couch, Jet, and the entire ship.

The very air seemed to vibrate, and every atom became charged. It was blinding.

Jet's arm went up to shade his eyes, and at one point the entire universe just… blinked.

In that brief instant, he had a glimpse of something which was both abjectly terrifying and horrifyingly, heart-breakingly, beautiful. No words in any human language would be sufficient to describe it. Only one word came close. Eternity.

As suddenly as it started, it stopped. The blinding light was gone, the vibration stopped.

Except for the normal creaking and groaning of the Bebop as she sailed through space, it was silent.

Jet and Spike looked at each other, the same question written all over their faces.

Silent?

“Aw, hell,” Jet said, as he launched himself off of their prisoner, and bounded into the bridge, leaving Spike dumbfounded in the lounge. Just as he reached the entry, the ship lurched like it had been broad sided, and threw him off his feet. At some point his cat-like partner had recovered, and leapt past him while he was picking himself up, and was now in the pilot's seat, trying to get the ship started again.

Jet didn't need to see out the port to know the squeaking and vibration that followed the lurch meant they were hitting an atmosphere. But we weren't anywhere near anything with an atmosphere just a moment ago, he thought.

He looked out the port. And immediately wished he hadn't.

“Where the hell are we?”

“Whaddaya mean, `where the hell are we', Jet?”

Jet pointed out the port at the green planet below. “Does that look familiar to you?” He shoved Spike out of the seat, and took over the attempt at coaxing the Bebop back to life. “Help me get these systems back on line, will ya?”

Spike vaulted over the pilot's panel, and down into the lower cockpit and set to work. Jet noticed the younger man was now missing his towel. No time to wonder about it now, he thought.

Suddenly one of the panels came to life in front of him. Unfortunately, it was bad news. “No fuel.”

“Getting controls back on line in 3… 2… 1… Mark.”

Other panels flickered to life, and Jet gripped the controls with both hands.

“Attitude control back on line,” Jet said. “For what it's worth,” he added under his breath.

The ship started shaking violently, nearly ripping the controls from his hands. It was only through sheer force of will, and extreme desperation that kept him from letting the wheel slip. “Better belt yourself in tight. It's gunna be a bumpy ride.”

Spike was one step ahead of him, and had himself strapped in before Jet finished the sentence. One good jolt caused the younger man to yelp in pain, and Jet winced in sympathy. Those straps couldn't be comfortable on bare skin.

He also remembered not only was he not strapped in, but neither was their bountyhead. Too late now, he thought. And in the port, the surface of the planet was growing larger.

“We need water, Spike!” The Bebop could land on the ground if need be, but it would take some serious finessing. She was originally a seagoing vessel, and she preferred to berth in water. Preferably a large body of water.

“No shit! But I'm not linking to any satellites here,” Spike said.

Jet continued to fight for control, and said through gritted teeth. “The satellite link-ups aren't coming on-line?” He glanced at his own panel, and saw the link array was in the green.

“No. I mean, there aren't any.”

“Then use your eyes, dammit!”

“What the fuck do you think I'm doing? To your left 3 degrees.”

Jet wrestled the steering to the left, and the water came into view. What there was of it. “That's it?! It's a creek.”

“Bouncing sonar off of it now. Looks like it's just deep enough. Barely.”

“If that's what we have, it's what we have. Let's thread this needle.” And pray.

[7.7.7.7]

Edward Elric sat at the bank of the lazy river. He needed to get away for a bit. All the people, and the noise at the Rockbell's place was not exactly the restful atmosphere he came looking for. Aunt Pinako and Winrey fussing over him were bad enough. But Brosh and Ross followed him out here, and—

“Young Elric,” Armstrong called, interrupting the peace. Ed buried his face in his hands and groaned.

The giant stood next to the diminutive boy with the long blonde braid, effectively blocking out any semblance of warm sunshine. Ed sighed and craned his neck to look up at the man. The Strong Arm Alchemist was staring out at the landscape and the river. For reasons Ed couldn't fathom, the man found this pastoral community desirable. He just found it incredibly boring most of the time.

Except when he wanted a little peace and quiet. Something that was rather elusive right now, much to his dismay.

He waited a little longer for Armstrong to say something, but his neck was starting to hurt from looking up. “Did you want something, Major?”

Armstrong was shielding his eyes from the setting sun, staring intently into the horizon. Ed looked in the same direction, but couldn't see what had the man's rapt attention.

“Major?”

“Yes,” Armstrong said. “Aunt Pinako sent me to fetch you for dinner.”

Ed smiled a bit at that. Even Major Armstrong has taken to calling her `Aunt'. Seems anyone who spends any amount of time around her does, though.

“Tell her I'll be there in a bit,” Ed said. “I want to spend a lit—“

Without warning, Armstrong scooped him up, tossed him over his shoulder, and was galloping toward the house.

“Hey!”

An immense shadow eclipsed his shaky point of view, and he looked up. “What the hell?”

It took a moment for his brain to comprehend what he was seeing. And as soon as he did, his eyes went wide, and his throat locked up.

What looked like a huge, metal, ocean vessel was diving for the river. A ship?! From the sky?!

From the angle of the descent, and the speed in which it was coming in, Ed knew it was going to miss the bend in the river, and go to ground.

The whole bizarre scene played out for him as if though molasses. The giant ship hit the water with huge waves erupting upward in its wake. It bounced like a skipping stone, and came back down. Then it leapt to shore, bouncing again. Still, it charged relentlessly forward. The wake changed from water, to mud, to dirt; and still the ship showed no sign of slowing. It skipped again, and looked like it was going to come down right on top of them.

Ed screamed.

Armstrong changed direction.

The ship came down again.

The horrible sound of metal screeching in protest nearly deafened him, as he watched one of the rudders bend, then snap, pitching the ship sideways, and sending it on a direct path toward them. What Ed could only assume was an engine crumpled like paper under the weight, and the ship rolled further.

Incredibly, the top of the ship snapped off, and the force of the crash sent it tumbling ahead of the main body and the wall of dirt it had kicked up as it came to an abrupt stop.

“Major,” Ed warned.

“I know!”

“We'd better dive for cover!”

“I know!”

Ed suddenly realized he never ever wanted to see something that big, moving that fast, that close up. “Better do it n—“

There was a sickening weightlessness, and then a jarring thump, as he hit the ground. He had an instant to react, as he saw Armstrong flying in. He was shadowed by the top of the ship as it flew right over them, followed by a wall of dirt, grass, rocks, and small trees. He rolled out of the way before he was squished by the Major. The thought of transmutating a barrier to protect them died aborning, as he was buried under an avalanche of dirt.

Ed couldn't breathe, and he started to panic. Then he remembered the weight on him wasn't the metal behemoth, but a ton of dirt which had been thrown up in its wake. Easy enough to get out of, he thought. Then he realized he was trapped, and couldn't bring his hands together to do a transmutation. Panic settled in for a nice long visit.

I can wiggle my fingers enough to dig, he thought. And maybe someone saw where I landed, and is already trying to dig me out from the top… I hope.

He couldn't breathe. He tried to calm himself, and breathe shallow, but no matter what he did, dirt went up his nose, and in his mouth. He tried holding his breath, but the weight of all the dirt was constricting his ribs. Pushing the air out of him. His last thought, before he lost consciousness was, it was amazing how even in pitch darkness, he could still see those little black spots warning him he was about to pass out.

[8.8.8.8]

Armstrong had used his strength-enhancing alchemy to get himself out from under the ton of dirt in short order, and was already preparing to dig Ed out, by the time the rest of the party and a few village folk arrived to see what all the ruckus was about. He knew right where Ed was, and powered a huge fist straight down through the dirt, all the way up to his shoulder. He felt the wool of the boy's jacket, and grasped it. He focused all his strength in the one arm, and with a grunt, yanked him to the surface.

The sight of the dirt-encrusted, unconscious boy caused Winrey and Al to cry out and lurch forward. But Pinako stayed them both with a gentle hand. It always amazed Armstrong how this tiny woman commanded such obedience, and he made a mental note to ask her about it someday.

He gave Ed a whack on the back, and busted loose most of the dirt that was blocking his breathing. The boy hacked and wheezed, then started coughing violently. Armstrong let him get the rest of the dirt out on his own. He was breathing now, that was good enough.

He took a moment to survey the scene. On one side of them, was the wrecked lower portion of the ship, debris scattered all around it. On the other, was the top part. Smaller, badly crumpled in places, and all the glass on the front of it shattered or cracked; but in amazingly good shape, otherwise.

Brosh, Ross and a handful of the locals had already swarmed the wrecked ship, and someone shouted there were injured people inside the top section.

From that moment, Pinako was in control, barking orders, and getting the rescue organized. Armstrong decided staying out of her way would be the better part of valor this time. His responsibility was right next to him, anyway.

Ed had passed out again, but at least he was breathing fine, and nothing seemed broken. Although he had a feeling the boy would have to put up with Winrey's scoldings while she cleaned all the dirt from his automail.

Come to think of it, Armstrong thought, as he gently picked Ed up to carry him back to the house. Miss Rockbell has been strangely quiet.

He looked around, and finally found her nearby. He was quite surprised to see her on the ground, rather than exploring the ship. Then he caught the look on her face. It's like she's looking into the face of God, he thought. Then again, for Winrey Rockbell, mechanical things are almost religion, so maybe she is. He chuckled and carried Edward Elric back to the Rockbell house.

[9.9.9.9]

Maria Ross was the first one to find the naked man in the lower cockpit of the wrecked ship. This section was sitting at a crazy angle, and footing was tenuous. But she was able to climb down, and balance on the side of what appeared to be a control panel. He was strapped securely in the seat and a chunk of the fuselage had been impaled through his upper thigh. He wasn't going anywhere real soon. What took her by surprise though, was he was fully conscious, quite lucid, and calmly smoking a cigarette.

Her eyes scanned him from the top of his thick, tousselled hair; to the finely tuned, whip-thin body; to his long, graceful legs. Assessing the damage, she told herself. But she felt her cheeks grow unbearably hot when she looked back up, and saw he was watching her closely out of the corner of his eye. There was an ever so slight upturn to one side of his lips.

She felt the blush rage harder. Arrogant ass, she thought. Then she saw him visibly shiver.

She coughed delicately, and managed to shift back to the professional soldier again. “We'll have you out of here soon, Sir,” she said. She took off her jacket, and covered him up as best she could, under the circumstances.

He smirked. Very arrogant, she thought.

He coughed, and winced. His hands involuntarily went to the metal sticking out of his thigh. “Jet,” he said.

“Sir?”

“My partner,” he said.

She glanced over at the other man. He was currently unconscious, with what looked to be a nasty gash on his head. From his position, she figured he wasn't strapped in, and had been thrown from the seat on the upper part of the deck. Brosh had clambered in and slid down to the other victim, and was knelt over him, checking him out. “Sergeant?”

“It looks worse than it is, Lieutenant. Minor injuries. Maybe a broken rib or two.” He stood and crossed over to them, looking up. He noticed the injuries of the other man, and raised a brow at the rest of his condition. “I think this guy here is in worse shape.”

Ross nodded, and turned her attention back to the lanky man pinned in the seat. “Are there any other passengers we should know about?”

The man took a long, slow drag off his cigarette, and just as slowly blew the smoke back out. This is a man who lives by his own rules, she thought. And he has no compunctions about making sure everyone knows it.

“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Upper deck. Lounge. Female prisoner strapped in, and handcuffed to the couch.”

“Prisoner, Sir?”

“Spike.”

“Pardon?”

“I'm not military. Don't call me `Sir'. The name's Spike.”

“Yes, Si- er, Spike,” Ross said. She motioned for Brosh to find the other passenger. He saluted smartly and left.

That was odd, she thought, as she watched his retreating back. She made a mental note to ask him why he was suddenly so formal with her, then turned her attention back to Spike. “Someone will be here in a moment to get you out of here. Is there anything we need to know about this prisoner of yours? Is she dangerous?”

Spike coughed again, and groaned. Then to her surprise, he laughed and said, “Oh, goddamn that hurts.”

It suddenly occurred to Ross that she hadn't checked him for any other injuries. Specifically internal. She knelt next to him, and hesitantly felt his ribs and abdomen. Nothing felt swollen, broken, or out of place, but she wasn't a medic. “Do you know if you have any other injuries?”

“My pride.”

She stood back up. “Well, I doubt that's life-threatening.”

“Matter of opinion. And the answer is no.”

“No?”

“The prisoner. No, she's not dangerous. Just a low-level junkie with a price on her head.”

Ross' brows shot up into her short bangs. “You're a bounty-hunter?”

“Heh. Something like that.”

Brosh returned and reported. “The other passenger appears to be uninjured, Lieutenant. She was strapped in pretty good. But it's a mess in there, and she looks sick.”

“Don't worry,” Spike said. “It's not contagious. She's going through withdrawal.”

Brosh nodded acknowledgement, then turned back to Ross. “The others are getting stretchers and transport ready. Pinako said she can house them, and has the supplies to treat them, as long as the injuries aren't too serious. She's already got a call in to a surgeon, but it's going to take about three days for him to get here.”

“Three days?” Spike asked. “Where is this guy? On the other end of the solar system?”

“Pardon?” Brosh said.

“Central City,” said Ross. “It's about three days train ride from here.” Odd thing to say, she thought. But then falling out of the sky isn't something that happens every day, either.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy boot steps approaching. “Major Armstrong is here, Spike. You'll be out of here in no time.”

“Get Jet taken care of, first,” he said. He looked down at his leg. “I'm not going anywhere for now.”

[0.0.0.0]

Jet snapped awake to the sound of an anguished scream, and a string of incredibly creative profanities. “Spike!”

In an instant he was up, and just as quickly regretted it. The room spun at a nauseating angle, and it felt like someone just smashed a sledgehammer into his head. He lurched toward the sound and an open doorway. He fell against it, and just caught himself from falling by grabbing the frame. He saw his partner stretched out on a wooden table, naked except for a sheet which covered his groin and one leg. Several people were holding him down, and one tiny woman looked to be torturing him.

Spike let out another yell, and Jet bellowed, “What are you people doing to my partner?!”

A slight woman with short, black hair and in uniform came up to him, and took him gently by the shoulder. “Mr. Black, you need to lie back down.”

He shrugged her hand off, and stumbled forward. A huge arm shot out, and caught him before he hit the floor. “Mr. Black,” he heard a deep male voice say. “Your partner is being treated for his injuries.”

Jet followed the beefy arm up to a beefy shoulder, which was connected to a giant of a man. Jet knew he was no slouch in the size department, and had used it on occasion to his advantage. But this man made him feel tiny in comparison. He knew he would be no match for this giant, even on his best day, and resigned himself to the fact that he was going to be sent back to bed like an errant child.

To his surprise, the giant helped him over to the table where Spike was. One of the other people in uniform moved aside near the younger man's shoulder, to make room for Jet on the rough-hewn bench.

Spike was drenched in sweat, and his face was a rictus of agony. The giant gently patted him on the shoulder, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then his huge hands settled back on his shoulders. It didn't look to Jet there any pressure was being placed on them, but he had a feeling none was needed. That man probably has the gravity of Jupiter in those hands, he thought.

The tiny old woman hit a tender spot on Spike again, because he let loose with another agonized scream, and nearly jumped out of the giant's grip. “Goddammit, Old Woman! You did that on purpose!”

Jet watched as the old woman kept working on the injured leg, and never even blinked at Spike's invective. Instead, she glanced over at the other two soldiers holding onto his legs. “You two need to keep a better grip on him.”

“Can't you use an anesthetic,” Jet asked.

“None available here, Mr. Black. And a surgeon won't be able to get here in time to save your partner's leg.” She turned to him, piercing eyes looking over the rim of her glasses. “Your partner here is very fortunate that piece of metal didn't hit his femoral artery. It was very close.” She jerked a stitch tight, making Spike scream and curse again.

Jet's stomach clenched. He hadn't considered just how close they'd come to dying until that moment. Neither of us is afraid to die, he thought. But the idea of dying in a place so far away from home… alone… he stopped the thought before it completely formed. It brought into question a lot of other things he didn't care to contemplate right at the moment.

He looked around at the crowded room. The giant, bald except for the blonde brows and mustache; the slight woman with the short black hair; and the other guy who was similar to Spike in build, but definitely not in looks, were all in a uniform. Military?

Then there was the tiny woman who was stitching Spike back together, and deftly ignoring his verbal abuse. A matriarch, Jet thought. She's in complete control of the situation, and no one seems too concerned about it. They all are treating her with respect.

Spike spouted off with another string of profanities as she tightened another stitch. Jet chuckled to himself. Well, not everyone. At least she isn't letting it get to her.

Across the room, he watched the back of a shapely young blonde girl as she was bent over someone else. He could see she was struggling with something, and the person she was bent over was tensed. The other person's visible hand was clenched so tightly to the edge of the bench against the back wall, Jet was certain he'd find dents in it later.

He heard a sickening crunch, and the other person cried out in pain. The shapely blonde straightened and turned around with an arm in her hand. There was an instant of horror, then he realized it was a prosthetic, and it was encrusted with dirt.

“Honestly, Edward. You'd think I tore off your real arm,” she said, then walked out. Edward, the person on the bench, just groaned in annoyance, and thumped the back of his head once against the wall. He was covered in dirt, and his clothes were pretty torn up. But Jet could still tell he was clearly older than his diminutive size would originally indicate.

The kid opened his eyes, and looked right at Jet. He smiled a little and nodded. “How are you?”

Jet gingerly touched the bandages wrapped around his head. “Feels like the forth day of a three day drinking binge,” he said. “But I'll live.”

Edward nodded toward Spike, and said, “Looks like your friend passed out.”

“'Bout time, too. He was giving me a headache.”

The kid started to get up, and it was then Jet noticed he was using a crutch, and missing a leg, as well as the arm.

“You sit your butt right back down, Edward Elric,” the old woman said without even looking up. “You're filthy and I don't want you near my patient.” The boy landed back on the bench with a thump.

“Family?” Jet asked. The kid nodded, and smiled.

“Aunt Pinako. The one who ran off with my automail is Winrey,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction the blonde girl disappeared. He pointed at a suit of armor Jet hadn't noticed before, sitting in the corner. “That's my little brother, Al.”

To Jet's shock, the armor waved, and a child's voice came from it. “Hello, Mr. Black.”

“Uh…”

“It's a long story,” Edward said.

“I'm sure it is.”

Ed finished with the introductions. “Down at the end of the table are Lieutenant Maria Ross, and Sergeant Denny Brosh.” He gestured to the giant, but before he could say anything the big man flexed his muscles, and Jet could swear he saw him sparkle.

“I am Major Alexander Armstrong, the Strong Arm Alchemist!”

Jet noticed Edward just covered his eyes with his hand, and shook his head. The other two soldiers both groaned softly and rolled their eyes.

“At your service, Sir,” Armstrong finished. Jet turned back to him, and saw a huge hand offered to him. He hesitantly placed his in it, and was surprised to find the giant had a firm, but gentle shake. At least he knows his own strength, Jet thought. That's a relief.

The girl Ed said was named Winrey came back into the room, wiping her hands, and said, “Your automail is soaking in solvent now. But you're not getting it back until you get out of those clothes, and get a shower.”

“Er…”

Jet could have sworn he saw an evil gleam in the girl's eyes, as she said, “Its okay. I'll help you.”

He could feel the boy blush clear over where he was sitting. Even under all the dirt.

“That's okay, Winrey,” Ross said. “I'll be happy to assist him.”

Jet didn't miss the mischief in her eyes, either. Although the deadpan look was enough to spark envy in Spike.

Oh, these women are cruel, he thought, as he watched Ed's eyes grow incredibly wide, and he took on the posture of a trapped animal. He briefly wondered what the boy had done to warrant such evilness, but he couldn't help but enjoy the show. Most likely teenaged male arrogance, he thought. I remember being a little smart-ass with a big ego when I was his age… A million years ago.

Armstrong flexed and posed again. And Jet was certain he sparkled this time. “I'll assist young Master Elric with his shower!”

“Gah! No!” Ed looked over at Brosh, silently pleading for rescue. But he appeared to be intensely interested in his fingernails.

The young Sergeant looked up, feigning surprise, and said, “Don't look at me! I'm outranked, here.”

“Geese! You're all treating me like a kid, here!”

“You should remember that everyone needs help once in awhile, Edward,” Pinako said while she finished up the last of Spike's stitches. “Even adults.”

The suit of armor stood up, stunning Jet once again. “I'll help him, Aunt Pinako.”

He could see the boy was visibly relieved, as the two of them headed outside.

Outside showers, Jet thought. Meatball surgery without anesthetic, stitches instead of laser fusing? No hospitals nearby? Just how primitive was the level of technology here? Will we even be able to get back home? The thought of being stuck here was frightening. He considered just how beat up and obsolete the technology was on the Bebop, and considered that preferable than what he was witnessing here.

He watched Pinako carefully wrap Spike's leg, and was grateful for her care. Jet, Old Man, he thought. Consider the alternatives.

He could see these people all cared about each other, and didn't hesitate to care for strangers. Even strangers like me, Spike, and…

“Damn,” he said, and Pinako looked at him. Jet grinned sheepishly. “I must've been clonked on the head harder than I first thought. I didn't think to ask how McKenna was doing.”

“Sleeping peacefully, for now,” Pinako said. “She should stay that way until morning, then the drugs should be out of her system.”

“???”

Pinako nodded toward Spike, as the Major covered him up, and carried him off to another room. “Your partner warned Lieutenant Ross that she was an addict, and was in withdrawal. I gave her some herbal tea which will help her sweat out the drugs, and sleep through the night. She'll be fine.”

Jet chuckled softly, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And you couldn't have given any of that to Spike?”

The tiny woman produced a pipe from under her apron, and filled it. She smiled, as she lit it. “The thought had occurred to me, Mr. Black. Believe me. But that herb also has a way of thinning the blood. I didn't want to risk it on your partner.”

Jet nodded. Even with the patch job finished for Spike, the activity in the room didn't slow down. Ross was scrubbing down the table, and Winrey brought him a cup of hot tea. He suddenly noticed there were some wonderful smells coming from what had to be a kitchen, and his stomach loudly commented.

Pinako just smiled, and said, “Dinner will be ready shortly.” She walked past him, and toward the outside, and added, “And that's just regular tea, Mr. Black. I didn't slip anything in it.”

He didn't realize he'd looked suspicious of it.