Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction / Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Gotta Knock a Little Harder ❯ War Child ( Chapter 11 )

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

Spike in too bad of shape to fly the Swordfish?! You're kidding, right? Ed's piloting?! You didn't think I'd let them get off -that- easy, did you?
(Edit) To correct some grammar problems, and to smooth out the issue with Spike and the chimera bite. And really? Do you think it's appropriate for Jet to even be contemplating getting his freak on during a crisis?

Anime/Manga: Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction / Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Sci-fi / Drama | Type: Crossover | Uploaded On: 09.17.2005 | Updated On: 10.22.2005 | Pages: 8 | Words: 5.8K | Visits: 799 | Status: Completed

War Child

(Instrumental) ~ Jethro Tull

Spike glanced back over his shoulder as Ed yanked him toward escape, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Scar was gone. Disappeared. Spike could accept that. He didn't think the man was critically injured, anyway.

But what he couldn't quite wrap his brain around, was the woman—

Had the fat one called her `Lust'?,

--was now sitting up, and smirking at him. He heard the tiny plink of bullets hitting the ground as they popped out of her body.

Then he saw the shattered remains of the fat one's head coming together like quicksilver and reattaching itself to the body. That was when Spike's brain shut down, and he thought he might go quietly insane.

He stumbled, and Ed rushed in to support him. “Ya gotta hang on Spike, I can't carry you,” he said.

He shook the fog that was threatening to take over, and went on autopilot. The only thing on his mind at this moment, was they had to get back to the Swordfish, and get the hell out of here. He did not want to think about what he'd just witnessed. It was just too unreal.

[1.1.1.1]

Ed was scared. Not for himself, but for Spike. The man's condition was worsening as the blood slowly drained from his body, and he was getting harder to support.

Reaching the Swordfish's hiding place was like finding paradise at that very moment. He never thought an old warehouse could look so damn beautiful.

He never looked back once. He knew that if he did, he'd freeze in terror. But he also knew that they were moving slow enough that Lust and Gluttony could catch up to them with little effort. He didn't want to think about why they didn't. That was for later. When they finally escaped, and were well on their way back home.

He nearly came out of his skin, when he dragged Spike into the warehouse, and the Swordfish started up on it's own. Then Spike showed him a small device.

“Remote control,” he said, and smiled weakly.

“Can you fly?” Ed asked him. Spike grimaced and shook his head.

Ed felt the blood drain from his face, and a heavy weight at the pit of his stomach. “I can't fly that thing!”

Spike said, “You're not. Take off and landing is all you have to worry about, the `fish'll bring us back home.” He coughed, and spat out a glob of blood. “'Course that's the hard part.”

“I can't…”

“Yeah you can, Ed. Just do what I tell you.”

Ed helped get Spike up into the craft, and strapped into the back. He got the satchels of stones loaded, and then strapped himself securely in the pilot's seat. He was grateful that the seat adjusted, else he'd never be able to reach the floor pedals.

Spike explained what he had to know through gasping breaths. “The grips are your accelerator. Roll them forward to speed up, back to slow down. Pull back on the grips to gain altitude, and push forward to decline.” He groaned, and gasped, then said, “Got it?'

“Yeah.”

“Repeat it to me, Ed.”

He did. Spike nodded. “Good. See that blue light on the panel? That's for the wings. As soon as we roll out of the warehouse, hit it. Then immediately hit the yellow light next to it. That's the autopilot.”

“There's not a lot of space out behind the warehouse, Spike,” Ed said. “How are we going to take off?”

“V-TOL.”

“Huh?”

“It's vertical take-off and landing.” Spike coughed. “Uses a lot of fuel, but good in a pinch.”

“Okay. But how are we going to get out of the warehouse? Crash through the wall?”

Spike coughed again, then groaned, and spat. “See the red button on the right grip? Push it.”

Ed did, and a missile launched, exploding when it hit the back wall. Blinding him, and shaking the craft. He damn near jumped out of the seat. “Shit!”

Spike chuckled. “Your other right, Ed.”

“What the hell was that one supposed to be? A bigger bomb?!”

“Gattling gun. A missile would've been overkill.”

“Heh. I don't think we need it, now,” Ed said.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Ed rolled the grips forward, like Spike said, and the swordfish started to move. He was careful not to roll too far, for fear of the amount of speed the craft could gain in a short time. Crashing into something else would not be healthy. As soon as the wings slipped past the wall, he hit the controls, then the autopilot.

There was a slight hesitation in the craft, and then it leapt into the air.

There was definitely something very exhilarating in being in the pilot's seat, Ed realized, as an excited whoop escaped his lips. He knew he was no longer in control of the ship, but it still felt awe-inspiring. He suddenly had a slight understanding of why Spike was so attached to this craft.

“The `fish knows the way home, Ed. Let her do the flying,” Spike said. It was only then Ed realized he was still holding tight to the grips. He let go, and settled back in the seat. Through the mirror, he saw that Spike was out.

“Hold on, my friend,” Ed whispered. “We'll get home safe.”

Mentally he added, I hope.

[2.2.2.2]

Jet wasn't sure how long he'd set on that dolly cleaning his tools, he just knew they were probably the cleanest they'd ever been. He didn't much care at the moment, it was something to keep his hands busy while he disappeared somewhere in his own head.

His gut told him that things were going very badly for Spike and Ed, and by default, himself and Alphonse, as well. And you didn't help matters any, by pissing off McKenna, he thought.

He dropped a polished wrench into the box, and rubbed the top of his head. Goddammit Old Dog, that was stupid. You don't have to like the pain in the ass wench, but you could try to be civil. At least until you get back home, and turn her over to Gate Corp.

His stomach clenched at the thought. The very idea was wrong, and he knew it. But at the same time, his head was telling him that she was probably lying her ass off.

It's not your problem, his head told him. You need that money.

She is a victim, his gut told him. Innocent.

She's a criminal. A killer of millions of people. She caused the Moon Gate explosion.

Bullshit. It was an accident. And there's no proof that Gate Corp was preparing to fix that instability. They've already proven they're willing to ignore other problems.

You're trying to defend her because you're attracted to her, that's all.

“Dammit,” Jet yelled, and threw his rag down into the toolbox.

He got to his feet, and saw Al at the bay door. Beyond him, Jet could see that the sky was brighter. The sun was up now, and the world was coming to life.

“Jet?” the boy said.

The older man didn't have to hear the rest of the question. It was all over the boy's posture. He just shook his head, and said, “I'm sorry, Alphonse. I haven't heard anything, yet.”

“Are you going to… go find them?”

Jet rubbed his chin, and thought a moment. He looked up at the boy, and said, “I might have to.”

“Take me with you? Please?”

He thought a moment, trying to figure out the logistics of fitting that suit of armor in the Hammerhead. He'd hauled big bountyheads in the back seat before, but he couldn't remember anyone being quite Al's size. It might be a tight squeeze, but he figured he could manage it. He was going to need the boy's help, after all.

He nodded. “Let's give it one more hour, and if we don't hear from them, we're going.”

Al bowed, and went back outside.

Jet headed around the nose of the Hammerhead. He'd planned to look over the plans that Ed had drawn up for them earlier, and plan a search grid, but he stopped dead in his tracks, and forgot all about that.

McKenna was climbing down from her stolen craft, a small leather bag in her hand.

Now would be a good time to make like a gentleman, Jet, he thought.

“McKenna.”

She landed on the deck, and spun, startled. As soon as she realized who had called her name, her face went cold. She held out the leather bag to Jet.

He took it, looked at it. His brow furrowed. “What the hell is this?”

“The data from Gate Corp,” she said. “It's your ace if I don't come back. They won't come after you as long as you have that.”

“Come back?”

Dawn suddenly struck, and Jet grabbed her by the front of her shirt. “You're not plannin' on looking for them, are you?”

She didn't fight him. She just stared into his eyes, her jaw set. “This is my responsibility, Jet. I got you into this mess.”

He shoved her backwards into the side of her craft, and then trapped her. “Don't be a moron, McKenna. You're not going anywhere.”

“But—“

“No buts. If you get yourself killed, we're all screwed.”

“We're screwed anyway, if Spike and Ed are lost.”

“This is my decision, McKenna. You're staying put.”

“Bullshit! This is my responsibility; that makes it my decision.”

Jet growled low and slammed his cybernetic fist into the side of the craft. It left a sizable dent.

McKenna squeaked, and flinched away like a beaten dog.

Her reaction hit him right in the gut, and snapped him out of his black mood. He knew that something inside of him wanted to hit her. Because it was her fault, and he felt like he'd been muzzled and chained up. He'd never felt that way, never felt that furious before. Not enough to hit a woman. Not like this. Not even Faye when she was at her worst. This was a new one on him, and it sickened him. What the fuck is wrong with me? he thought.

They stared at each other in silence a long moment; his gut wrenched at the wariness in her eyes.

He reached up with his flesh hand to touch her face, and she flinched again. He let his hand drop without ever making contact. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

He turned and walked away without another word.

[3.3.3.3]

Ed snapped awake. Something from outside had interrupted his nightmare, but he couldn't quite place what. He was disoriented, and felt motion. A moment later, memory returned, and he knew he was still in the Swordfish. He glanced in the mirror, and saw that Spike looked worse. The blood and gore dried to his face was stark against the clammy, pale skin.

“Spike!” he called. His heart skipped a beat, and began to pound harder, when the other man didn't react.

“Spike! Dammit! Wake up!”

Ed unstrapped himself, and faced backward in the seat. He reached over and shook the unconscious man. No reaction. “Don't do this to me, Spike! I need you now.”

He lightly backhanded him, and shouted, “Spike! Wake up!”

Spike's eyes fluttered, and rolled, and then did nothing else. He tried to curl in on himself, but the straps were preventing it. He mumbled incoherently, and shivered. All Ed could make of what he said was “Cold.”

The Swordfish made a coughing noise, and lurched, throwing Ed backwards into the grips, and pushing them forward. Before he could regain his balance, the craft started to take a nosedive.

The angle of the craft, and his awkward position made it hard for him to get off the grips, and panic gripped his gut. With Herculean effort, he reached up for the back of the seat to pull himself off the controls. He missed.

He could hear the engines on the craft whining. Warning bells started going off, as it accelerated ever closer to the ground. He reached again, cursing his height. The back of the seat eluded his grasp. “Dammit!”

A hand grabbed his wrist with an iron grip, and Ed saw Spike on the other end of that arm. He was pulled up, and off the grips. The craft automatically corrected and leveled off, and the alarms shut up. Ed was able to get repositioned, and strapped back in.

He looked in the mirror, and noticed that Spike's eyes were shut again, but he didn't think he was out. “Spike?”

“The right lower aileron's busted,” Spike said. “She's bleeding out hydraulic fluid.”

“What's that mean, Spike?”

Spike groaned, and held his side. “It means… If you get too low, you can't control the craft… The hydraulic system controls the ailerons and the landing gears.”

Ed felt the blood drain from his face, and he shivered. “But the automatic—“

“The automatic pilot can't make corrections if the hydraulic system is dry, Ed.”

“What do I do?”

“Keep the nose up as best as you can when she goes down,” Spike said. “And pray.”

“Don't tell me that, Spike!” Ed said. It fell on deaf ears.

“Oh, God,” Ed whispered. “I can't do this.”

He took a couple deep breaths to stop the rising nausea, and hesitantly placed his hands on the grips. He cautiously pulled back. The automatic pilot shut off, and the craft ascended a little.

Something tugged at the back of his mind. Some small piece of information he knew, but couldn't quite access. He stared at the control panel of the Swordfish, scanning the different colored buttons, switches, and lights. It was a confusing, but Ed knew there was one button he was looking for. If he could only remember.

A memory of static, and Spike saying, “See you on the flip side, Partner,” as he hit a switch.

“Not a button, a switch!” Ed said. He flipped one he thought was for the radio, and prayed it didn't cut the engines or something worse.

He was rewarded with blessed static. He wasn't sure if he was in range yet, but he didn't care. He started calling, “Jet! Can you hear me? This is Ed. I need your help,” over and over again.

[4.4.4.4]

Jet was in the lounge, staring at the drawings Ed had made. If they went down somewhere between here and Central City, they should be easy enough to find. Just follow the railroad tracks.

If Spike didn't pull some stupid stunt and try to take a short cut, that is.

But what if they're stuck in that lab? Al and I are taking a big risk hunting for them in there.

He sighed and rubbed his head. Then let's pray they went down on the trip.

His thoughts were interrupted by a chirp from the radio. It was a different tone than the interference he'd been picking up all night.

He pulled it out of his pocket, and stared at it, then nearly dropped it when he heard Ed's voice through the static. “*bzzzt* et! Ca *bzzzt* ear me? Th *bzzzt* Ed. *bzzzzzzzzzzt* help,”

Jet's eyes went wide. The implications were dire.

“Jet! Can you hear me? This is Ed. I need your help.”

“Ed?”

“Jet!! Thank God! I need help!”

“Where's Spike?”

“He's here. He's hurt pretty bad, though.”

He looked up, and saw McKenna at the entrance to the lounge. Her face was white as a sheet. Jet was certain the look on her face was mirrored on his own. Spike is too injured to pilot the Swordfish. He's never too injured to pilot the Swordfish.

“Jet?”

“I'm here, Ed. What's wrong with Spike?”

“I think he was bit by a chimera, but Jet…”

“Go ahead.”

Al came in at that moment, and heard the next thing Ed said.

“The hydraulics are out. The autopilot doesn't work, and I'm losing altitude.”

“Brother?”

“Are you following the tracks, Ed?” Jet asked.

“I'm trying to.”

“Keep them in sight. We're on our way.”

“Yes sir.”

Jet looked up at Al. “Get your ass in the back of the Hammerhead Al, I'm going to need your help.”

Al didn't have to be told twice.

Jet looked at McKenna. “How well do you know the systems on the Bebop?”

“Well enough. What do you need?” she asked.

He stared at her a moment. “Man the radio. I don't have time, I'm going to trust you on this, McKenna.” He ran for the Hammerhead, and shouted over his shoulder. “Don't disappoint me.”