Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction / Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Gotta Knock a Little Harder ❯ Games Without Frontiers ( Chapter 19 )

Games Without Frontiers

 

Andre has a red flag, Chiang Ching's is blue; They all have hills to fly them on except for Lin Tai Yu; Dressing up in costumes, playing silly games; Hiding out in tree-tops shouting out rude names; -whistling tunes we hide in the dunes by the seaside; -whistling tunes we piss on the goons in the jungle; It's a knockout; If looks could kill they probably will; In games without frontiers-wars without tears; If looks could kill they probably will; In games without frontiers-war without tears; Games without frontiers-war without tears -- Peter Gabriel (Peter Gabriel lii)

 

Jet was hiding out in his bonsai room. Talking to anyone, even Spike, was the last thing he wanted right now. He needed some serenity, and this was the only place he was going to find it.

 

He'd finally gotten over the shock of McKenna disappearing; and with her, any chance for getting back home. Now he needed to concentrate on survival. Although, any options he'd come up with so far were a bust. He was a damn fine mechanic; mostly out of necessity. But he didn't have the skills to offer himself to the Rockbell's employ. Being a cop was out of the question. He'd have to fake an ID, and a past. The arm and implant under his eye would be problematic as well. He had no intention of giving up either of them for automail, either. As fine as the workmanship was, it was still a bit more primitive than he was comfortable with.

 

He wondered if there was a need for bounty hunters on this world.

 

He brought the clippers to a small branch, and was about ready to trim it. He hesitated. He looked at the small tree, and tried to envision how he wanted it to look, but the picture was fuzzy.

 

Other thoughts started to intrude.

 

“I've taken them before, and lived.”

 

“Shouldn't the decision be hers?”

 

“This is my responsibility, Jet. I got you into this mess.”

 

“That's why we never get personally involved with bountyheads.”

 

“There is no other way.”

 

“You're letting your emotions get in the way.”

 

Jet sighed, and laid the clippers down. For the first time since he was a rookie, he was full of doubt.

 

“If I don't take them, we'll die here. If I do take them, we may still die here, or we may make it home and die there. At least there's a chance.”

 

He was forced to admit that McKenna and Spike were both right; and he was… wrong.

 

The sound of a clearing throat pulled him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see an unfamiliar soldier standing at the doorway. The first thing that went through Jet's mind was they'd been ratted out, and now they were going to go under a microscope.

 

He immediately went into a defensive stance. He knew he didn't stand a chance if there was an entire troop waiting for them, but he was going take as many out with him, as he could.

 

The dark haired soldier remained calm; almost arrogantly so. There was a spark of humor in those eyes as well.

 

“Relax, Mr. Black,” he said. “We're not here to haul you off to some lab.” He stepped over the threshold, and scanned the small room.

 

Jet held his ground, but straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “Who are you and what are you doing on my ship?”

 

The soldier smirked, and looked over at the small trees that were Jet's pride and joy. “These are beautiful. Very skillfully trained.”

 

He looked back at Jet, and offered a hand in greeting. “Colonel Mustang.”

 

Jet glanced down at the hand, then back up to the inscrutable eyes. He said nothing, and his arms remained crossed over his chest.

 

Mustang dropped the hand, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Mr. Black, I'm not here to compete in a pissing contest. I have a proposal, which will prove to be beneficial to both of us.”

 

“I'm listening.”

 

[1.1.1.1]

 

Spike was fishing off the side of the Bebop. He hadn't gotten a single nibble in the hour he'd been there, but it wasn't like he was all that hungry, either. It was just something to do at the moment. He sighed, reeled the line in, and laid the rod to the side. He lit a cigarette and lay back in the shade of the Swordfish's wing.

 

Ten years he'd flown that ship. It was as much a part of him, as his left arm. And he always thought that when she died, she would take him with her in a blaze of glory. He never expected her to go this way. How… ignoble.

 

“Good thing Doohan can't see you like this, isn't it girl?”

 

He heard the tramp of heavy boot steps headed his way and winced. He didn't have to look. He knew who it was. “Yes, Major?”

 

Armstrong set a crate full of scrap metal on the deck, and said, “We're here to help you fix your ship, Mr. Spiegel.”

 

He glanced over, and then sat up. Ed had joined Armstrong and was standing next to the giant. It was hard for Spike to keep from laughing at the image, but he managed somehow.

 

“The thought is appreciated, Major,” Spike said. “But I don't see what good it's going to do right now. If we get home, I can get the engines replaced there. If we don't, it's not going to matter.”

 

He got to his feet and stretched. “Besides,” he said to Ed. “Don't you have to; I don't know… know how the engines are put together, first?”

 

Ed grinned and said, “That's why we brought along Winrey.”

 

Spike cocked a brow, and looked around. “You did?”

 

Ed spun, and scanned the area. He groaned, and yelled, “Winrey!”

 

She came dashing out of the bay. “Sorry,” she said. “I couldn't help myself, all that wonderful machinery; that incredible craftsmanship! It's all just so overwhelming.”

 

She started jabbering a mile a minute as she climbed up onto the Swordfish and started poking around. Spike only picked out about half of what she was saying, she was talking so fast. He glanced over at Ed and Armstrong, and chuckled. “Hasn't she already been over this ship from stem to stern? You'd think she'd be used to it by now.”

 

Ed shook his head. “Not Winrey.”

 

“Do you have any blueprints?” she asked from right next to him.

 

Spike jumped. “Dammit! Don't do that.”

 

Ed snickered, and Spike shot him a dirty look. The boy was unphased.

 

“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Come with me.” He led both Winrey and Ed toward the bay.

 

Armstrong said, “I'll remove the harpoon while you do that.”

 

Spike stopped, and looked back at him. “Don't you need a spotter for something like that?”

 

The giant's eyes crinkled with humor. “Hardly,” he said.

 

Spike took him at his word, and led the other two off the get the engine specs. As they entered the bay, he leaned down, and asked Ed, “Is there actually a mouth hiding under that mustache somewhere?”

 

Ed just chuckled.

 

[2.2.2.2]

 

Spike set Winrey and Ed up in front of a computer, and called up the engine specs on the Swordfish. It amazed him how quickly the girl picked up the basics of navigating the alien machine, and how quickly she was grasping the particulars of his ship's engines. Although her enthusiasm over the computer worried him a little, and he made her promise not to take it apart.

 

She almost pouted, until he explained that computers were not mechanical, and even if she put it back together exactly how it was supposed to be, it wasn't going to work the same way. Then he left them in the lounge, and went off in search of Jet.

 

Spike didn't have the same issues with technological contamination as his partner did. He had no problem letting Winrey learn as much as she could about it. It was Winrey, after all. What was she going to do? Make weapons of mass destruction?

 

Of course, there was the growing military presence here, and he was certain they would use that information for weapons. Part of him figured it wasn't his problem. With luck, he and Jet would be long gone before Armageddon.

 

Then he thought about the people he'd met. Ross, Brosh, and even Armstrong were pretty okay for soldiers. And as much as he made claims to the contrary, he genuinely liked those three kids. Especially Ed. He also realized he'd grown a soft spot for Pinako. She's a tough old bird, he thought. And probably the only person who can keep that little stick of dynamite with a braid from blowing.

 

He suddenly realized that he really would hate it if something bad happened to any of them. Hell of a time to get an attack of conscience, he thought. Especially now.

 

He found Jet right where he figured he was; in the bonsai room. Except he wasn't alone.

 

“Making the rounds, Mustang?” Spike asked.

 

“We're making plans for me to take a little trip tonight,” Jet said.

 

Confusion knitted Spike's brow. “What kind of trip, Jet?”

 

Jet took his time, as he lit a cigarette. “I'm going to meet a colleague of the Colonel's and bring back what we need to get the hell out of here.”

 

Spike turned his attention on Mustang. “I thought you wanted to avoid any more contamination.”

 

“I do. However, the risks are minimal compared to the risks we would take if the information you need is sent by courier. That would take about three days.” Mustang nodded toward Jet. “Your partner can retrieve it in a night.”

 

“Your little adventure with Ed the other night has gotten around town,” Jet said.

 

Spike understood then, just how little time they had left. “Then let me go, Jet. The Swordfish is armed, the Hammerhead isn't.”

 

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and added, “Armstrong, Ed and Winrey are working on fixing it right now.”

 

Jet's brows shot up, then he smiled and shook his head. “I'm not sure I'll ever get used to that.”

 

“Me either,” Spike said. “But it's damned convenient.”

 

“Either way, Spike,” Jet said. “I'm still going.”

 

The younger man considered his partner for a long moment. He knew he could do the job better and probably faster in the Swordfish. But it was obvious to one who knew him that Jet needed to do this. “Justice and duty?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“So?” Spike said. “What are we waiting for?”

 

“Probably these,” said a voice behind him.

 

Spike spun, and came face to face with yet another soldier. He suddenly decided he was getting very sick of seeing so many uniforms in one place. In fact, he had decided he was quite tired of the color blue, period. He seriously pondered a new wardrobe when they got back home.

 

Mustang introduced him as Lieutenant Jean Havoc, and Spike politely nodded.

 

The sandy-haired soldier looked in the room, and at each of the men in there. Then he made an annoyed sound, and said, “I see how it is. Send the Junior officer off on a snipe hunt, while all the cool kids smoke and drink in the boy's room.”

 

Mustang sighed and said, “Did you get the maps, Havoc?”

 

The younger officer held up a tube and grinned.

 

[3.3.3.3]

 

The war had ended. Those remaining alive on the losing side were given a choice to either serve their new masters, or die. They were a proud people; many chose death. Of those who chose life, one woman would remain forever etched on the memories of the victors. It wasn't her exotic appearance, or the eyes that seemed to see forever. It wasn't even her unblinking silence or the complete lack of fear. It was what she did as soon as she had been given her new owner's brand on her thigh.

 

[4.4.4.4]

 

She was forced to her knees, and the tattered skirt was ripped away from her. She never flinched, or struggled. She quietly accepted her fate.

 

As the white-hot metal was pressed into her thigh, smoking and sizzling, she bit her lip to suppress the anguished cry that threatened to escape. The pain was exquisite, the smell of burning flesh nauseating, and bringing back another remembered agony. Blackness threatened to engulf her, and she closed her eyes. One image to concentrate on. Blue eyes. A scar down one side of that face. A face that could be both brutal and beautiful at once.

 

A hundred years had passed; a hundred worlds had been crossed. But the memory of that face was as clear as if she had just seen it. It was her anchor. Her focus. Her reason to continue.

 

She phased.

 

She prayed that this time, she would get where she wanted to go.