Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Suicide Is Stainless ❯ Ticket To Ride ( Chapter 9 )

9) Ticket To Ride.

Spike looked down into his bowl. Slowly, he sifted through the few remaining bean shoots, as if searching for the real food that they hid. He had eaten most of them, even though the dry bean shoots were not terribly appetising. Not to say that they were without flavour. The dish did have a certain tang to it, though that may just have been the burnt crust that lined a fair proportion of the shoots.

Spike looked up at Steele. He seemed to be enjoying his meal well enough, having steadily worked his way through it with flawless table manners, proving Faye's fears to be unfounded. Perhaps the novelty of having company over dinner was taking his mind off the unique taste and aroma. Or maybe his tongue was also cast from metal.

Faye had lost interest in her meal long ago. But for a few cursory bites, her portion of bean shoots remained relatively untouched. She chose instead to nourish herself on the warm bottled beer that had been served, a vintage of the week before.

Jet, head chef and restaurant owner, was trying his hardest to set an example. And, for the most part, his attempts to hide his disgust were proving successful, certainly to the extent that only those that knew him best could look past the forced expression of enjoyment to the distaste that lay beneath.

And then there was Ed. She sat before an empty bowl, having recently perpetrated a massacre of the helpless bean shoots, leaving scarcely a broken stem as proof of there existence. It was doubtful that her plate would even need cleaning, so thorough was the desolation of her meal.

Since Steele's faux pas involving the rather sensitive subject of Jet's prosthetic arm, the meal had passed off in virtual silence. Though, oddly, this didn't appear to bother Stainless Steele, who looked content just to be in the company of his fellow human beings. . . and Edward. Nonetheless, the chilly atmosphere was giving Spike cause for concern, since giving Steele the cold shoulder would most probably not be the best way to gain his confidence. He was beginning to anticipate having to end Steele's evening with handcuffs rather than a handshake.

Meanwhile, Ed had found something new to occupy her mind. Her wide eyes were fixed upon Steele as he continued to eat his dinner, her gaze seeming to follow the motion of his fork-laden hand. With each regular, unrushed raising and lowering of the appendage, Edward's whole head would bob up and down, like a dog being teased with its favourite toy.

This had not gone unnoticed by Steele, who now had a cautious eye trained on Edward.

After several minutes of close observation, Ed finally voiced what had been on her mind.

"Dinner guest person hands funny hands." she said whimsically.

Had Spike vocalised what ran through his mind at that moment, his words would have burned the remainder of his meal even worse.

Steele stopped eating and looked down at Ed, and then looked down at his own hand.

"Yeah I, er, guess I do." he said, hesitantly.

Edward still seemed to make Steele uncomfortable. Whether or not Ed realised this was uncertain. But either way, it didn't look as if she was going to back off.

"They're so big and shiny." she said, leaning forward to get a closer look.

Steele responded by lurching away from his admirer.

"Ed, why don't you give our guest some air?" said Spike, trying to rescue the worried Steele and the ailing bounty hunt.

But Edward wasn't listening. She was still entranced by Stainless Steele's unusual accoutrements.

"Dinner guest person's hands must be heavy." she observed. "How do you type with them?"

"Type?" Steele replied. "You mean like, on a computer?"

"Yes. How does dinner guest person use his computer?"

Steele looked down at his bowl, excusing himself from eye contact with Edward.

"I, er. . . I don't know." he said, and continued with a nervous laugh. "I don't really need to type all that much. Never did like computers."

Ed gave a shallow gasp, and stared slack jawed at Steele.

Spike closed his eyes. When would it end?

Edward remained utterly motionless, her position making it difficult for Steele to sit upright again. Unaware of the fact that he had just perpetrated the worst imaginable act of hacker blasphemy, Steele raised his free hand and waved it gently in front of Ed's face so as to bring her out of her trance.

This was all the invitation Ed needed. With a feral growl, she lunged forwards and snapped her teeth around the unsuspecting Steele's fingertips. There was a clink of enamel on metal, and then silence.

As bounty hunters and pit fighter looked on with expressions that ranged from surprise, to amusement, to annoyed resignation, a tear began to accumulate in Ed's right eye. Gently, she released her bite, and raised both hands over her grimacing mouth. She then dropped back into a seated position and toppled onto her back.

"Geez, kid." Steele said softly. "Are you alright?"

"She'll be fine." Faye said, raising her bottle from the table. "Edward has a talent for amateur dramatics."

She might not have liked Steele, but she was damned if she'd let Edward hog all the attention.

"Are you sure? She doesn't look. . ." Steele stopped, and looked up at Faye in bemusement. "She?"

"Ed'll be fine." Spike said. "She's tried to eat worse things than that."

Steele glanced down at Ed.

"Okay. If you say so." he said.

Steele slowly pulled his gaze from the prostrate Edward, and returned his attention to his bowl. Gently, he scooped up the last of his bean shoots, and placed them carefully in his mouth. Upon finishing with this final mouthful, he placed the fork down in the bowl, and leaned back into his chair.

"That was great." he said, and then turned to Jet. "My complements to the chef."

Jet granted Steele a nod of acknowledgement, but little else. He had lost his taste for being placated. Perhaps this was due to his mood, or maybe because he wasn't used to such critical acclaim of his cooking.

Steele looked around, and then yawned loudly.

"Oh, sorry about that." he said as he recovered from the yawn. "Guess I'm not up to these long journeys anymore."

Stretching his arms out above his head, he clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles. The screech of straining metal momentarily filled the room, causing all but Spike to wince in discomfort.

Faye leaned over to Jet.

"So that's where he gets it from." she muttered.

"Anyways," Steele continued. "I think it's about time I was heading off."

Soft though they were, Spike was certain he could hear four sighs of relief. Regardless of this, he replied,

"So soon? Are you sure you won't hang on for coffee?"

Spike didn't have to look at his colleagues to know the look he was getting.

"No, no." Steele said wearily. "Got to get back. I need my early nights on the run up to my last fight. I do want to live to see retirement, you know."

Another four, subtle sighs.

"If you're sure." Spike shrugged.

"Of course he's sure." Faye interjected. "Don't crowd the man, Spike. If he says he needs his sleep, then who are we to stand in his way?"

Spike shot Faye a disapproving glare.

Steele stood up and stretched his legs. He then turned to Jet.

"Thanks for the meal." he said. "It was great. Don't get many home cooked meals in. . ."

". . . in your line of work." Jet completed the sentence in a gruff tone of voice.

"Yeah." said Steele, his voice denoting that, for the first time, he might be detecting some of the hostility to which he had previously seemed so oblivious.

Jet looked up at Steele.

"Don't mention it." he then turned to Spike. "Spike, would you be so kind as to show out our guest?"

The look on his face suggested a different meaning to those words than the obvious. And it was to be expected, since it looked as if Spike's plan had toppled at the first hurdle.

Spike heaved himself out of his chair.

"Sure thing." he said, resignedly.

Walking around the table, he gestured towards the door.

Steele turned and looked back over his shoulder.

"So long." he said, giving a slight wave of his right hand.

"Bye." Jet replied.

"See you around." said Faye.

Spike left the room, with Steele at his right hand, and set off down the corridor. After a few paces, he just about caught wind of Faye's voice.

"Well, that was hell on Earth."

Spike hoped that Steele's aged ears hadn't picked that up.

***

Spike stepped aside, and allowed Steele to enter the hangar first. He watched as the fighter passed him by. With his back concealed from view, he reached beneath the back of his jacket, and grasped the handle of his pistol, which had been neatly slipped inside his belt.

The handle was warm. He could feel each of the individual grip hatches against his clammy palm, dividing the surface of the metal into dozens of tiny squares. Each one seemed so pronounced against his skin, Spike felt as if he could count them. One, two, three. . .

Spike furrowed his brow in annoyance. He had to stop stalling.

Business is business.

As Steele walked into the hangar, his back turned, Spike began to draw his gun.

Steele stopped.

"Spike?" he said.

Spike froze, having been struck by the possibility that Steele had seen through the façade of the friendly fishing crew. It wouldn't come as any surprise, since none of his crewmates had made their best efforts to maintain the illusion. Or perhaps he had heard the quiet rattle of the gun's components warning him of Spike's betrayal. Exposed by the one thing that he had truly come to rely upon; today had been going that way.

In any case, Spike feared he might have to retire Steele a little earlier than anticipated.

"I was just thinking about something you said the other day." he went on.

As he turned to face Spike, Spike released his grip on his gun, and subtly moved his hand round his hip and into his trouser pocket.

"You said you would've liked to have seen my retirement fight."

"Yeah." Spike said, fighting to contain a self-satisfied smirk.

He knew what was coming.

"Well, I spoke to some of the organisers," Said Steele. "And I was able to get some seats freed up for you. If you still want `em, that is."

"That'd be great." Spike replied. "But you shouldn't have gone to all that trouble for me."

"Ah, it was no trouble." smiled Steele. "It's the least I can do."

And this was not simply a polite, though empty deflection of praise. Steele meant it. The expression on his face was a portrait of appreciation, the very epitome of gratitude like the tears of a man absolved.

There was that feeling again. What was it about Steele that troubled Spike so?

"Thanks, Stainless." he said, mirroring Steele's sleepy smile.

The first hurdle might have been knocked over, but he was still in the race.

"No problem. So, er, you gonna bring the wife and kids?" Steele asked, glancing briefly over Spike's shoulder.

"This sort of thing isn't really Jet's scene." Replied Spike then, smirking wickedly, he continued. "But I'm sure Faye would enjoy another evening at the fights."

"Excellent." said Steele.

He then reached into the jacket that he had retrieved on his way back to the hangar, and produced a pair of grey, oblong pieces of paper.

"Truth is, I could only get two tickets anyway." he chuckled.

Spike reached out and took to the tickets. Looking down at them, he quickly skimmed the information they held.

The next fight was to be held at an abandoned factory in southern India, mercifully nearby considering the Bebop's current fuel shortage. The event was set for six days time, and was to be held once again at nine pm local time.

"You have to understand, it was hard to get front row tickets at such short notice, even for me." Steele said.

Spike looked up. Then, realising that his studying of the tickets may have been misconstrued, he replied,

"Oh, there's nothing wrong with the seats. Just checking the time against our busy schedule."

"Right." Chortled Steele. "Anyway, I really should be on my way."

"Sure thing." Spike replied, and led Steele off the access hatch once more.

***

As he made his way down the corridor, Spike could hear the unmistakable sound of bitching coming from the sitting room just ahead.

"And what was with that smell?" Came Faye's voice. "He smelled like a goddamn can of Brasso. Not to mention the combats/vest combo. I mean, did the man have any fashion sense at all?"

Spike stopped just outside the door. For a moment, he debated whether or not to bother going in. He was doubtless going to get a hard time, regardless of his success in gaining access to Steele's retirement fight. But he chose instead to bite the bullet, and entered the room.

Faye was stood at the table, looking down at Jet. Jet did not appear to be listening to Faye's blustering. He just sat there scowling, hunched over the table and slowly rubbing the shoulder of his artificial arm. Ed was still on her back, cradling her traumatised bridgework.

Faye already had her mouth open ready to deliver yet another verbal attack on the absent Steele, when she noticed Spike standing, hands pocketed, in the doorway.

"Is he gone?" she asked indignantly.

In her haste to see the back of Steele, Faye seemed to have forgotten all about the planned capture of the same.

"Yeah, he's gone." Relied Spike. "Why? You miss Stainless already?"

"Oh yes, Spike." Faye said, rolling her eyes. "I miss him so. Maybe we should call him back for a slumber party. . . And that's another thing. What was all that `call me Stainless' stuff? I mean, why couldn't he just have a normal name like the rest of us?"

A pensive look came across Faye's face as she analysed her own words. She then glanced down at Jet, and then across to Spike, and finally, down at Edward.

"Well, like me anyway."

"I'm glad you liked him," Said Spike, sardonically. "Because you'll be going to see him again next week."

He then produced the tickets from his pocket and held them up for all to see.

Jet gave a soft grunt of surprise, and looked up at his partner. Both he and Faye stared at the tickets with some surprise.

"I'll be damned." Uttered Jet. "It actually worked?"

Spike's lip turned up into a skewed smile of conceit.

"Was there ever any doubt?" he said.

Faye stepped onto and over the table, and trotted up to Spike. Snatching the tickets from his hand, she made her own inspection of acquisitions.

"They look real enough." she said, as she looked them over.

"Come on, Faye." Spike drawled. "Is it so hard to believe that my plan worked?"

Faye looked up at him.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" she replied, and looked back down at the tickets. "Well, at least we're not too close to the front this time."

"I've gotta hand to you, Spike." Jet said. "I really didn't think you'd be able to pull this off."

"You should have a little more faith." Spike replied.

"Hey, maybe we could sell these." Faye thought out loud. "I bet we could make a killing over the Internet."

With a lightning fast motion, Spike retrieved the tickets from Faye's grasp.

"Hey!" she barked, finding herself staring down at thin air.

"Sorry, Faye." Spike said, as he walked by her. "But these are too important to pawn off."

"Oh, that's right." Faye sneered. "I forgot that *Stainless* is your idol. Wouldn't want to miss the big retirement fight."

Spike wasn't about to rise to this bate. Not again. Walking up to Jet, he handed the tickets over to him.

"This one's in a factory in Southern India." said Spike. "We should probably try to find a floor plan. Once we've got that, it should be pretty easy to anticipate the security set up."

"Good thinking." Jet replied, looking over the tickets. "I'll get Ed on it right away."

"Oh no you don't." Faye butted in. "Ed still has some unfinished business, don't you Ed."

Faye looked down at the young hacker. Edward did not respond, however. She just lay there, with a tear in her eye and her hands over her mouth.

With a growl of frustration, Faye plucked a small jar of nail varnish from the corner of the table. She then knelt down and grabbed Ed by the left ankle. Standing, she proceeded to march across the room to the door, dragging Edward across the ground behind her. Faye stepped over the bottom lip of the doorway, and dragged Ed across it indelicately a moment later. Remarkably, Ed's poise remained completely unchanged as her head bounced up over the lip and plonked down onto the floor of the corridor.

"See you in six days." Faye said as she and Edward vanished from sight.

Jet and Spike looked back at one another.

"Maybe we *should* leave the planning for another time." Spike said, wearily. "I don't think any of us have slept much in the last couple of days."

"I can live with that." Yawned Jet. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm kinda glad your friend didn't stay too long."

"Maybe it was your cooking." Spike retorted.

"Hey. I make the best damn dry bean shoots this side of Io."

"That's because everyone else this side of Io has soy sauce."

The two men glared at each other, and then surrendered to a bout of tired laughter. Spike then turned for the door.

"Catch you later, Jet."

Jet looked down at his hands clasped across his lap.

"Spike?" he said.

Spike had a feeling he knew what was coming next. It was a moment he had been dreading.

"You were right, you know." Jet continued.

"'bout what?"

"About me not being able to read your feelings."

Spike sighed quietly, and turned to face Jet.

"You're a closed book to me, Spike. And that's fair enough. God knows we all have our secrets."

"Is there a point here, Jet?"

Jet considered skipping to the point, but he felt that this needed explaining fully if he were to avoid earning Spike's resentment; if indeed, it could be avoided.

"I admit, I was just guessing before when I said there was something bothering you. You seemed a little uneasy, but we've all been on edge lately. But then I saw you with Steele, the way you looked at him."

"So what, you're saying I'm in love with him now?" Spike scoffed.

"I'm serious, Spike." Jet stated. " The way you act around him worries me. I mean, at first, I thought it might be some kind of mortality thing, and that it was bothering you to see your childhood hero having aged so much. But then, death never seemed to bother you much before. Then I thought that it might just be pity for an old man, but pity never seemed to be your style."

Spike turned for the door.

"I didn't ask for this psychoanalysis, Jet." he said as he walked away. "I don't know why it is that everyone is so obsessed with knowing what makes me tick."

Jet leapt out of his chair.

"Damn it, Spike! Stop being so egocentric! Believe it or not, this isn't just about you!"

Spike stopped in the doorway.

"Could've fooled me."

"Spike, you've got to remember. There are five of us living on this ship. Now, we can squabble and joke about our situation, but the fact is, it is extremely serious. The Bebop scarcely has enough fuel left to sail out of the harbour, and the Swordfish, Redtail and Hammerhead have enough for one or two short-haul flights, max. We've got almost no food left, no money to get more, and no refuelling station for three hundred miles. You might say that there's nothing new about any of that, but this is as bad as I can remember things getting. If we don't catch this next bounty, we're screwed."

"So what?" Spike replied. "It's not like we're after Steele anymore."

"Maybe not now." said Jet. "But if we can't take in Yukawa, then we have to keep Steele as a back up."

"It won't come to that."

"I'm sorry, Spike, but I don't share your confidence. Yukawa is going to be surrounded by all kinds of syndicate security. Now, maybe Faye is greedy enough to try and pull this stunt for the money, but the only reason I agreed to it is because our situation is so desperate, and that half a million on Steele may still not be enough. I don't know whether you've noticed, but ship fuel isn't getting any cheaper."

"Look, Jet." Spike said. "If you want me to promise not to let Steele go if we catch him, fine. You have my word."

Jet fell back down into his seat and gave a sigh of exasperation. He still didn't get it.

"What happens *after* we catch Steele isn't what concerns me." he said. "It's whether or not we can rely on you for the chase should we have to catch him. You're an important part of this team, Spike. In some ways, maybe even the most important. I have to know I can count on you should worst come to worst."

Spike turned to face Jet.

"Alright then, fine." he said. "You want it in writing that I won't let Steele go? Go get me a pen."

"No Spike." Jet sighed.

It wasn't working. It was seemed as if Spike was going out of his way to be adversarial.

"I just want you to tell me what's bothering you. I want to understand."

Spike took a couple of steps back into the room. Leaning forward slightly, he stared straight into Jet's eyes with a look utterly devoid of feeling, and asked,

"Do you really think I'm going to tell you?"

Jet stared back defiantly, but he knew that this battle was already lost.

"No. But I had hoped you might reconsider. If not for yourself, then for the sake of the team."

Spike stood upright turned to leave once again.

"We're not a team, Jet."

"Oh, is that right. Then what are we, Spike?"

"We're just a bunch of guys, stuck on a ship together, who just happen to be after the same thing."

"Spike . . ."

"What was it Faye said? Just a bunch of hard up losers and a syndicate boy racer."

Jet stood up out of his chair.

"Spike, wait."

Spike walked to the door. Raising his right hand into a feeble, backhanded wave, he said,

"See you in six days, Jet."

Jet watched helplessly as Spike melted into the shadows of the hallway. Sighing, he sat back down, and stared at the cluttered table before him.

By speaking with Spike, Jet had hoped to alleviate his fears over his partner's fitness to continue on this mission. Instead, it had only served to bring home just how serious the problem was. At worst, he had expected Spike to just wave away his inquiry with a cheeky smirk and a back handed remark. But the defensive nature of Spike's reaction just served to confirm Jet's greatest fear. Not only did he not know what was troubling Spike, but Spike didn't seem to know either. And as long as this was the case, the problem was not likely to be resolved.

"Spike." he muttered. "You're gonna be the death of us all."

And what worried Jet most was that, the way things were going, that might just turn out to be the case.