Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Suicide Is Stainless ❯ Dance Macabre ( Chapter 10 )

10) Dance Macabre

Spike pushed the swinging door aside and squeezed past several punters who were heading in the opposite direction. His eyes narrowed slightly at the oppressive smell of sweat, but soon this was replaced by the more familiar smell of second hand cigarette smoke.

Though the sound of the crowd permeated the whole building, including the men's room, the contrast between the noise levels outside the arena and inside was immense. In his years as a member of the Red Dragons, Spike had seen many pit-fight events. But none compared to this.

As he emerged at the rear of the bleachers, the intimidating sight of a plunging cliff-face of writhing bodies confronted him. The whole building, its body eviscerated of its mechanical innards, had been transformed into a post-apocalyptic coliseum; a mighty temple constructed in honour of humanity's unquenchable thirst for the blood of its fellows. The walls echoed with the dirge of worshippers singing the praises of the god's of the ring, and ground shook as columns of weary pilgrims trudged up the great mountain of humanity, that they might beseech lady luck and plead for her favour.

And at the heart of it all lay the ring. It was no different from any other ring Spike had seen. It was no bigger or smaller, no different in shape or depth. However, it served as a collecting dish for the greatest outpouring of violence, brutality and bloodshed that the bounty hunter had ever witnessed at such an event. Four straight hours celebrating every conceivable means by which a man's life could be ended at the bare hands and feet of another.

Moving forwards, Spike began the treacherous journey down the stairs to his seat. The mountainously steep path was littered with obstacles, ranging from the thin snow-like sheet of cigarette ash, to the thick fog of smoke and dust that swirled through the altitudinous air. The crowd of fellow climbers who were also trying to negotiate the slope compounded all of these hazards.

A particularly careless mountaineer brushed against Spike as he hastily made his way to the summit. In so doing, he spilled a generous amount of the tepid beer he carried in a paper cup down the left lapel of Spike's jacket. Spike cursed to himself as the spectator was lost amid the heaving crowd, escaping reprimand for his carelessness. He wondered why he had even bothered to re-enter the arena. It wasn't as if he would be able to stay to watch the fight.

The reason for the in- and out-flux of spectators was the intermission that had been called minutes earlier. It marked the final break in proceedings before the final, climactic battle of the night - the main event, Sabre Khan versus Stainless Steele. In the fifteen minutes that had been allotted, the crowd had time to place a bet, by a drink, go to the bathroom, what ever they saw fit before the bout began. And that was just what they were doing. The lack of organisation was unsurprising considering the vanishing act that had been performed by the stewards once the penultimate fight ended. Doubtless they too were partaking of the listed activities, adding to the chaos rather than quelling it.

Finally Spike reached his row, and began to force his way past the seated audience members. This task was made a little easier by the fact that most seemed to have vacated their seats for the time being. Nonetheless, Spike still received a number of prods and pushes along the way, some coming in some rather disconcerting places. What made it all the more annoying was that, for all his toil, he would not be seated for long.

The plan that had been laid out had precluded Spike's watching the fight. He might just as well have remained outside the arena, but he felt inclined to at least see Steele before the fight began. Doubtless his entrance would be spectacular. At least then Spike would be able to say he had seen it; that he had been there on the night.

Reaching his chair, Spike pushed down its spring-loaded seat and sat down. The chair to his left was vacant, and had been the one allotted to Faye. She had been present for the first few fights, but had soon *tired* of the proceedings, and had left to make some final preparations for the sting. Or so she said. More likely, the matches had proven all together more brutal than even her hardened stomach could take. She couldn't be blamed for that. After all, she couldn't list brutality on her CV as a previous occupation, unlike some.

Leaning back, Spike inserted his hand into his jacket and checked for the presence of his communicator. A necessary action, as not all prods and pushes are as innocuous as they seem. It was, of course, still there, and set to vibrate when activated should Jet call to give the word.

Jet's call to commence the operation would be virtually the only time Spike and his partner had spoken in almost a week, aside from the rather frosty proceedings of the planning sessions. Since their confrontation shortly after Steele's departure from the Bebop, the two men had been engaged in a cold war of sorts. Not that they were on the cusp of further conflict. Rather, the pair had been locked in a bitter struggle with their respective egos, each too proud to just let the matter drop with a simple exchange of apologies.

Spike grunted, and ran a hand through his hair. Apologise indeed. It wasn't as if *he* had been the one prying into Jet's psyche. What Jet had done had been contrary to an unspoken rule, nay, law that had bound them since they had first become associates. Neither man was to interfere in matters of the other's past, nor were they to try assessing one another's feelings. Such things were unbecoming of professionals - of men.

Spike relaxed a little. One of the things he had determined during the many hours spent pondering his place in the comedy of errors that was now playing, was that Jet was not really to blame. It was this concept of *team*, this idea that he should just drop everything and act for the greater good. Things were so much simpler when it was just he and Jet against the solar system. There was a very good reason why most bounty hunters worked solo, and why so many of them had a better track record than `Team Bebop'.

But again, it wasn't Jet's fault. Sure he had accepted the newcomers when Spike would have happily left them to their own devices, or even turned them in. And indeed, Jet had tried his best to integrate them into ship's life while Spike would have just as soon ignored them until they went away. But that was just a part of who Jet was, a nice guy in a nasty business.

The minutes passed, and gradually people began to return to their seats. As this slow process continued, the lights that glared down from above began to fade, leaving only the ring below well illuminated. The excited chatter that filled the arena faded to an ominous hum, and then finally fell into almost total silence. There was a brief pause, then a figure, too distant to be fully resolved, emerged from within the stands beneath Spike's feet. Slowly and deliberately, he paced to the centre of the ring. There he stopped, and stood silently with microphone at his side.

He stood, and waited. There was no announcement and no movement. He just waited. Then, as if cued by the bemused murmurings that were beginning to propagate through the crowd, the ring announcer began to raise his right hand towards his mouth. There he held the microphone, allowing the anticipation to grow yet further. After several moments allowing the surrounding stew of humanity to reach a simmer of excitement, he spoke.

Spike felt the communicator in his pocket begin to vibrate.

"Shit." he rasped, cursing the bad timing.

A couple of spectators in the row in front looked over their shoulders disapprovingly. Spike ignored this, and grudgingly removed the communicator from his jacket and depressed the answer button.

"Yeah?" he stated, making little effort to hide his displeasure.

"Spike." Jet replied coolly. "Faye reports that Yukawa is back in the VIP box."

Spike glanced across at a set of illuminated windows in the wall above the stands to his right. The foreman's office-cum-VIP room was where Yukawa had spent the evening, a piece of information that had not been hard to obtain due to the hum of gossip that had permeated the pit-fighting world ahead of the event. It was unusual for there to be such luxurious facilities at the fights, but then, this was an unusual fight.

"She's ready to go when you are." Jet continued.

He then paused, and his eyes narrowed.

"Spike, where are you?"

"Nowhere interesting." Spike replied distantly.

"You're not back in the arena are you?" Jet asked.

"Look, I'll be out in a minute." Spike assured him, his eyes flitting back and forth between the screen of the communicator and the ring below. "Just tell Faye to sit tight."

"Spike, you were meant to be ready to back Faye up!" Jet barked. "We only have as long as this fight lasts to make the pick-up before security gets back to normal."

This audible outburst earned Spike several more indignant looks. However, he was oblivious to all of these as he attempted to assimilate both the words of his partner and those of the ring announcer.

"Spike! Spike, are you listening?" Jet said.

"Yeah, I heard you." Spike sighed. "Tell Faye I'm on my way."

He then deactivated the communicator and slid it back into his jacket.

Or course, Jet was right. The temporary relaxation of security would only last for the duration of Steele's match, and that probably wouldn't be very long. During this time, most of the event security crew were expected to abandon their posts to watch the fight. Spike had been a low ranking syndicate member himself once, and as he recalled, one got what one paid for.

Reluctantly, Spike stood up and began to make his way back along the row. As he went, he listened to the ring announcer as he went about his work.

"And so, we come to the final event of the evening. And not only that, but the final event of this sport's longest and most illustrious career. This battle will be one of a proportion not seen in pit-fighting since the golden age of the early colonies, when the shackles of law could not restrain the primal spirit of the systems mightiest warriors. But surely, it is not the fight itself, nor the outcome that is important. This fight transcends the bounds placed around all lesser bouts. And, in the years that follow, you will be able to say that you were there, that you witnessed the final hurrah of pit-fighting's greatest legend. Truly, this is a battle not to be missed."

Spike grunted angrily.

"Don't remind me."

***

Faye peered around the corner gingerly. The corridor was empty, save for two stewards stood outside a door in the wall opposite her position, about ten meters along. The hallway ran off a further twenty or so meters, terminating at a T-junction. Neither one of the guards appeared to be in a terribly good mood. They just stood side-by-side in silence, both pouting like spoilt children.

Faye withdrew back into her lonely section of corridor. Leaning back against the cold masonry, she blew aside a couple of strands of hair that had strayed across her face.

She had heard the whole rigmarole that preceded the slump in security. What had begun as a hushed argument between the small army of stewards that had lined the corridor outside Yukawa's executive box had culminated in a drawing of straws that had resulted in all but two stewards deserting their posts to watch the fight. There had been some bickering and empty threats, as would be expected among a salivating pack of men, but ultimately the two that now remained had surrendered to their fate.

Faye looked down to the purse that hung at her side. She expected to feel the vibration of her communicator at any moment - two rings to signify the commencement of the operation. She had expected the signal to come earlier, but was in little doubt as to the reason for the hold up. Faye had suspected that Spike's peculiar attitude towards Steele would end up interfering with the mission. And she was certain that it was a sentiment that was shared by Jet. Though she hadn't bared witness to it herself, she got the distinct feeling that the two men had exchanged words on the subject, the key piece of evidence being that they had scarcely spoken to each other in almost a week.

Faye shook her head, cursing herself for not forcing Spike to accompany her out of the arena. At least that way she'd have been able to keep an eye on him. But no, He wanted to stay and watch the fights. What made it worse was the attitude he had taken when she told him she was leaving, suggesting that she didn't have the nerve to stay and watch the carnival of mindless violence that he so revelled in. He was lucky she hadn't shoved her foot in his mouth.

There was a pause in Faye's train of thought. Had he actually said any of that? No, he hadn't. He hadn't said anything. All he had done was look at her. It was all in that look.

For the life of her, Faye could not work out how he did it. She couldn't see how it was possible for a man who said so little to say so much. There were times when she'd thought she could barely get a word in edgeways, only to realise later that she had been the only one talking. He almost never opened his mouth, and yet it was as if it was never shut.

"How does he do that?" Faye muttered to herself.

Suddenly, there came the sound of a pistol being cocked, followed quickly by the sound of a second.

"Who's there?" a voice barked from around the corner.

Faye's eyes widened and her mouth grimaced as she realised she had blown her cover.

"Shit." she hissed under her breath.

He wasn't even present, and still Spike was causing trouble. But it was too late for blame now. There'd be plenty of time for that later.

Faye Steeled herself. She would have to initiate the operation earlier than planned, but she was confident that she would be able to draw the process out long enough for back up to arrive. Surely, the signal to initiate the operation couldn't be that far off.

Hearing one of the stewards begin to pace towards her position, Faye took this as a queue to begin. She took a calming breath then, letting her right hand lead she stepped out from her hiding place.

As she emerged she was confronted by the sight of the stewards, stood before her with firearms raised.

"Uh, hi there." she said in her faux ditzy voice. "I was wondering if you two boys could show me to the little girl's room."

The two stewards looked at Faye, and then at each other. They did not approach, choosing to hold their position outside the door.

Feeling that they needed a little more convincing, Faye continued,

"You see, I just popped out of the arena to powder my nose, and I got lost. You know us girls and our terrible sense of direction."

The last few words almost stuck in her throat, but she had to try and lure the stewards away from the door.

The stewards looked at one another again, and then both lowered their guns cautiously. The pair conferred quietly with one another for a moment before the one on the right, a lanky blonde figure, spoke.

"Alright. My friend here'll take you there." he called, tipping his head towards his shorter, stockier colleague. "But be quick about it."

Faye clenched her teeth, as that was not the response for which she had hoped.

"Oh, I um. . . I was kinda hoping you would both go with me." she said.

She had to fight the urge to cringe. Faye had suspected from day one that this part of the plan had a marginal chance of success to say the least, but had thought better of questioning Jet at the time because of his mood.

The two stewards looked at each other once more, and then again back at Faye, only this time with a look of suspicion.

"Why both of us?" the shorter of the two asked.

Faye took a second to think, and then replied,

"Well, it just isn't safe for a lady to be walking around a place like this on her own. I mean you've seen the kind of weirdoes that come to these events. I just thought I could use the extra protection."

Again, Faye found it difficult to play the part of a damsel in distress. But she persevered, for the sake of the bounty that now lay within spitting distance.

Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, the stewards did not seem to be buying it. Their expressions were becoming more distrustful by the second, and for a while, the group beheld one another in an awkward silence.

Suddenly, a loud beeping burst from Faye's purse.

Before Faye could curse herself for forgetting to set her communicator on silent, both spooked stewards flung their guns forwards. Faye just managed to duck back into her old hiding place as the first volley of gunfire was released, her cheek stinging as it was peppered by the debris that spattered from the plastered wall as the projectiles ploughed into it.

"Shit!" she yelped, taken aback by the extremity of the stewards' reaction.

Hastily she opened her purse, thrust in her hand in grasped the first object it came in contact with. Extracting it, she found it to be the communicator, which had since ceased beeping after the planned two rings. Grimacing angrily, she tossed it out into the corridor, only to see it erupt in a hale of components as it was torn apart by panicked gunshots. Reaching into her purse once more, she removed what she was certain was her gun. Cocking it, she quickly thrust her arm around the wall and pulled the trigger twice without looking to see at what she was shooting.

The second shot was followed by a muted gasp, and then a dull thump and the sound of metal skittering across the ground.

"Yes." Faye muttered to herself triumphantly.

There was a brief lull in the crossfire. Faye took a moment to rub her right wrist, which was throbbing slightly from the bucking of her pistol. Tempted to see which of the two stewards she had hit, she began to lean towards the cusp of the wall.

A gunshot rang out, and Faye hastily withdrew as another chunk of rotting plaster disintegrated only inches in front of her face. This was followed by a second shot, and then by the creak of an opening door. The subsequent volley was even more intense than before as it seemed several colleagues had joined the surviving steward. The patter of feet hurriedly retreating the scene accompanied the rejuvenated crescendo of shots.

Faye's heart sank as she realised that Yukawa was on the move. Tensely she stood with her back pinned to the wall, resigned to the fact that she would be unable to prevent his escape. As she awaited the opportunity and the nerve to return fire, she uttered softly,

"Where are you, Spike?"

***

Spike sprinted down the corridor with gun unsheathed, the sound his flatfooted strides ricocheting from the dry walls and ceiling. What he had thought at first to be the bangs and crashes of a spectacular pyrotechnic display, he had shortly after realised to be gunfire. The din was drawing closer with each hurried footfall, carrying from around a left turn in the corridor only a few short meters away. This was unmistakable sound of a job being botched.

Spike made a tight turn at the junction, almost losing his footing on the dusty ground. As he began to sprint down the second stretch of corridor, a group of around half a dozen rushed-looking men emerged from a hallway that joined his on the left. All but one were dressed in the ornate, flowing dress coat of syndicate gangsters, while the remaining individual, noticeably shorter than the rest, was clothed in a black suit. The stewards were arranged with one taking point, two more flanking the suited man, and the last pair taking up a rear guard position; a classic defence formation. Though Spike could not get a clear view of the suited man's face, he had a strong suspicion that it was Victor Yukawa.

The group sprinted into Spike's corridor. The guard at point instantly turned to his left and headed away from Spike, followed closely by two of his colleagues who were ushering Yukawa along with them. The trailing two emerged backs first into the corridor, their guns trained on some target that lay in the direction from which they had come. The nearest of two turned to make a hasty check of the corridor behind the receding entourage, and it was then that his gaze fell upon Spike.

There was a moment of hesitation as the steward stared at Spike, apparently having not expected to actually find someone standing there.

A heartbeat passed. All around seemed to fade to black, leaving only Spike and the steward staring at one another across the void. A second heartbeat, and Spike's keen eyesight detected a modicum of movement from it's subject. The darkness was lit briefly by a muzzle flash, which was accompanied by a muted thud that resonated through Spike's arm and dissipated through his tensed chest. The third heartbeat saw the steward topple to the ground as the life fled his body and vanished into the night.

The second rear guard steward glanced down at his fallen comrade, and then turned and fled behind the remainder of Yukawa's entourage.

Spike looked along his raised right arm and over the sight of his pistol as the group took flight. They were headed for a fire exit that lay only ten meters down the corridor from where they had emerged, and would soon escape if Spike did not take action. Taking a couple of long, purposeful strides forwards, he released a second shot.

The nearest steward lurched forward with a quite gasp. His arms monetarily flailed, as if trying to grasp at his soul as it departed his body, and then he collapsed to the ground. The remainder of the group did not look back.

Reaching the door, the point guard flung it open and stood by as his colleagues and their charge passed him by.

With his targets now moving about quite vigorously, and at some range, Spike was unwilling to chance a shot at another steward. The risk of hitting Yukawa was too great, and there was no claiming a bounty on a corpse. Keeping his gun arm extended, Spike began to sprint down the corridor towards his quarry. Yukawa quickly melted into the darkness however, disappearing beyond the fire escape door.

The last of the stewards began to back around the door. As he did so, he held out his pistol ant took aim at Spike. Spike dodged and weaved, his ears stinging as the bullets whistled by, like angry insects threatening to bite. The steward continued to fire, but his frantic efforts were continually thwarted by Spike's uncanny judgement of trajectory and his keen survival instincts.

Suddenly, the monotonous beat of combusting gunpowder gave way to a series of inert clicks. Realising that he was out of ammunition, the steward hurriedly began to draw the door shut. Spike raised his pistol once again and took a pot shot, only to see it spark frustratingly from the metal surface of the door.

With his quarry departed, Spike's senses soon began to process the remaining stimuli. He could now hear a second gunfight, which was going on around the corner of the junction just ahead. Quickly, he trotted up to the corner and peered round. There he saw three stewards stood with their backs to him, pouring bullets at a target that lay just out of sight. For an instant, a hand bearing a black pistol emerged from a corridor that ran off to the right of where the stewards stood. The stewards flinched slightly as the hand took a blind shot, and then continued their assault as the hand withdrew.

"Faye." Spike sighed, resignedly.

Spike stepped out into the open and raised his gun. Three rapid shots reverberated from the walls of the corridor and each of the stewards, from left to right, lurched forwards. All three tumbled to the ground as the life was driven from their bodies, the last of them falling before the first had even hit the ground.

A couple of seconds of silence ensued before the eerie calm drew Faye out from her cover. Cautiously, she peered around the corner to investigate the scene.

"You coming, or not?" Spike called to her.

Faye's disembodied face scowled indignantly.

"I was handling it." she replied.

"What ever you say, Faye." Spike said, then he turned and resumed his pursuit of the bounty head.

As he approached the door of the fire escape, he reached into his jacket and took out his communicator. Spike pressed the hail button, and raised the unit to his face.

"Jet." he said. "Jet, are you there?"

Spike pulled the door open and emerged at the top of the stairwell.

"I'm here." came Jet's voice. "Go ahead Spike."

"Jet, they're headed your way." Spike said as he peered over the railings and down the centre of the spiralling stairway. "They'll be coming out of the fire escape in the West wall any second."

"You let 'em get away, huh?" Jet said flatly.

"We don't have time for this Jet." Spike scolded as he began to descend the stairs two at a time.

"Okay, okay. I'll be there in a few seconds."

"Right." said Spike before hastily cutting the transmission.

Inserting the communicator into his inside pocket, he continued down the stairs. Though he could see little in the poorly lit stairwell, he was able to judge from the distant echo of footsteps that Jet had about two storeys to get into position before Yukawa made his get away.

***

The door in the side of the building burst open, and a hand full of people spilled into the humid night air. Almost instantly all four threw their forearms up across their faces and cowered from the brilliant light and searing heat they encountered upon emerging.

Jet granted himself a conceited smirk as he watched from the comfort of the cockpit as the men reeled and stumbled in the hot, dusty gale that was being kicked up by the Hammerhead's engines, and floundered in the piercing glare of her spotlights. As suspected, the every-man-for-himself rule was being evoked among the lesser syndicate members, who were fleeing any which way they could. On the other hand, the older, less supple Yukawa was having trouble just staying on his feet. Desperately the aged gangster staggered around in the blinding stream of light, like a moth being scorched by candlelight.

Briefly taking his attention away from Yukawa, Jet keyed in a couple of commands to the Hammerhead's antiquated onboard computer. Then, looking ahead, he gradually eased the steering column forwards, causing the ship to descend and coast slowly forwards, almost pinning Yuakawa to the door that had blown shut behind him. No doubt Spike and Faye would not be far behind, and would be only too happy to help the old fishing ship reel in the one that almost got away.

Jet chuckled to himself.

"What would they do without me?"

At that moment, a loud cough resonated through the hull of the hammerhead. This followed by a thunderous bang, and a prolonged, strangled sound of an engine in grave distress. Within moments, the whole cabin began to quiver and quake around Jet, its various components crying out in a panicked chorus of rumbling and rattling.

Jet knew these symptoms. These were the afflictions of a decade old ship being starved of fuel.

But that couldn't be. Jet had checked the fuel gauge right before he had left the Bebop, and again halfway to his destination. The last reading was fifteen percent, just enough to get there and back and leave something over for a trip to the nearest police station and fuel depot.

Jet glanced down at the fuel gauge again. In the dim, yellow light of the cockpit, Jet was just able to read the display. Fifteen percent. But surely, that couldn't be either.

Jet raised his artificial hand in a tightly balled fist, and slammed down against the dash. The sound of the impact briefly rose above the struggling of the engine and the rattling of the cockpit. In response, the dimly luminescent needle shook, and then plummeted down the gauge before striking the lower end of the scale with a soul-destroying finality.

E.

The fuel tank was empty.

"What?!" Jet shouted.

He raised hand once again in readiness to test for another erroneous reading. But before he could call the bluff of the fibbing scale, the ship began to lurch and falter violently.

Jet barked and spat every profanity he could think of as he was buffeted around in his uncomfortable pilot's chair. Grabbing the steering column, he hauled backwards in an effort to get some lift. Instead, the uneven thrust generated by the ailing engines caused the Hammerhead to reel backwards.

Having remained seated but for the grace of his safety belt, Jet drove the column forwards. Again, his over-steering sent the ship reeling, forwards this time. However, before jet could try another heavy-handed manoeuvre, the engines coughed, groaned, and finally expired. The spotlights cut out, cockpit lights faded, and jet was plunged into total darkness.

There was a moment of near flawless silence.

The next sound Jet heard was the unearthly roar of the Hammerhead ploughing nose-first into the ground. The unfortunate bounty hunter was thrown forward, only to have the air driven from his lungs as he met with stubborn resistance from his safety belt. Jet made several failed attempts to cough, but did not try to right himself. Keeping his head down he drew his arms up over his face and, amid the maelstrom of straining metal, awaited the final inevitable impact.

***

A horrendous crash tore through the air. Spike stumbled sideways as the stairway bucked suddenly beneath his feet, landing with his right arm draped over the rusty banister. Before he could lean over the rail to investigate the sound, a thick plume of dust erupted up through the centre of the spiralled stairwell. Spike averted his eyes as the cloud rushed by, protecting them from the sting of the tiny shards of concrete.

Grasping tightly the banister with both arms, Spike attempted to ride out the storm as the stairway continued to reel and warp under the force of whatever cataclysm was happening below. Over and over, the stairs jumped and bucked like an angry steed, trying to throw Spike from his purchase. But still he clung on, the steel rod he grasped pounding against the outside of his chest almost as hard as his heart pounded upon the inside.

After some seconds of violent quaking, the agonised wail of warping metal began to subside and gradually, the battered staircase came to an uneasy rest.

Standing up slowly so as not to disturb the already dangerously loosened wall brackets, Spike peered tentatively over the side of the stairway.

"What the hell was that?" Faye's displeased voice rose over the weary panting of battered steel.

She was no more than two or three flights of stairs behind Spike, but he was unconcerned by her presence. What worried him more was the sight below. At the foot of the stairwell, shrouded in an eerily translucent death mask of settled dust lay the Hammerhead. Its homely face dented, and its formidable teeth twisted and bent, it lay lifeless; the victim of some horrible mishap.

"Oh shit." Spike muttered.

He did not know exactly what had happened, but somehow, he had a feeling that it was going to end up being his fault.