Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Suicide Is Stainless ❯ Save The Last Dance ( Chapter 12 )

12) Save The Last Dance.

Spike emerged, squinting in the sunlight. The late evening sun poured its warmth into the rocky harbour as it fell rapidly from the tropical sky. The waves that rode the sea currents were light and slow moving, but nonetheless caused the deck to sway lightly beneath Spike's feet. It almost seemed a shame to taint this tranquil scene with spilled blood.

There wasn't going to be much room for this fight to take place, as Steele's antiquated though well-kept zipper craft was parked squarely at the heart of the landing deck. Small, red, and possessing a cockpit constructed almost entirely of reinforced plastic, the craft was not entirely dissimilar from Faye's Redtail. However, its sleek lines, flawless paint job and lack of retro fittings spoke of a ship meant for recreation rather than business.

Bathed in the glow of a setting sun, it cast a long shadow diagonally across the deck, and its refitted suspension creaked drowsily as the rolling sea rocked it gently from side to side.

Slowly, Spike paced across the titanium plates towards a point halfway between the ship and the hangar doors. Already, his mind had begun mapping the arena, making careful note of everything from areas of light and shade, to warped and pitted deck plates. If he were to last in this battle, he would have to know intimately every nuance of his surroundings.

Spike turned as he heard the metallic thump of Steele's boot against the deck. The fighter strode out the access hatch, and moved out into the sun. Spike could tell that he too had set about charting the arena, as the fighter's eyes began to scan steadily across the scene.

"Great minds think alike." he muttered to himself.

He then set to picking out a good starting position. The side of the deck to the left of the hangar door seemed best, since it benefited most from the shade of Steele's ship.

Spike paced casually across the deck, and took up his chosen position. After a couple of moments' quiet contemplation, he set about throwing a barrage warm up punches and kicks. Of course this was just a token gesture. A fight with Steele would in reality have required considerably more preparation, most pertaining to getting one's affairs in final order.

As he warmed up, Spike kept an eye on Steele as he made his way gradually to a position opposing his own. The fighter had ceased to survey the setting for the fight, and was now silently mouthing words to himself. Perhaps he was strategising, or praying, or simply playing mind games with his opponent. For Spike, only the most former of these three seemed likely, since a man of Steele's skill and experience would surely have no use for the latter two.

Steele stopped almost the width of the hangar door from Spike. For a while he stood motionless with his back turned, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered.

A warm gust of wind raced across the deck, murmuring in anticipation as it weaved amid the landing gears of the zipper craft.

Steele raised his head, and slowly began to turn and face Spike. But when the fighter came through one hundred and eighty degrees, what returned Spike's stare was not the face of the man that Spike had invited to dinner, nor that of the concerned friend that had come to confirm his safe return home. What confronted him was the face of a monster, the thoughtless beast that had so ruthlessly dispatched scores of hapless opponents for the satiation a bloodthirsty crowd. This was the true face of Stainless Steele.

Spike could sense that the time for preparation was over.

***

Faye and Jet stood side by side in front of the hangar door, and watched as Spike and Steele stared one another down. Each had a hand raised to their forehead, shielding their eyes from the orange glow of the sun, which peeked over the top of Steele's ship as if scarcely able to watch the tense scene below.

"I can't believe you're letting him do this." Faye said, as she watched Spike finishing off his warm ups.

Jet remained silent, his dark eyes trained on his partner from beneath a furrowed brow.

"You realise this is all going to end in tears?" Faye continued. "He's going to get his head smashed open, and we're going to spend our final days of starvation scrubbing his brains off the deck."

Faye glanced up at Jet. Still there was no response.

"Still, I guess that job wouldn't take too long." she added, and then looked forwards once again. "You know, there's still time to stop this."

"No." Jet rumbled. "If he wants to do this, then let him."

Though Jet was not pleased by what was happening before him, he was beginning to understand why it was happening. This was Spike's way of solving the puzzle that had dogged him since this whole fiasco had begun. Spike had often said that one could learn a lot about a man from doing battle with him. Jet just hoped that his partner did not end up taking the solution to this mystery to his grave.

As the pair watched, Steele gave a loud grunt and tensed every muscle in his body. At that moment, both could have sworn that the fighter had doubled in size.

Faye flinched slightly. She was finding it more and more difficult to view the man before her as the unwelcome dinner guest of the week before. The last time she had seen Steele this way she had been shielded from him by a ten-foot high wall of concrete blocks and a host of armed stewards. Now, having that behemoth only meters away with only the air she breathed between them was proving unsettling indeed.

Suddenly, both bounty hunters' eyebrows shot up as Spike began to do something that was totally unexpected.

"Jet," Faye said uncertainly. "What's he doing?"

"I. . . I think he's taking off his jacket." Jet replied.

"I know that." said Faye. "But why? I mean, I don't think I've ever seen him take his jacket off to fight before."

"This isn't just any fight." Jet stated, reprising his original expression. "Not for Spike, anyway. He's about to fight the guy he idolised as a kid."

Jet then looked down at Faye.

"How would you feel if you had the chance to play cards with the greatest ever card sharp?"

"I wouldn't," Faye huffed. "Because I'm not stupid."

Jet looked back to the contenders. She made a valid point.

There was a lull in the conversation. After a short while of watching the fighters make their final preparations for battle, Faye spoke up.

"He is such an idiot." she muttered.

There was another pause.

"Jet?" Faye spoke once more.

"Yeah?"

"Spike can take this guy, right?"

Jet sighed, and closed his eyes thoughtfully.

"Spike's good," he said. "Very good. But Steele is something else. He's been killing the system's best fighters with his bare hands since before Spike was even born."

Jet stopped himself as he inhaled to speak again. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to say any more. This was just as well, since Faye was not certain she wanted to hear any more. So, the two continued to watch in quiet anxiety, Jet grinding his finger tips against his palms, and Faye biting down gently on her bottom lip.

***

Spike tossed his jacket aside, glancing to his right to see it land squarely at the feet of Jet and Faye. His eyes lingered for a moment, but soon returned to Steele as he realised that they weren't going to pick it up. They obviously didn't think he would have much use for it after the fight.

Spike breathed in slowly through his mouth and exhaled hard through his nose. Then, allowing his arms to swing lose and his legs to relax he hopped briefly from foot to foot before finally adopting a combat stance.

In response, Steele raised his massive arms out to a horizontal position and pushed his chest outwards. The resulting crack of the fighter's sternum rang out clearly through the early evening air. He then lowered his arms with a slow purposefulness.

"You ready?" he rumbled.

"Yes." Spike replied. "But before we start, can I ask you a favour?"

Spike paused for Steele's response, but none came. Regardless of this, he asked,

"If it comes down to it, will you use the Hammer?"

There was a moment of silence. For an instant, Spike saw what he could have sworn was a slight smile come across Steele's face. But it was fleeting, and was followed by the fighter's ominous, baritone reply,

"Anything for a fan."

The cool sea breeze washed over the scene, and for a short time, all was calm.

A nearby sea bird beat its wing, its feathers disturbing the surface of the temperate waters.

As if activated by the stimulus, Steele lurched into motion. Steadily he paced towards Spike, his boots beating out a death-march rhythm.

Seeing that battle was about to commence, Spike smiled to himself, and uttered under his breath,

"Let's jam."

Skipping a couple of lanky paces forwards, Spike was quickly upon Steele. With nary a pause he unleashed his first assault - a salvo of kicks aimed directly for the fighter's head. Repeatedly he flung his feet skywards, stretching his limbs as far as he could as they reached hungrily for their lofty target. But repeatedly, Steele would evade the blows; simply dodging them with a speed that appeared unintuitive when displayed by a man his size.

Backwards and forwards, side-to-side, Steele weaved amid the barrage, never once appearing to be in danger of being struck.

Stepping off for a couple of seconds, Spike re-evaluated his tactics. The man was huge, possessing both advantages in height and weight. His best bet would be to get him off his feet.

Spike slid forwards once more. This time, he dropped to the ground and lashed out with his right foot. But something was wrong.

Quickly Spike retracted the foot, only to see a bolt of silver strike the deck, skimming the sole of his shoe. A bone-shaking crash reverberated through the deck as Steele's fist ploughed into it, warping and tearing the metal as it went.

Spike leapt to his feet and retreated once again. Watching as Steele hauled his cannonball of a fist from the cleaved deck plates, he considered how close he had come to the brink. His keen instincts had narrowly saved him from making the same mistake as Tiger Po. If defeating Steele were unlikely now, then doing it with a compound fracture of the shin would be impossible.

Unfortunately, it did not appear that Spike would have a chance to rethink his strategy again. Steele began to march forwards, the tempo of his footsteps increasing with every pace.

Backing off was not an option, since Spike could only take a few paces before taking an abrupt swim. If he were going to gain an advantage, it would be by somehow backing Steele out of the shadow of his ship and into the sun. As such, Spike elected to hold his ground and await Steele's reply.

Steele's penultimate step was slow and deliberate, but that which followed was lightning fast. The fighter flung himself into a punch, his whole body weight thrust behind the pile driver of an attack.

Spike dodged the first blow. He could feel it glance across the mop of hair that sat atop his brow. But before he could give thought to the narrowness of his escape, he was forced into a second dodge, and a third.

In moments Spike was dancing though a storm of jabs and uppercuts, his every deft weave and sidestep keeping him only millimetres from a gory end. But he held his ground, almost cheek-to-cheek with Steele as they engaged in this deadly quickstep.

Suddenly, Steele stepped off. Raising his right fist, he threw a powerful jab directly at the centre of Spike's head. As the metal implement coasted towards Spike, he couldn't help but use the few instants he had to contemplate the style of this attack. The pace was slow, and form strangely lacking.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Spike evaded the blow with ease. Then, taking Steele by the forearm, he twisted his body and levered the fighter's immense frame from the ground. Though the martial arts that he had studied so diligently were designed to virtually eliminate any strength or weight advantage an opponent might have, tossing Steele still required an almighty effort. In spite of this, Spike was able to hurl the behemoth over, and leap back as he coasted overhead.

However, Spike recovered from the manoeuvre only to see Steele rolling gracefully through the air. With a mighty thump, the fighter landed squarely on his feet. His knees bent as he landed, and then straightened rapidly as he vaulted into the air. The unfortunate flight deck took a further pounding as Steele landed fists first, and then flipped himself back onto his feet, coming to rest mere inches from the edge of the ship.

Spike could do little but watch in awe at this incredible show of agility. This was made all the more impressive not only by the size, but by the age of the one exhibiting it.

Steele turned to face Spike. As he did, his face bore little emotion, showing neither the pride nor smugness that another might after such a display, Spike included. This came as no surprise to Spike, as showboating was not Steele's style. Every thing he did had a reason, with no wasted energy and no wasted time. That manoeuvre was designed to minimise the stress caused to his joints by his own mammoth weight.

Without further pause, Steele began to gallop towards Spike. Seconds later, he launched a new assault, even more ferocious than the first. So fierce and rapid was this bombardment that Spike was forced to retreat, capitulating to Steele's relentless advance. Backing off meter after meter, Spike could see no ebb to this tide of punches.

Spike winced. The light was so bright.

In that moment he realised he had strayed into the sun. That had been Steele's ploy, to use Spike's desperation to land some kind of attack in order to improve his own strategic position. Steele had not needed to do this, but had likely chosen to do so in order to deceive his opponent, in much the same that he had been deceived. It seemed that Steele was not without a sense of irony.

Spike spotted a streak of sun-kissed metal through his squinting eyes. He attempted to dodge the attack, but his lapse in attention had already cost him dearly.

A searing pain sprawled from Spike's left shoulder blade as it buckled under the force of the punch. Spike reeled back and to his right, taking him through an arc that turned his back to the sun. However, this was unlikely to provide much of a tactical advantage now. Though the injury was not mortal in itself, what would now result made it as deadly as a bullet through the heart.

Spike hunched forwards, tending his burning shoulder with his right hand. Grimacing in pain, he looked on as Steele turned ominously towards him and began what he must surely have intended to be his final approach. Instinctively Spike began to back away. Allowing his broken shoulder to rest unguarded, he raised his right hand and made ready for the next wave.

Steele drew closer, his pace increasing with every step. Spike continued to back off, but the screaming of his shattered shoulder blade was proving too great a hindrance. As such, Steele was slowly and inexorably closing in.

Then, Steele spoke.

"You can't run forever, Spike."

Such an address was not uncharacteristic for Steele. Spike had often seen the fighter dispense a few words to opponents who were near defeat, but the sound had been lost amid the din of the spectators. But those words, they seemed relevant, and in more than just the obvious sense.

Spike was not given time to ponder their meaning. Steele lunged at him, his fist raised with a deadly intent. Spike flung himself aside, braving the agonising cries of the nerves around his broken bone, and then desperately threw a right fist at the exposed side of Steele's face. However, in the instants before contact, Steele flicked his left hand up across his face, splaying it out like a fan of lustrous metal. Spike, who had committed his whole body weight to this last ditch attack, cried out as his knuckles shattered against the unforgiving Steele.

Spike staggered back, now unable to cradle either painful injury. He stumbled back a few paces before his back made contact with another metal surface, this time the hull of Steele's ship. Resting up against the craft, Spike looked at Steele who still held his blocking stance. The fighter then turned to face Spike, his expression still carrying little emotion.

It was unbelievable. Spike had known that he was going up against the odds in fighting Steele, but it wasn't as if he had never faced an opponent with superior skills before. But never, in reality or his nightmares, had he ever been or expected to be so hopelessly outmatched. It didn't scare Spike, but it did infuriate him. How could he let it end this way - pummelled to death with scarcely an ounce of resistance?

In a moment of bitter frustration, Spike lashed out with a right-footed kick. The attack, fast as lightning and powerful as thunder, was driven by all of Spike's rage at himself; at the way he had been defeated so easily, and at the way he had allowed so much to remain unfinished.

It was blocked easily. Steele simply batted Spike's foot away, cracking several more of the bounty hunter's comparatively brittle bones in the process.

Spike fell back against the ship once more, this time needing its support just to remain upright. That final failed attack had taken with it the last of his anger, the last of his strength, and the last of his will to carry on fighting. Sure, he could try his luck again. He could attack Steele once more, and earn the fighter's respect for his never-say-die attitude. But then, what was the point? This was not some great arena were thousands would cheer his courageous heart and honourable demise. This was an old fishing ship stranded in the middle of nowhere; where almost no one knew his name nor would ever have any cause to speak it. And besides, to strike Steele now would be to strike him with a sack of shattered bone. Spike might have found the idea funny, where it not happening to him. No, this would be a forgettable end, and perhaps no more than he deserved.

Using his one good leg, Spike pushed himself upright against the smooth hull of Steele's ship. With his anger dissipated, he could now face death as coolly and as readily as he had before.

Though Spike's existence was one riddled with regret, the one that forced itself upon him now was that this stunt would now cost his colleagues their livelihood. They deserved better than this, all of them. But these pangs of guilt that had taken advantage of Spike's weakened defences would soon be irrelevant. The cold blade of the reaper would soon cut him free.

That was it. That was what those words *really* meant.

Spike winced as a wave of intense pain washed over him. The agony that gripped him was getting the upper hand, and he was starting have trouble either thinking or seeing straight. He could just about make the form of Steele before him, flashing in and out of focus like a dream about to end. The fighter was drawing back his fist, preparing to deliver on a promise made only minutes earlier.

Spike regained his control over the pain, and improved his upright stance as best he could. He might scarcely be able to see the deathblow as it came, but at least he would die on his feet.

In the final moments, Spike could hear the sound of a metal implement as it sliced through the air. It seemed to last forever, as if Spike's mind was warping his sense of time in an effort to prolong his existence. Then, it came - the sickening dull sound of metal striking flesh. . . and Stainless Steele fell to the ground.

At first, Spike was confused. He was certain that he should be dead at this point, and yet here he was, in so far as he could tell at least. His mind cycled through the possibilities. Perhaps he was dead, and his punishment for his crimes in life would be condemned to live out eternally his undistinguished final moments. Maybe he had somehow struck Steele down himself, having been possessed by some primal subconscious override that surfaced when it was needed most. Spike even considered the possibility that Steele had succumbed to age, falling to some kind of organ failure after years of inhuman exertion.

But as his eyes struggled to regain some focus, the true cause of Steele's collapse became apparent. Just beyond the crumpled form of the fallen fighter stood Faye, dented fire extinguisher in hand, and a displeased look on her face. This sight was enough to re-ignite Spike's chagrin, but this time it was not focused on himself.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Faye?" he rasped, his every breath a stinging reminder of his injuries.

Faye looked up from the unconscious Steele, and glared at Spike angrily.

"Oh, don't thank me Spike." she said. "Saving your worthless hide was my pleasure."

"You had no right." Spike argued, his annoyance wiping out his former conscience.

"I had every right." Faye stated. "Like it or not, I had a stake in this fight too. I wasn't about to let you blow our last chance at this bounty."

Spike inhaled to respond, but instead thrust the breath out past his grimacing teeth as his injuries flared up once more.

"I'm afraid I'm with Faye on this one, Spike." Came Jet's voice.

Jet emerged into Spike's blurred line of sight, and looked down upon the stricken pit fighter.

"So, you're in on this too?" Spike said. "I thought you of all people would know better."

"Sorry Spike," Jet replied. "But we need this bounty head too much."

Spike gave a stunted laugh, which was all his aching body would allow.

"So I guess saving my life was just an added bonus." he said.

"Yeah, well we all have to make some sacrifices." Faye cracked.

"Listen Spike," said Jet. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll let you stick *your* nose into *my* business next time."

Spike gave a slight smile. He might have laughed, but that would have hurt too much.

"Remind me to take you upon that." he muttered.

Of course, Faye and Jet were right. This wasn't really his business and his alone. Each of the Bebop's denizens had an interest in this bounty, to the point that their very way of life depended on it. Though sometimes, it was hard to see just why they were so hell bent on maintaining this paltry existence.

And besides, thinking back on it Spike hadn't really felt like dying today anyway. That day would come, just not today.

Jet stooped and hoisted Steele's left arm over his shoulder. Then with a grunt of effort, he lifted the fighter from the ground and began to drag his colossal frame back to the access hatch.

"Better get this guy trussed up before he comes to." Jet thought out loud as he hauled Steele away.

Suddenly, an ear-piercing shriek filled the sea air. All those who remained conscious winced at the noise, which was coming from the Bebop's external loudspeaker system. The feedback soon died down, only to be replaced by an equalling unsettling sound.

"Naughty Faye-Faye," Edward's voice boomed. "You cheated."

"Ed! Get off the PA!" Jet yelled at the young hacker, who could be seen in the window of the bridge overlooking the deck.

"I see Ed is as concerned for your welfare as the rest of us." Faye commented.

"She's right you know," he smirked. "You did cheat. Guess old habits die hard."

Faye looked down disdainfully upon the near doubled over Spike.

"They're not the only ones." she observed. "So, are you coming or not?"

Spike cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh right," Faye said, as if only just remembering. "All those bones you broke."

She then smiled wickedly,

"I suppose you're going to need some help, huh?"

The smirk melted from Spike's face. He didn't like the sound of that. He didn't like the sound of that at all.