Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop and all affiliated characters are the property of Sunrise, Inc. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: This was posted years ago, but removed for whatever reason. I've decided to revive and revise it, like many other fics I've recently posted. Hope you enjoy it. As always, comments and critiques are always welcome.
Deus Ex Machina
Part 1 – Jacks Are Better to Open
Cor Caroli CafeNew Tarsus, Mars
Tuesday, 4:22pm
The rain poured down in heavy torrents, veiling the city in a bleak grey. Inside the small café, warmth and light emanated from soft bulbs and scattered candles that glowed like friendly invitations. A few drenched tourists sat in their wet t-shirts and khakis, huddled miserably over steaming mugs of coffee, their cameras and fanny packs piled high on the small, round tabletop. The other seats, however, were empty, save for the table and chair for one next to the open veranda, currently occupied by a handsome gentleman. He was a tall man, lean and strong beneath the Italian cut lines of his suit. There was a certain air about him, an aura of something more than simple power or intelligence. It was the distinct sense that he was a man who clearly knew everything and cared little about losing anything. A dangerous combination. And indeed, it was so to some extent. For one always had the impression that wherever he was, was exactly where he had fully intended to be. That kind of poise was uncommon, and it inspired a certain reluctant confidence.
Lightning flashed and lit the shadowed corner in which he sat, highlighting the odd red tint to his eyes hidden somewhat under dark locks. The unruly locks had been cut precisely, but were subsequently left to their own devices, namely leaving their owner with the appearance of a roguishly sloppy man. He was anything but sloppy. Careless, perhaps; but never sloppy. A bemused smile tugged at his lips as he turned to look out into the empty cobblestone streets. All the world's a stage, he thought with no little humor. As he sat, faithfully nursing his glass still half full of brandy, a slender attractive woman sauntered in through the door, a small brass bell jingling merrily above her. The female tourists regarded her with poorly masked distaste. The new woman was dressed somewhat skimpily in a unique yellow two piece that more resembled a bikini than actual clothing, but he supposed it must serve its purposes. She seated herself unceremoniously at the bar, rapping on the counter with two knuckles. The bartender turned from wiping a few wet glasses dry, and threw the towel over his shoulder. Her sultry voice was all too audible in the quiet of the near empty establishment.
"Whiskey. Straight."
The man in the corner allowed himself a slight albeit smug smile with the cool edge of his glass to his lips. As the liquid slid down his throat, he looked again to the quiet of the outside world. There was a meager solace in the fogginess to reality the alcohol provided, but there was no time for fluid sanctuary today. Places to go, people to see. Right, came the sarcastic silent response to his own musings; it was more along the lines of bounties to catch, people to kill. He shrugged mentally. Like it made any difference in his life, when each day blended into the next like a never-ending parade of dreams. It was all one big haze punctuated by gunfire and the consequent deaths of faceless individuals, who were not really individuals in his mind anymore. More like liberated numbers. And they were the lucky ones.
The bell above the door rang again as a rugged looking fellow sidled up to the bar, next to the raven-haired bombshell. He leaned heavily against the wooden counter, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and matches from a liner pocket inside his worn green coat. Wordlessly, he offered the woman one, and two slender fingers gratefully accepted. His hand trembled, unsteadily striking the match against the rough sole of his shoe. The flame hissed, then burned small and bright as it flickered furiously against the light breeze that entered through the open veranda doors. He gave her a light, bringing the burning match close her mouth where her lipstick tarnished cigarette hung loosely. The rapidly shortening match consumed the end of his own bent cigarette, leaving only a faint glow behind after its life was pressed out by his calloused fingers. A deep drag and a shuddered breath later, his shoulders began to relax and his face lost some of the tension that deepened the time-worn wrinkles lining his thin lips.
"No more," whispered words mingled with the tendrils of smoke that curled seductively into the night air. "I don't want no more of this bounty hunting business. You hear me? I'm walking."
"That's good, Fink. Being a snitch isn't the healthiest profession for a guy with a family," she replied in uncharacteristic subdued tones. The woman stared into her empty shot glass absently, circling the chipped edge with a manicured fingernail. "Just one last job and you won't ever see my face again."
He took another deep drag. "Why should I? I could walk away right now." The tremor in his voice belayed his self-assured words.
The woman smiled, shrugging nonchalantly. "How about for old times' sake?"
"You and me ain't friends, you know," Jack Fink sneered. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and he found he couldn't be certain whether it was from the cigarette or his own bile. "I don't owe you nothin', Faye." He squared his shoulders, hoping that the affectation of bravery would soothe the fear that threatened to escape his clenched gut.
"I can make it worth your while," she answered after a moment's thought. "Think about it, Fink. More money than you've ever seen for a small time job like this. You in or are you out?" Faye faced him, leaning forward. Now she had his attention. Whether she was deliberately trying to distract him or not, anyone's guess was as good as his. Either way, the generous view of her chest was certainly doing his limited wits no favors.
His scarred lips thinned into a line, and his brow furrowed under the consideration of it. He had more than just himself to think about now that his girlfriend was pregnant again, and he had promised her after the last kid that things would change. Fink might not have been the smartest or virtuous thug out there on Mars, but he was by no means a bad guy. Maybe a little extra cash would come in handy for starting a new, completely legit lifestyle. Fink nodded to himself slightly. "Yeah, I'm in."
"Atta boy," came the surly response.
"What do I got to do?" He started to feel the sudden presence of someone to his other side. He glanced nervously at the tall man who'd somehow managed to sit at the bar next to him without his notice. Fink fidgeted nervously under the man's lazy appraisal; it felt like he had been summed up within a single glance, and the snitch didn't have confidence that what the man found would be very impressive. "Wh—what are you doing here, Spike?" Fink damned himself for the stutter that had managed its way into his question.
Spike smiled, holding up his now drained brandy glass in an empty salute. The bartender came over to the crowd of three, filling the empty glasses – another whiskey for the lady and a brandy for the gentleman. He asked if their large friend also wanted a drink, and pulled out a cold beer at the man's request, setting it down before him. Faye slammed down the shot, stifling a small cough at the burn. Strong stuff, her both pleased and repulsed expression said all too plainly. Her hands slid up her thighs and to her cropped top. Cloth and paper shifted against each other, and she produced a document seemingly out of nowhere, vivid white against the dimness that surrounded them at the ill-lit bar. Spike raised a brow in vague interest, but if he was nonplussed, it was well hidden beneath a carefully apathetic mask.
Fink took the paper in his rough hands and read the few names printed in nondescript type. He looked confused – a not uncommon occurrence, unfortunately. "So what? They're all escaped convicts from the big prison riot last month on Earth."
Bless the goddamned idiot. He really was useful sometimes, Spike relented silently, anticipation of a new bounty putting him in a much better mood. "So you know where they are?" Spike smiled. It did nothing to comfort the thickset man, surrounded most unsettlingly by the two bounty hunters.
The snitch nodded hesitantly, as if uncertain if the money were really worth it. The Syndicate was not known for being kind to those who leaked private information. However, facing two of the most notorious space cowboys this side of Jupiter seemed the more pressing of the two worries at the moment. "Yeah. I know 'em." He paused, watching the four tourists gather their belongings and shuffle out of the café, leaving them the only patrons remaining. By way of idle observation, he noticed that one of the women gave Spike a lingering, wanting look. Mild jealousy at the younger man's fortunate good looks welled up, but it was not an unfamiliar feeling, so Fink dealt with it as he always did. He ignored it. "What do you want to know?" he asked, meeting Spike's uneven gaze.
"Everything," Faye murmured into his ear from behind.
A thrill shot up his spine at the feel of her warm breath in his ear. Fink spun around, successfully spilling his beer in his lap and nearly toppling over his stool. "Fucking—" he cursed, the rest of his words muffled as he wiped ineffectually at his stained pants. He regarded her with the exasperation of an annoyed child. "Don't do that!"
Her eyes were laughing, though she did her best to look innocent. The fact of the matter was that no woman could ever look innocent with that kind of outfit on, or with that cigarette hanging obscenely between glossy red lips, or with that whiskey-induced blush to her cheeks giving her the look of a satisfied woman. And Fink did mean satisfied. "Sorry," she apologized with a Cheshire smile.
"No you're not," the snitch grumbled. "You did that on purpose."
"Just find out everything you can. Meet us here in two days, same time. Got it?" Spike reiterated.
Fink nodded. "Yeah, okay. Two days."
"Let's go, Faye." Spike pulled his trench coat off the back of his chair in the corner and donned the item. He peered out into the diminishing rain and looked back at Fink. A smirk. "Two days and it'll all be over, Jack."
After the bounty hunters walked out of the café, Fink nodded at the bartender and the young man brought the phone out from under the counter. Quickly dialing a memorized string of number, the snitch waited. Within a few seconds, someone picked up. "Mister Vicious," Fink intoned. "It's me, Jack Fink. They was just here. Mm-hmm. Sure thing, boss; you got it. Just like we planned." The phone rattled noisily as he dropped it back onto its cradle. The bartender said nothing, but looked up from waxing the counter with an inquisitive look. Fink smiled gravely. "Two days and it'll all be over," he mumbled, walking out the door.