Disclaimer: I do not own the original characters of the Cowboy Bebop
series (Spike, Jet, Faye, Eddie). They all belong to the Kadokawa-Shoten
company and proper affiliates.
Maya: An Avenger's Story
Prologue
My name is Michael Yoshida. I used to have a family, but now I'm alone. As I sit here in this spotlight, tied up to a chair and awaiting an interrogation, I stare at the one-way mirror that is reflecting my visage: a sour looking middle-aged man with nothing but sorrow. Funny thing I'm noticing at a time like this, but I'm sprouting a few other grey hairs in my slick black hair. To think I got my inspiration for my hair from classic mafia movies, then I copied the idea thinking I was a mobster when I was 10 years old. It got to the point of being a habit like the piles of bodies I left in my wake. I sit here in this accursed chair, strapped as though blood won't circulate, staring at my bruised and bloodied face, to the same sad eyes that anyone would have if they held their dead 13 year old daughter in their arms.
They say history repeats itself." My wife died after my daughter, Maya, was born. I was about 27 then. One year later, working as a detective on Pluto's moon, Charon, I was helping an agency that was trying to track a sleeper for drug traffickers that had enough heroin to give Charon a new lake. In the case, I found evidence that my wife had been the sleeper. As I visualize the bullet hole on my chest, I am reminded on how ambitious my wife was...then I remember putting a bullet in her head as I spun around from what was then a newly acquired scar. While I stared at my wife's dead body in my arms, the drug baron, who called himself Shinji Dracul, and his boys ambushed me in my old home, where the showdown between me and my wife took place. I barely escaped alive with my infant daughter in my arms.
The agency that I cooperated with had captured and arrested Dracul while I lay down on a hospital bed, recovering from blood loss and a few other bullet holes in my right shoulder and my left leg. My daughter wasn't injured, but I had a feeling she knew of her mother's fate. Kids have a way of knowing these things without having to express them like we do. Thirteen years later, I was finally planning on retirement so I could be closer to Maya and get away from the violence for a while. As I was coming home from a quiet day, I saw a group of suspicious people in front of my house dragging something away.
"This is Detective Yoshida," I calmly spoke to radio dispatch. "I saw some suspicious people in front of my house. I need someone to look around in the house while I tail the suspects."
"Roger that," dispatch responded. "We'll send a few units to your home. We'll notify the chief that you're still active as well."
I followed the rustic looking Palomino duplicate to disposal area near the local spaceport, about 45 minutes away. After the last suspect went into the cheap tin office building that nested behind a chain-link fence and barbwire, I parked the car in a hidden area. I readied my .45 berretta as I had snuck around the fenced area to a cliff that was sitting just above where the barbed perimeter line was. As I successfully dropped in unnoticed, I reached the back door of the office when some thug pointed a Colt Anaconda at me.
"Where the hell do you think YOU'RE going, sucka?" the thug demanded with an uneducated tongue.
My pistol in the right hand, I shifted my body to a left angle and slapped the Colt in another direction, causing the fired shot to miss, and then I put a few slugs in his guts. The panicked attack not only blew my cover, but I was able to take his gun and a few extra rounds of ammo.
There had to have been five other guys within the entire area, then what looked like a team leader had stayed behind inside the office building, rewrapping a foreboding object in carpet. I shot all five people and continued in pursuit of the team leader like a wolf in hunt. I caught up to him as he entered the runway where the ships were getting ready to take off into the cold space. To make him stop, I shot his knees and watched him drop the carpet like a sack of potatoes. His wails were a cowardly song of cries.
"What's in the carpet?" I demanded, as I took his collar with one hand and the berretta in the other, pointed in his face. "What did you take from my house?"
"SCREW YOU!!" he cried as the weasel attempted to pull his gun out. I stopped him part way by putting a bullet in his face like an inevitable execution.
As his body lay there a bloody mess, I examined what was in the carpet. The moment I had unveiled the fabric woven with curses, I knew I just dug my grave. What I saw was the one reason I knew I was dead inside. I saw my daughter lying lifeless in the carpet.
As I stared in horror and anguish, a flood of memories, theories of her execution, the very end of my existence forced its way into my soul. My daughter was killed for Christ's sake! My reason to live! My voice of reason! The one good part of my dead wife and me was now dead! DEAD!!
Her lovely green eyes stared with many accusations and blame into the sky. Her hair flowed freely with a whispering wind. Her mouth had gaped open as though she continued to scream in pain beyond her death. Her chest and abdomen were pockmarked with enough bullet holes to make blood flow like Niagara Falls. Her heart stopped as mine did. Someone killed MY child! I wanted to know WHO killed her, WHY they did it, and a reason not to kill the bastard (or bastards) for this travesty!
All I could do was hold Maya's body in my arms and cry. I bayed like a wild animal injured beyond hope. There were engines bellowing out screams as they ran for the skies and space. But even those could never drown my cries of mourning. Not even the cops standing behind me with judgmental firearms could take my attention away from my daughter. I was accused of going off and killing my daughter. They promptly arrested me and took me downtown.
I silently went through grill sessions in the interrogation room, processing, and someone was about to carry out sentence. Many would consider all this a lot of hell. I was already in Hell when I saw my daughter's body in the carpet.
This is the beginning of my story.
Maya: An Avenger's Story
Prologue
My name is Michael Yoshida. I used to have a family, but now I'm alone. As I sit here in this spotlight, tied up to a chair and awaiting an interrogation, I stare at the one-way mirror that is reflecting my visage: a sour looking middle-aged man with nothing but sorrow. Funny thing I'm noticing at a time like this, but I'm sprouting a few other grey hairs in my slick black hair. To think I got my inspiration for my hair from classic mafia movies, then I copied the idea thinking I was a mobster when I was 10 years old. It got to the point of being a habit like the piles of bodies I left in my wake. I sit here in this accursed chair, strapped as though blood won't circulate, staring at my bruised and bloodied face, to the same sad eyes that anyone would have if they held their dead 13 year old daughter in their arms.
They say history repeats itself." My wife died after my daughter, Maya, was born. I was about 27 then. One year later, working as a detective on Pluto's moon, Charon, I was helping an agency that was trying to track a sleeper for drug traffickers that had enough heroin to give Charon a new lake. In the case, I found evidence that my wife had been the sleeper. As I visualize the bullet hole on my chest, I am reminded on how ambitious my wife was...then I remember putting a bullet in her head as I spun around from what was then a newly acquired scar. While I stared at my wife's dead body in my arms, the drug baron, who called himself Shinji Dracul, and his boys ambushed me in my old home, where the showdown between me and my wife took place. I barely escaped alive with my infant daughter in my arms.
The agency that I cooperated with had captured and arrested Dracul while I lay down on a hospital bed, recovering from blood loss and a few other bullet holes in my right shoulder and my left leg. My daughter wasn't injured, but I had a feeling she knew of her mother's fate. Kids have a way of knowing these things without having to express them like we do. Thirteen years later, I was finally planning on retirement so I could be closer to Maya and get away from the violence for a while. As I was coming home from a quiet day, I saw a group of suspicious people in front of my house dragging something away.
"This is Detective Yoshida," I calmly spoke to radio dispatch. "I saw some suspicious people in front of my house. I need someone to look around in the house while I tail the suspects."
"Roger that," dispatch responded. "We'll send a few units to your home. We'll notify the chief that you're still active as well."
I followed the rustic looking Palomino duplicate to disposal area near the local spaceport, about 45 minutes away. After the last suspect went into the cheap tin office building that nested behind a chain-link fence and barbwire, I parked the car in a hidden area. I readied my .45 berretta as I had snuck around the fenced area to a cliff that was sitting just above where the barbed perimeter line was. As I successfully dropped in unnoticed, I reached the back door of the office when some thug pointed a Colt Anaconda at me.
"Where the hell do you think YOU'RE going, sucka?" the thug demanded with an uneducated tongue.
My pistol in the right hand, I shifted my body to a left angle and slapped the Colt in another direction, causing the fired shot to miss, and then I put a few slugs in his guts. The panicked attack not only blew my cover, but I was able to take his gun and a few extra rounds of ammo.
There had to have been five other guys within the entire area, then what looked like a team leader had stayed behind inside the office building, rewrapping a foreboding object in carpet. I shot all five people and continued in pursuit of the team leader like a wolf in hunt. I caught up to him as he entered the runway where the ships were getting ready to take off into the cold space. To make him stop, I shot his knees and watched him drop the carpet like a sack of potatoes. His wails were a cowardly song of cries.
"What's in the carpet?" I demanded, as I took his collar with one hand and the berretta in the other, pointed in his face. "What did you take from my house?"
"SCREW YOU!!" he cried as the weasel attempted to pull his gun out. I stopped him part way by putting a bullet in his face like an inevitable execution.
As his body lay there a bloody mess, I examined what was in the carpet. The moment I had unveiled the fabric woven with curses, I knew I just dug my grave. What I saw was the one reason I knew I was dead inside. I saw my daughter lying lifeless in the carpet.
As I stared in horror and anguish, a flood of memories, theories of her execution, the very end of my existence forced its way into my soul. My daughter was killed for Christ's sake! My reason to live! My voice of reason! The one good part of my dead wife and me was now dead! DEAD!!
Her lovely green eyes stared with many accusations and blame into the sky. Her hair flowed freely with a whispering wind. Her mouth had gaped open as though she continued to scream in pain beyond her death. Her chest and abdomen were pockmarked with enough bullet holes to make blood flow like Niagara Falls. Her heart stopped as mine did. Someone killed MY child! I wanted to know WHO killed her, WHY they did it, and a reason not to kill the bastard (or bastards) for this travesty!
All I could do was hold Maya's body in my arms and cry. I bayed like a wild animal injured beyond hope. There were engines bellowing out screams as they ran for the skies and space. But even those could never drown my cries of mourning. Not even the cops standing behind me with judgmental firearms could take my attention away from my daughter. I was accused of going off and killing my daughter. They promptly arrested me and took me downtown.
I silently went through grill sessions in the interrogation room, processing, and someone was about to carry out sentence. Many would consider all this a lot of hell. I was already in Hell when I saw my daughter's body in the carpet.
This is the beginning of my story.