Sonatina for Four Hands
In the year 2069, Earth was a mere shell of its former self. The people who remained after the migration into space had long since moved underground due to the constant threat of meteor rock-showers, leaving a grungy, dejected state above as well as below. As it stood, Mars had everything, parks and festivals; Jupiter's moon, Callisto, was a frozen hideout for criminals; and Earth – Well, Earth was the last stop before the asteroid dumping grounds.
Some people found themselves perversely attracted to that, choosing self-exile on the ancient pile of rock; musicians, artists, programmers, deviants, and small-time bounty hunters. Those individuals amass in the small area once known as North America, clinging to the freedom of movement the continent offered and clinging to each other for camaraderie, meeting with each other as often as possible.
One common spot for congregation was a relatively small bar; Minston's Playhouse. It was rather sparse save for several round tables, and was decorated in the style that Earth's Old West was famous for. Behind the bar counter stood a lone man tending to drinks and a low-grade television set mounted on the wall.
It was a slow night, by any standards; a few patrons were scattered throughout the dimly lit bar. Each one nursed their drink inside a relatively hushed conversation. Each one desperately held up the dangerous image they so longed to make a reality. Each one knew it was all a farce. The quiet only accentuated the low drone of the television.
This was exactly the atmosphere that one Jet Black wanted as he entered the bar, the door creaking slightly at his hand. Call him shallow, but being a genuine tough guyamidst the posers was great fun in his opinion. His twisted taste for the dramatics flared as he passed the wall of wanted posers.
He reached over and grasped the top edge of one of the pages. With a sharp tug and a flourish he ripped it noisily from the wall, leaving only the four corners held in place by the pins.
"You might as well take this one off the wall," He drawled loudly into the now hushed silence of the bar, "I've already collected the bounty on him."
A low groan went through the bar, only serving to broaden Jet's grin. He knew; they knew; most of these guys had never even thought about actually going after a bounty head, let alone made a living of it.
Jet made his way steadily towards the bar as the low conversations started up again, each one taking a decidedly new turn. Selecting a barstool near the flickering television, Jet lowered himself into it and regarded the barkeep.
The scrawny man looked up from cleaning the counter with an old rag. "What'll you have?" He asked mechanically.
"Presidente." Jet replied, leaning his elbows on the countertop.
The barkeep nodded, chucking his washrag into a nearby heap, and moved to grab a clean glass. Jet allowed his eyes to slide away from the thin man processing his drink. They soon came to rest on the flickering screen of the television, currently set to Big Shot. Typical. The bar would try to encourage the atmosphere. Jet fished around in his jacket pocket and produced a cigarette. He lit up as two characters moved about on screen.
A man's image flitted onto the screen between Punch and Judy. A scowl marked his olive-toned skin, making him appear to be in his early thirties. Petty thief Diego Lee, warrants for arrest on two different continents for seven counts of larceny.
It seemed that recently Mr. Lee was seen lifting an Earth Government truck. His erstwhile partner, Bruce Montoya, was already sitting in a cold earth jail cell. Location currently unknown, blah blah blah, biggest bounty in three months, yadda yadda yadda. Jet took his drink from the bartender and slapped some money on the table. Before he could even take a sip, the money was snatched away. Typical for Earth.
And now for the reward. Along with the stolen truck, Mr. Diego Lee was running a bounty of about… 2.5 million wulongs? Roundup time, sugar. What does it all mean? It meant that was a lot of money. For an earth criminal. For theft.
There was an unexpected cackle of mirth somewhere behind him. Tearing his attention away from the television set, Jet swiveled slightly in his seat, his eyes coming to rest on three old men sitting at the table in the corner. One waved a hand of cards around as he addressed his comrades.
"Y'know what I heard?" The old man began in a high-pitched drawl, "I heard that that there truck is nothing but a government recycling vehicle," his voice tripped heavily over the three longer words, "and it was headed fer a local land fill."
Jet's mouth dropped open slightly, his cigarette tilting earthward.
"Yer just sayin' what you heard that police fella say." One of the other old men at the table started in, in a deeper voice, "We were all there."
The last old man looked up from his hand as he dropped a card to the table. "That we were. We were here in this very bar," He muttered tiredly.
Jet blinked and pulled himself up off his barstool, heading towards the old men. He towered over them for a moment, considering his angle. "Now wait a minute," He started reproachfully as he took the cigarette from his mouth; "you're telling me that this guy ripped off a garbage truck? And the government wants it back?"
The first old man regarded him with a toothy grin. "That's right," He crowed, "I hear'd it straight from the horse's mouth. That thing ain't nothin' but a garbage truck."
"I thought you said it was a government recycling vehicle." The man with the deep voice chimed in.
Jet felt his mind go into overdrive. Absently he leaned over the old men's table and stubbed his cigarette out into their ashtray as they argued, losing interest in him. He then took his leave of the bar, weaving through the throng of tables and toward the door.
If all his years of active service meant anything, Jet reasoned, he could call in a small favor to an old friend, his past partner, at the ISSP.
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On the outskirts of the underground city, a young man sidestepped into an old warehouse. He paused at the doorway, tapping the toe of his boot against the ground as his eyes swept back and forth across the room.
One man sat on an old metallic shipping container against the back wall. A small cloud of smoke blossomed from the cigarette in his hand, but he didn't hold it to his lips. "Who're you?" He asked, disturbing the accumulated smog around his head, voice thick with a heavy Earth accent.
"Name's Spike," He said quietly, "You Diego Lee?"
"Tha's right," The dark man answered, falling into his native slur. Spike slowly began walking forward, each foot solidly connecting with the concrete floor. "Yer here fer th' goods." It wasn't a question.
"That's right," Spike said, betraying his own off-planet roots, a subtle hand reaching into his brown coat, "Those the boxes?"
The Earth man waved his cigarette back and forth, chidingly. "Tch, hardly," he grinned, though not in good humor, "th' stuff's a far cry from here." Diego tossed his cigarette to the ground and rubbed it out.
"Alright," Spike conceded, "where's the stuff, Lee?"
Diego shot him a look. "Here," he said, tossing Spike a data chip, "coordinates're on there." The chip was warm; Diego had been holding it the whole time - a nervous habit. Spike slipped it into his pocket.
"Y'know," Diego started, hoisting himself up off the crate, "I was surprised when I got th' call. T' think, a crook like me sellin' his stuff to a Red Dragon…"
A wicked grin stretched the side of Spike's face. "Think again, Lee," the smirk colored his voice as he revealed his handgun, training it on Diego's chest, "I'm no dragon."
Diego's eyes widened in disbelief and he took a startled step backwards. "You – you can't be! You're a bounty hunter? A cowboy?!" Spike widened his grin, eyes shining.
"Cowboy? I like that: a good old-fashioned cowboy."
Taking another step back, Diego cast his gaze towards the far door. "Just you try it," Spike said, anticipating his move, "I'll shoot before you can take three steps." The bounty-head looked back, every bit the trapped animal. "Just try it," Spike repeated.
Before Diego could make one final bid for freedom, in what was either his luck or misfortune, the ISSP smashed their way through the panes of glass in the ceiling. "The hell?" Spike yelped, using his arm to shield his face from falling debris.
Diego took off running. "Get back here!" Spike yelled after him, about to give chase.
"Hold it!" One of the blue-uniformed ISSP officers drew aim on Spike, "Drop your weapon, now!" Three more guns followed his example.
Spike stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. "What are you doing?!" He shouted, gesticulating towards the door with his pistol, "Now Lee's getting away!"
"I said, drop your weapon!" the officer repeated, flanked by similar blue officers and with careful distance between him and Spike, "Both hands in the air!"
"I'm not a criminal," Spike attempted, "I'm a bounty hunter; a cowboy." No guns were lowered. Sighing for a job completely lost, he dropped his gun and slowly put his hands up.
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"I'd like to see Fad, please," Jet said, addressing a harassed looking secretary. She barely glanced at him before going back to her paperwork. "Tell him that Jet's here, and he brought coffee."
The woman dropped her papers, huffed in exasperation and picked up her phone. As she dialed Fad's office and relayed the message, a sudden commotion drew Jet's eye. A few ISSP were bringing a young man in through the side doors, not without some struggle.
"I keep telling you!" He shouted, trying to wrest his arm free, "I'm not a criminal! I'm a bounty hunter!"
Jet raised an eyebrow, and considered asking one of the harried looking officers about it, but just then the secretary dropped her phone back to the receiver. "Go on in, I suppose," She said noncommittally, resuming her paper-pushing, "He's expecting you."
So, abandoning his curiosity for the moment, Jet pushed through the doorway to his old partner's office, carefully balancing two cardboard cups of black coffee. Fad was sitting at his desk, penciling in a report.
"Not another cup of coffee," He grinned as soon as Jet was past the threshold, "I still owe you for that last time in '63."
Jet chuckled and set the cups down. "This one's for free, pard," He clarified, "I figure you need it, being sent way out here to Earth to train the new recruits."
Groaning, Fad folded his arms behind his head. "Where do you hear about these things?" He asked, looking at Jet out of the corner of his eyes, "My deployment was supposed to be hush hush."
"Well, that's why I came." Jet conceded, "I need more information. In exchange for the coffee."
Fad sighed, grabbing one of the cups and taking a long sip. "This is about that guy, Diego Lee, isn't it?" He asked, voice laced with resignation, "The big bounty."
"He shouldn't be such a big bounty," Jet reasoned, "Not for such a petty theft. What was in that truck that the government doesn't want getting out?" He paused a moment, "Toxic waste?"
Snorting, Fad took another sip. "Hardly. Don't be so melodramatic."
"Well then, what?" Jet asked again, shrugging, "Why put so much heat on the guy?"
Considering Jet for a moment, Fad leaned in and lowered his voice. "Look," He started, "here's what I know: it was the Hyperspace Gate Control Office that offered the reward on Lee."
"The Gate Control Office?" Jet repeated, drawing his brow together, "That doesn't make any sense; why would they want a disposal truck back?"
Fad shook his head and shrugged, "Who knows? Maybe it had semi-functional parts in it, or maybe the CEO's bobble-head collection. I don't know." He shot Jet a serious look, "What I do know is that Lee was going through the local mafia fencing channel. He was all set up with a buyer."
"Who wanted it?"
Hesitating for a moment, Fad leaned in even farther, and dropped his voice to a mere whisper. "You didn't hear this from me," He told Jet, "Clear?" Faced with a nod, Fad continued, "A Red Dragon."
Jet's eyes widened. "You're kidding," He said, sitting back and grinning nervously, "Why would one of those guys be here on Earth? They're stationed on Mars."
"I have no idea, but no one else is to know about this, alright Jet?" Fad repeated, "I don't even know if my intel is legit. If it is, whatever was in that truck just tripled in value, but my job is to find the guy, not speculate."
"Alright, Fad, you know I won't say anything," Jet assured him, "Well, thanks for the insight, pard, but I'd better be going."
Rising from his seat, Fad shook Jet's hand. "Good to see you Jet. Let me know if you find anything."
Just as Jet was about to leave, he turned back. "By the way," He said, causing Fad to look back up from his report, "Who's the kid with the funny hair out front?"
Fad stared for a moment before recognition crossed his face. "Oh, the one the boys brought in?" He asked, and then continued without waiting for an answer, "He says he's a bounty hunter, but they found him in a warehouse with Lee. We brought him back here to ID him."
"He was with Lee when you tagged him?" Jet asked, "How did he find him?"
"I don't know, Jet." Fad sounded exasperated, "Ask him yourself."
Jet took his leave of his friend, shutting the door carefully behind him. Contemplating his new information, Jet automatically took a cigarette out of his breast pocket and stuck it in his mouth.
The bounty hunting kid in question was sitting in a metallic chair in the front room, arms crossed with a sour expression on his face. As Jet came closer, the kid took out a cigarette, but his eyes were fixed on Jet, who couldn't resist twisting the knife.
He smirked, saluting the kid sarcastically. "Good luck, Kid."
"OKAY, 3… 2… 1… LET'S JAM."