Trigun stampedes into the dicey world of syndicates, violence, smoke, space, and smooth music...a new genre of living, simply known as Cowboy Bebop. Ladies, gentlemen, and other, enjoy this pilot chapter.

Some people to expect: Asimov Solenson, Legato Bluesummers, Vincent Velaju

Session A...

A couple of boys only known as "The Guns" are in town competing with the Red Dragon Crime syndicate; only one won't take his guns to town...

An electricity went through him, placing bone to wood with a whimsical precision. Asimov hit the wooden dummy with combinations that were almost personal; sweat dripping down his shoulders with cold burning sensation in his body. He put his things away, and walked to the office, "I can smell you from here, Asimov."

"God shut the hell up." Asimov sat down looking at a dossier, staring blankly into a vase of tiger lilies, this cold feeling of loneliness and hunger bit through his body like a wild animal.

"Touchy are we? How long's it been since you've had any mister 'red-eyed coyote' was it?"

"That's not my name. You know that Gato."

Their gazes continued in what seemed like a Mexican-Standoff, Legato turned away picking up pieces of the dossier inwardly judging Asimov for his previous addictions.

"So coyote, you think you're ready? It's a pretty simple hit, bring a gun this time. You know that those fist of yours hit nothing but wood and air; it accomplishes nothing. It's borderline nihilistic Asimov-"

"Now you use my name, I'm not the coyote anymore-"

"It's rude to interrupt, coyote," Asimov cracks a grin "you quit red-eye, fine, your award's on your desk with neat little personalized impressions on it congratulating you for being clean. More importantly those fists of yours, you don't use a gun, ironically, you'll never be like Vincent-"

"Are you fuckin kidding me? Whatever gets the job done."

"Again with this rudeness," Legato lights up a cigarette and takes a drag, "young coyote needs to quell it's howl. Now, you're not like Vincent because he can use a gun and his fists, not as strongly as you do but there is a clear distinction and that's in intellect. Raw fighting power is not going to get the job done, he applies tactical knowledge from his wars on Titan-"

"Blah, blah, blah, tactics, blah, blah. You're a fuckin record player! Jesus H. Christ! I know who I need to kill, how many, and what to expect. It's in and out, knock out our guy. I know how to pull my weight Gato-"

"This impertinence has to come to an end, I just don't get how you and I teamed up."

Asimov takes a drag of Legato's cigarette, "Because Gato, we get shit done. And there's the score to settle."

Asimov makes an otherworldly face, exuding something demonic as he exhales his last drag.

Legato looks at Asimov, remembering that red-eyed coyote that came his way seeking revenge on the Red Dragon for getting him addicted to drugs and becoming their peddler; respecting the clean up, the economic gain from all Asimov's work, and most of all his instincts. Legato was simply a liaison, a brain, someone who complied vast data and efficiently interpreted information proving why A.I. would be centuries behind. For nearly four months these two have made moves as the new syndicate in town.

"Isn't it ironic we're called "The Guns" and only one of three of us even uses them?"

Asimov sits a moment, "Gato. Really?" Legato laughs exhaling smoke, Asimov joining soon after.