I do not own Cowboy Bebop, or the title of this chapter, which is copyrighted by Tom Waits. Apologies to the creators of Cowboy Bebop and Mr. Waits. If any use here is objected to by either party, it will be removed immediately. Please don't sue.
FRANK'S WILD YEARS
Frank first got the idea for the Army exactly ten seconds after he earned a shiner from an off-duty Irish cop, after quite involuntarily leaving the Tin Rose Pub in Hell's Kitchen.
It was one of those places that once had a respectable clientele until "bop" came into the vernacular. Then the horn players, unbeknownst to the owners, became some exotic attraction for every hipster in the boroughs. And in tow with the hipsters came the girls, the sharps, and the junk fiends.
Frank, the kid who grew up as much of a cliché of New York as to have his first memory coming off the boat under the eye of Lady Liberty herself, the kid who traveled half a world as a babe in arms, never strayed further than his shoeleather could take him in a night from this city. It changed so much every night, though the address was the same, you never drank in the same joint twice.
He'd sit there, always the lone guy up front, leaning back with hangman's locks in his face, digging trumpet player screaming his lungs out through that crazy horn. Every so often he would push up his ruddy cheeks into a toothy grin and pretend he was a conductor in some satanic orchestra, with the glowing tip of his cigarette responsible for the beat, but still, each note was more of a surprise than the last.
It would be easy to take Frank for another young hood trying to impress anything with curls, and blue wax on her face with the way he would tip his hat to the trumpet player and strut to the bar, ordering another drink. You'd think any search of his pockets would turn up nothing but tea, a switchblade and a telephone number scrawled in a tweaking feminine hand. Truth be told, he was about as close to that kind of life as he was to a soldier's or the Man in the Moon.
Funny how things change.
Though he'd spend his nights raising Cain and taking in all he could of the Village, Frank lived in a comfortable apartment with his doting parents and sister. He had the turkey at Thanksgiving, the Studebaker at the curb his father promised him when he left home, and everything familiar.
A combination of the Studebaker's old breaks and a stalled streetcar had other ideas. Frank was the only one left.
His redheaded sister held on for a while, riding the whole way with sirens blaring, holding onto Frank's shirt and tie. It was the only time he could remember seeing her without at least the hint of a smile on her thin face.
"Hah, you can't hide nothin'!" Frank would always rib her, "A face that thin, we can all see your ace in the hole!"
She really could never hide anything from Frank. Her face betrayed all. Now it looked gaunt, tortured, and gray. The same ruddy cheeks that Frank had, she would always push up into the same toothy grin. Now there was no grin, just a tremor, and then perfect silence.
There were no last words, there was no goodbye, just a thin hand, holding onto his shirt and tie, going limp. One week later, Frank's own hand and a jukebox would make enemies of one another.
"Lissun, m'boy," an Irish brogue singsonged in his ears, and pressed aginst his windpipe with a knightstick, "there ain't but two ways for a laddy like ya ta go... to Sing Sing, or to th' Army... Ya see that poster? There ain't nothin' bad 'bout that life, but there everythin' bad 'bout this 'un." Frank wondered if the cop had any idea.
Frank tried to respond with the first snide remark he could muster, but all that came out was partially digested chipped beef, onto the paddy's jackboots. The owner of the bar was screaming something in the background about a broken jukebox and traumatized bar matron. Frank was sure she'd get over the misunderstanding, but the jukebox would mean trouble.
"Army, huh?" Frank wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his overly-angular double breasted jacket, which had seen much better days. "Guess it beats Sing Sing," Frank chuckled.
Two days later, the judge agreed.
That was one year and six months ago, on the hottest day Frank would ever remember. It was the memory of the sweet smell of sweat hanging heavy over the fire escapes of Hell's Kitchen to which his mind would retreat, laying here, warming the snow more than his insides with deep crimson.
From Hell's Kitchen to the Dragon's Teeth.
Frank tried to twist himself behind one of the waist-high concrete pyramids in that forlorn field near the Hürtgenwald. He looked over to see his right arm not moving, as he struggled to heft his burdened body to safety.
"Shit... Medic!" Frank tried once and again to summon the craterfaced kid they called "Doc." Nobody came. Doc had been nearly decapitated by an MG-38 burst a few steps behind Frank.
Through the hazy, breezy hills of snow piling around the concrete Dragons' Teeth, he saw a few gray figures rise up to plunder back into the woods. One deafening sound, a sound once described as like ripping canvas, issued from behind Frank. The men he was watching were now very still.
Frank watched as his blood pooled, froze, then spurted out again, pooled and froze once more. He knew it was getting toward night, so the darkening of his vision didn't initially worry him.
Then came the voices and sounds of casual walking.
The voices, Frank knew now, were distorted from the sleep approaching. What he couldn't tell was their language. If he had the strength to reach his M1, about three feet away, he would have grabbed it and fired blindly at the sound, just to be on the safe side. But when he tried to move, the Hürtgen tree line only faded darker and darker into the blackening sky.
For the first time since Omaha Beach, when he killed his first, in a long line of men, Frank thought about home. Not in the way the movies always made it, with ma and pa and an old dog by the fireplace. Frank just thought of the abstract idea of there being a place in the world, and he had been there, where the primary concern wasn't to make a dog's dinner out of the first guy you saw walking in your direction. He thought about a place where people were meant to live, breathe, walk and talk. Not a place meant to make human existence as difficult and dangerous as possible on a fertile earth.
As the cold seemed to seep into his body and his vision went entirely black, He held on tighter and tighter to the idea of that feeling of home. It soothed him, until his mind went back to what he missed most, what he hadn't let himself think of since D-Day.
He saw a redheaded girl, with a thin hand on his chest, smiling down at him with ruddy cheeks.
-2071- Somewhere in Earth orbit.
"Spike, can you see a break in the debris?"
"Not yet," came the answer back to the Bebop via intercom from the Swordfish. "But I think I can navigate past the big ones."
"Just be careful, will ya, those repairs cost a fortune," replied the gruff voice of Jet.
The Swordfish plunged from orbit, diving past each rock with finesse. Skimming the atmosphere, with a plume of flame on the wings and nose. The ground became visible as the Swordfish dove through the clouds, and flew into the glideslope of a large, disused runway.
"This still seems odd. What would this guy want with stuff from an old Earth bunker and why would anyone want to pay us ten million to get it back?" Spike mused half to himself, half to Jet.
"I don't know, but for what the reps of the old U.S. Army are paying, I'm not going to ask questions. Remember, ten million isn't chump change. It shouldn't be hard, he doesn't even know what he has, or so he said in his last comm to his buddy on Mars, so he isn't exactly hurrying out of there."
"Right, but why would he have called in the first place? He must have thought it was something."
"He's into all kinds of stuff from Earth, people will pay pretty much anything for old crap. Just don't let your guard down though. I don't think those pencil pushers really knew what he had either to tell you the truth."
"Whatever, I'm coming up on the airstrip. Nice, I get an airstrip in the same place as the bounty."
"He's going to my airfield?" Ed squealed, hopping into the room with all of her usual cheer.
"Ed, for the last time, just because it is called 'Edwards Airfield' doesn't mean it's... oh forget it." Faye, following in tow said in exasperation.
The day before, three men, all wearing nearly identical black suits and red ties came directly to Jet at the ISSP station. They didn't say much, but what they did say was that the former U.S. Army had items excavated from one of their old bases on Earth, by a third party without permission. They naturally wanted these back. They even played back a recording of an interplanetary call from Earth to Mars, made by the suspect who seemed on the verge of a fit, asking question after question about pneumatic equipment.
The only thing they didn't tell the crew was why this man, or what was in the bunker was worth ten million Woolongs to them.
"No promises he won't be a little damaged. It isn't like I can sneak up on him and he'll probably have a pretty good idea why I'm here," Spike griped to Jet, "I don't like it."
"I don't think that makes much difference to them. Alive is all they need." Jet replied.
Spike hedgehopped the Swordfish to the end of the runway, putting the landing gear down and touching down near one of the larger open hangers. Spike cocked and locked his Jericho 941 and clambered out of the cockpit.
"Edward, Edward, Edwards Airfield, Edwards' air, Airfield Edward" Edward sang in a continuous breath dancing around the Bebop as Jet listened intently at the comm, and Faye peered over his shoulder.
"Maybe if getting this stuff together takes some time, we'll take one of the Edwards Airfield signs for you, how'd ya like that?" Jet said to Ed, remembering her penchant for souvenirs and hoping to placate her for at least the duration of time before they could bring the Bebop through the debris and land in the dry riverbed by the airfield.
"I just hope I can still land this thing on land, its been pretty shaky lately." Jet said to nobody in particular.
"A marvel of modern technology indeed." Faye grumbled sarcastically.
Spike made his way from the hanger into a hallway within the base. He followed the instructions given to Jet regarding the location of this forgotten bunker. They led him into a sub-basement area with a doorway that was obviously recently cut open. Donning his goggles set to infrared mode, he made his way down that hall and to the room at the opposite end. He pulled his gun out and shouted "Jig's up, come on out," with his other hand reaching toward the lightswitch on the wall, he advanced into the room, looking at a rather corpulent human figure registering on his infrared display, trying to hide in a corner.
Turning the lightswitch to the 'on' position gave nothing but an impotent 'click,' followed by a violent motion from the crouched figure Spike suddenly felt a jagged object hitting his skull with the audible 'ding' of a small bell. The figure then scrambled to his feet and ran toward the door, and promptly tripped over the heap of Spike's dazed body, giving Spike just enough time to right himself and realize just how angry he had become with the situation. By the time the man began to scramble up, Spike was already standing over him with his gun making contact with the man's perspiring forehead.
"OK, OK, OK," was all the man could seem to say.
"Just show me the bunker and nothing bad happens. You seem to have pissed some very important people off, not to mention me just now."
"Y-y-yov'e gotta turn the light on o-overhead, t-the electricity is shot, I-I brought a l-light---"
Spike cuffed the pudgy individual and pulled a string he felt hang from a ceiling and two studio lights flickered on, revealing a room filled with cardboard boxes and various pieces of old scientific equipment scattered about.
------------------------
As the Bebop landed, it skidded into the dry river bed kicking up chunks sand. Jet walked down the ramp toward the hanger that Spike had directed him toward. The suspect was cuffed to the front wheel of the Swordfish sitting baffled as Jet spoke to Spike. "Well, this is one for the books, they don't want him and they don't want any of this stuff. Seems someone more important called this whole thing off."
"Aw shit!" Spike shouted and kicked at the tarmac.
"Now, now, we still get the ten million, the only stipulation is that we never tell anyone about this place, or anything we saw in there," Jet said, "but I do imagine he will probably get a visit from someone we don't want to know about.
"Well, for once, Ed won't have anyone to abuse on the way back," Faye said as she descended the ramp from the Bebop.
"Hey, where are you going?" Jet raised his eyebrow to Faye.
"To see what they're so fidgety about," Faye winked. "Might be worth a little window shopping."
"Faye, we can't take anything!" Jet shouted after her.
Spike uncuffed the fat man and without having to say anything, he scampered off towards the rear of the hanger. A few minutes later, a small, pink ship could be seen taking off and making haste skyward.
"We should make sure she doesn't take anything that will have those guys pulling mind games with us too," Spike said. He and Jet followed Faye into the hanger.
"I guess we can sell some of this stuff. I can't imagine all of this is terribly important to them," Spike puzzled at the large underground storeroom in which Faye had busied herself. "You said people will pay for old crap from Earth."
Souvenirs, souvenirs all!" Ed sang as she danced around with a tin sign that read "Edwards AFB."
The Bebop crew began to unbolt the first few crates. Ed and Ein reveled, dancing around in the packing material of wood shavings.
"Woah," Jet, Spike and Faye said almost simultaneously as the first crate was opened and unpacked to reveal a cache of ten unissued Browning Assault Rifles.. Further crates contained mortar grenades, hand grenades, rifles of every variety used in the 20th century, pistols, bazookas and thousands upon thousands of rounds of ammunition.
"These guns are all antiques," Jet exclaimed. "I'd bet they're all over a hundred years old."
"Yeah, so is all of this stuff," Faye commented, referring to a few crates that did not contain munitions, some being a shipment of gramophones, a collection of typewriters, antiquated medical equipment, and even a load of 78 RPM records, most of which were "White Christmas" by Bing Crosby.
"Food! Food, food food food food food food!" Ed cried as she opened a cardboard box marked "FIELD RATIONS." Biting into one black brick that was labeled "Chocolate" on the wrapping, the girl's spine stiffened and her eyes watered. "Eeeeeeeeeegh," she trailed off.
"Hey, this stuff's a century old, don't eat anything!" Jet barked, snatching the "chocolate" from Ed who sat pouting. "With ten mil, we can buy real food," Jet patted the girl on her head.
"Jet!" Faye screamed. from the corner.
"What the hell, Faye?" Jet said, walking over only to see a large object that looked like nothing more than a metal storage box with a small fogged window on the top.
"Read that!" Faye pointed to a plaque above the window, marked at the top with "US ARMY MEDICAL CORPS EXPERIMENTAL DIVISION. SUBJECT PRESERVATION CHAMBER No. 00007 DATE: 3 JAN 1945" "TOP SECRET."
Author's Note: Sorry for the slow start. There will be much more on the way and much more satisfying, I promise. Please review, keeping in mind this is my very first fanfic.