Disclaimer: All characters appearing in Cowboy Bebop are the copyright of Sunrise, Inc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and the following story is not authorized by the copyright holder. In other words, I don't own CB. I'm just a fan and a broke one at that. Come to think of it, I don't own Bob Dylan's Tombstone Blues either but it is used without permission. I'm a fan of his too so if Sunrise/Bandai or Bob Dylan happen across this fic, please consider it free publicity.

Tombstone Blues
1. Elevator Music

Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin for food
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues

"Tombstone Blues"
Bob Dylan from Highway 61 Revisited

A month had gone by since that spectacular night. Well...spectacular was the wrong word to use, but other words seemed inadequate for hyperbole to allow. A building's top floor blowing wide open is guaranteed to garner attention. People in the know had already been buzzing about the coup d'etat within the Red Dragon Syndicate and then hot on its heels was the immolation of its newly crowned head. It made for great wondering.

Ordinary folk didn't care about syndicate members dying at each other's hands. Hard to get upset over the death of people who killed for a living. Everyone was guaranteed death and anyone who got involved with one of the syndicates knew that they could meet the devil at any time. It was part of the deal.

One man would say, "Live by the sword, die by the sword."

A woman would nod and rephrase, "Live by the gun, die by the gun."

Infamous moments had a way of bringing out the cliché in all and that night had given way to a torrential release of old catchphrases.

But if the real folk were macabre in their mundane philosophies about the carnage of numerous young men who had accepted such a possibility, the same could not be said of how they felt about the property damage. The ordinary Jane and Joe were loudly pissed that the police had done little to limit the damage of a valuable downtown building. At the very least, they could've limited the damage in downtown Tharsis City.

As a result of the blowout, there were four major businesses who were in the building who now had to find new office space. Who was going to find such spacious offices at the price break they'd been given? It was bad enough that Terraforming Inc. had moved much of its operations to Titan now that the war was over and the survivors were eager to work, cheaply too, but they had kept their home offices in Tharsis. Now it looked like even that was going to move now. The other three business had not announced whether to keep their offices in the city and their silence was being taken as a sign that relocation was imminent.

"Too much instability," one official remarked on the condition that he not be named.

The comment did little to assuage the suspicion of a long held belief by the populace that their civic leaders were intertwined in Syndicate operations. Didn't matter which order it was, Red Dragon or White Tiger or Golden Lion or some other animal and color combination. The result remained the same. If a Syndicate was troubled, then the city could expect trouble.

This lack of naivete led to disinterest at the need for investigation. It was a damned inconvenience that two blocks of downtown had been cordoned off for a week on the pretense of investigation. Everyone knew that it was just to clean up the evidence and if they knew that and the police knew that, why did the area need to be blocked?

"Jeez," one vendor had grumbled, off the record, of course, "the White Tigers never caused this much trouble. When they kill and maim and blow things up, they're polite about it and keep it to themselves. They respect the rest of us."

It seemed that the Red Dragon Syndicate had not only lost their old leaders, their new leader, and valuable office space, they'd also lost the popularity contest as well.

A month later, the Tharsis City Police Department was still mired in bad publicity over the matter. Leaders were doing double-shifts in the press to upgrade their image and dispel the speculations that they had let the showdown happen as a purge and also to head off a larger conflict that was rumored between the Dragons and the Tigers.

"Negating the negatives," was how one informant put it in the Tharsis City Times. It made a good quote and as people began to return to their daily lives, they bought the line...if, in fact, they had read the news page of the newspaper.

Somewhere in the space above Mars, a man with a gleaming arm and a glowering countenance sat reading the news from a four-year old monitor that needed replacing. As he made his way down the article, Jet Black snorted as he grew more disgusted. According to the final report issued by the Tharsis City Police and backed by the Council of Tharsis City, the incident at the Red Dragon Building was entirely caused by rival factions within the Red Dragon Syndicate. It had happened suddenly and the prime suspects involved had perished at the site. The department claimed that they had been unaware of a growing enmity between the factions nor had they known of the great threat. The source of the fierce rancor was still uncertain, but that it appeared to have ended with the actions of that combatants.

"Bubble bullshit," Jet muttered, annoyed. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from his jumpsuit. In dismay, he noted that he was down to one stick. He swore as he placed it between his lips and lit up. After a long inhale, he squinted at the screen again.

It was apparent from the loopy jargon that the police were content to let the dead take the blame. That should have offended Jet, but it didn't. What sickened him was that the blame was assigned correctly. "Only a maverick insider could have pulled it off," the informant was quoted in a side article. "The Tigers wouldn't have pulled anything this showy and no one else could've cared that much. Gotta be one of their own. Maybe a former member."

"You got that right," Jet mumbled as he gazed at the words long enough to make them bleed and blur.

"Stop reading that stuff," a woman advised him, her voice dispassionate, uncaring. Leaning against the rail behind the monitor, Faye Valentine was filing a nail. Jet wondered how long she could file the same nail, but he didn't ask. He just wondered. She didn't look at him as she added, "The news is full of shit, Jet. They don't tell the truth. They only tell their version of the truth."

"Don't we all?" It wasn't a challenge. Only an observation.

The scrape of the emory board stilled. Those green eyes moved from the nail to the floor in front of her. There was an opening for her to say something. Seconds passed and so did the opportunity. In its place, she opted for silence and walked to her room.

In absent irritation, Jet sighed. Life on the Bebop was all about silence these days. He and Faye talked when they happened to run into each other. But it was never for long, even if they were in the same room.

Sometimes, when it was just him and his trees, he acknowledged that it was possible that he missed Ed more than Spike. Then he would feel guilty. Then guilty again for feeling guilty since it was almost true and almost false. The quietude choked him like a hag of a censor. He knew that if Ed were around, there would be some kind of noise. At times, unintelligible, but any kind of resonance, discordant or joyful, would have be better than this kind of elevator music they were stuck in. There was nothing inoffensive, but nothing inspiring either.

He leaned back against the couch cushions and let his heavy eyes close. He was about to drift into an aimless sleep that was all too frequent when he heard a crackle from the monitor on the coffee table. "Hey, Jet, are you there?"

There was a nudge by a knee near his rib. It was obvious that he was trying to ignore the caller but the nudging was insistent. "Jet, someone is calling you."

Faye had re-entered the living area dressed as if she were on her way to the bathroom, except the bathroom was in the opposite direction. The terry cloth robe was even more ill-fitting for her petite body now that she had lost weight and her rich hair was wrapped carelessly in her turbin. She could dress like sin when she wanted to. He could testify to that, but she would have said that there was nothing remotely sexy about her get up now. It was pedestrian wear, she'd say, but to Jet, still floating in his half-sleep, he found her most beautiful in these ordinary clothes, especially when her features were scrubbed clean of the makeup she insisted on wearing and strands of her purple black hair wisped around her fairy-like features.

Realizing the direction of his thoughts, he snapped awake. The change gave him a sudden headache and he shot her a dark scowl. "Can't you let a man sleep in peace?"

"Don't get pissy at me," she returned sharply. "You never sleep in peace these days anyway."

"How can I with you around?"

"I haven't done anything!" she defended, the blandness in her eyes dissipating.

"Yeah, I know!" Jet was standing now and both of them were beginning to breathe deep. The exertion hurt due to the unused effort, but they made the effort anyway. They were angry at each other because it suddenly felt better than being numb.

"Hey, Jet," the man in the monitor called out. "Are you there? I can hear you."

Flicking a switch, Jet barked, "Yeah, McMurphy, I'm here."

Jack Daniels McMurphy, named by a father who knew alcohol better than the women he slept with, snorted. "Dog, we got your man."

Slowing his breath, Jet turned to give the man in the monitor his full attention. "What man?"

"Your bounty partner."

Jet turned a hard gaze to Faye. "I don't have a partner."

McMurphy took off his Tharsis City Police cap to show salt 'n pepper hair. It was a reminder to Jet that they were all getting older and that some people got older while others didn't and never would. "C'mon," McMurphy wheedled, a bit impatient. "We got that former syndicate guy who was your partner."

"McMurphy, I got no partner. He's dead."

"Yeah, I know. His body is still here at the morgue. Got no next of kin so its just sitting at the Medical Examiner's collection of various parts."

There was a time when Jet would have chuckled at the dry, sardonic tone of McMurphy, but he didn't. He knew the owner of the body and there was an unexpected ache that burst in the middle of his chest now that it was forced to acknowledge that there was proof of the owner's demise.

Until that moment, he hadn't realized that he had still held out hope. By the time he and Faye had gotten off their melancholy asses to try and stop the guy, it had been too late. Like everyone else, they'd seen the ruins and lights and smoke, but nothing else. No one, not even a man with ISSP connections, was allowed in and so they never saw him. But what one doesn't see, one doesn't have to believe. The mind made those kinds of deals with delusion.

Next to him, he felt the air around Faye grow cold, her delicate features drawn and closed. "Why are you telling me this?" Jet asked McMurphy, his voice suddenly hoarse.

McMurphy sighed. "If there is no next of kin, his body is gonna be donated to science. A worthy cause, sure, but in this case, ya never know. Guy's become an urban legend and we both know what happens to legends."

"They become objects," Faye interjected, soft and faint.

McMurphy heard her. Jet could see that because his ruddy features turned a darker red. "Yeah, objects of fascination. Donating to science could end up donating to the highest bidder. There's some people who wouldn't mind having the body displayed with that other one. We already got a guy who owns some kind of weird museum where he shows his collection of famous body parts. He wants to buy both bodies so he can have them as some kind of guardians of the gate."

"That's sick."

"That's entrepreneurship," Jack corrected and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Anyway, me and Monty wanted to let you know...in case you wanted the body."

Jet looked to Faye, who gritted her teeth and nodded. "We do," he stated.

The old colleague gave him a rueful expression. "Me and Monty and some of the others will hold the body as long as we can, but I gotta warn you, Jet. You're gonna have to pay someone to get the body out."

"I gotta bribe it out?" Jet was appalled but Faye merely smirked in unsurprise.

"A buck's a buck," she riposted sarcastically.

"I'll get the price down," McMurphy promised, looking ill himself at having to impart the information. "I'm sorry, but like I said, they release the body to next of kin. After that, it's anyone's game."

"How much is it gonna be?" Jet asked, agitated. "Without a price break."

"You ain't gonna like it?"

"Just name the price," Jet urged wearily.

"750,000 woolongs."

"Is that all?" Faye appeared shocked and insulted.

Jet didn't know whether to laugh or groan. "You got 750,000 woolongs, Faye?" he challenged, a thick brow lifting. The money stash had trickled to somewhere under 100,000 woolongs since there had been no bounties attempted since that night.

She folded her arms across the terry cloth. "No. Do you?"

Jet growled. "No, I don't, but it seems we gotta get it." He turned to McMurphy. "How long do you think you can hold the body?"

"A week."

"That's it? Just a week?"

"I'm surprised they held the body this long," McMurphy explained, the apology inherent in his words.

"Yeah, yeah," Jet agreed in resignation. "Hold it as long as you can. We'll get the money."

"Sure thing, Jet."

"Tell the guys thanks."

"Will do."

Long after the communication was cut, Jet and Faye sat in the living area, one on one couch and the other across, both staring at a blank screen. "So...what are we gonna do?" Faye finally asked.

Jet leaned forward and turned on the monitor again, powering up the computer. "We need to get a bounty."

With their historical luck, Faye was not able to hide her lack of confidence. "Oh, great. Can't we just lie, cheat or steal from someone? That would be so much more efficient."

One spurt of laughter, rare these days, erupted from his thick throat. "Probably, but it ain't our style."

"I didn't know that we had a style."

There was a heavy inference loaded in her statement. Faye was good at doing that. She could seem a flaky, beautiful tart with big tits and luscious limbs, but then she'd wallop a man with one blade of a caustic observation, making him pay for his inattention. Flawed, she was. Impetuous, and impulsive as well, but she was no fool. Not really and when she was, it was only because she gave herself permission to be.

Jet flicked a sideways glance over to her and then turned back to the monitor. He could feel that emerald gaze fixed on the crescent plate on his right cheekbone, waiting for his response.

"We don't," he conceded, his tone even. "But I guess we need to find one soon."

"For Spike?" The question was droll and she looked unconvinced before he even answered her. He knew that she was sure that Spike wouldn't care left or right if they had a style. He was gone and they weren't. The least they could do is let go of him right.

"Yeah, for Spike." He was silent for a moment and then gave her something more. A piece of honesty. "For me too."

She offered nothing more than a nod and got up from the couch to resume her way to the shower. He didn't watch her leave; instead, he grabbed a remote and pressed a series of buttons. Into the area, music flowed. It wasn't Parker or Coltrane or Davis that he had chosen, but a jazz group that had come after jazz's heydey, when musicians started to play the music to keep it alive out of pure love, because there sure wasn't any money in it.

The sound of Stanton Moore and his group brimmed with life as the sound of "Tang the Hump" reverberated in the darkened area. The music was quirky, lively, funky, spontaneous. It reminded him of that other time not so long ago. It sounded different now, but he figured that there was no escaping that and affirmed that there was nothing he could do about it. He could only do what an average man was a capable of and bumble his way until he got it.

Jet felt a part of himself thaw as he searched through the files of prospective bounties. Not everything was coming back and he didn't want it. He wasn't ready for all of it, but he was ready for a small portion. A portion that could hear noise again.

Better yet, a part of him that could feel noise again. Real noise that jangled against his nerves, vibrated his muscles and tickled his brain.

To one average man, that would have to do for now.

A Possible Next: Reincarnation of the Horse

Author's Note: This fic is based on the end of the series and it doesn't change what happened. I didn't like the end, but my dislike of it only solidifies my admiration because the end is what gave the series its potency. There were no apologies, no sudden changes of heart, no odd behavior switches. It began, it lived, it ended. And yet, it didn't because Faye and Jet remained. This is one of their possible stories.