Disclaimer: I don't own Bebop, its characters or concepts and make no profit from this writing, yada, yada, yada.

A/N: Tell me how I'm doing! I'm not so good with action scenes, so I'm a bit anxious. Feedback loved and appreciated! NOTE: A Kirkwood Gap is a ring in in the asteroid belt in which there are no asteroids, similar to the gaps in the rings of Saturn.

"Aaand he's just entered the Kirkwood Gap, cutting off Salenas! That's two checkpoints down for Doohan, two to go! Behind Salenas in a close third is Number Three, Hopper, in the Nighthawk. Numbers Two, Five and Six are at least a half a checkpoint behind. What a surprise! Swordfish II is giving them all a run for their money!"

Spike pumped his elbow in a subtle gesture of victory. If the race kept up like this, he'd be winning double his money back. Everybody said he was crazy betting on Doohan, considering what had happened to Swordfish I, but Spike had taken one look at his machine and liked it. It was a gorgeous, streamlined thing of beauty.

"Spiegel!" Spike jerked to attention, removing his feet from the desk and wincing as the front legs of his chair hit the ground with a bang. He flicked off his tiny television set before his boss, Nugent, could see what he was watching. "Spiegel, I have a job for you," Nugent said gruffly, looking over Spike's shoulder at the unfinished inventory sheet he was supposed to have been working on. He handed Spike a clipboard. "I want you to take this out to Reggie Parker for me. And make sure he signs the invoice; this is a rare part."

"Sure thing," Spike mumbled, dipping his hat as he looked the sheet over. "Kind of out of the way, isn't it?"

"Out of the way of rock showers, too," Nugent acknowledged. "And listen, don't let me find out about you pulling stunts in my truck again. Or sneaking off to the betting house. You gamble off my money again and I'll—"

"Yeah, yeah." Spike cut him off, ignoring him when his face turned red. Nugent really was a tool. "I'll be back shortly."

"You'd better!" Spike briefly contemplated giving him the finger, but decided that keeping his job, however crappy it was, might be a good thing.

He'd been here three months on Earth, and already he wanted to get away. Not back to Mars, and not even the Desperado, but anywhere else was looking good. Earth was hot, for the most part a crumbling, moldering wasteland. And the rock showers were no fun, either. The underground cities were nice, but far too expensive for Spike to pay rent. So for the here and now, he was stuck on the dull, scorched surface, in a shitty job trying to raise enough money to get off-planet again. In between pari-mutuel betting, that was.

He spun the key to the delivery truck around his finger as he made his way out to the parking lot. It was a beast of an old zip craft, beaten up even before he laid his hands on the controls. But since Spike had started working for Nugent, it'd taken even more of a beating. It was an older model, sluggish and slow, but he'd managed some pretty sick maneuvers out in the desert where there was no one to watch him. This delivery was out to the middle of nowhere. Yeah, he was gonna have some fun.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Waaaahahahaha!" Spike crowed against the wind, which whipped his hair into his stinging eyes. He pulled a sharp turn around a chimney-like rock formation and the G-forces pulled his grin even wider. Honestly, if Nugent wanted his truck in one piece, he shouldn't have hired Spike. He was a good driver, just, as he put it, 'not the delicate, cautious type' at all. He skirted the edge of a sharp outcropping, swerving back over two lanes of traffic to get back on the road to Reggie's. He'd only be a few minutes late.

Some time later, Spike pulled off the exit ramp and skimmed low over a long, dirt road that disappeared out on the horizon. This really was the middle of nowhere. He followed the road for several minutes, checking and double-checking the directions. Yeah, this was right. Soon, he came upon a large warehouse, converted from on old airplane hanger. 'Reggie's Aerospace Outfitters' was painted in faded, story-tall lettering on the side.

Spike touched down, sending a dust cloud flying. When he opened the hatch it was like getting hit with a brick, the heat was so sweltering. He removed his jacket and tied it over his head like the desert nomads of the history books. The whole place was surrounded by junk, and it took him considerable time and effort to pick out a path to the door without getting cut up. A trashy place, just like the rest of Earth.

He gave a knock on the wide metal door when he got to it, and jumped when it reverberated throughout the whole building. He could vaguely make out the sound of huge fans, someone inside cutting the radio off, and footsteps approaching the door. The massive door opened a crack, with a horrible screeching whine that send a shiver down Spike's spine.

"Come on in!" The voice came from the other side, amplified by the large hangar space. Spike stared down at the one-foot crack at the bottom of the door. Then, with a sigh, he dropped to his stomach, sliding first the package under and then himself. He felt a strong hand pull him to his feet. "Hey there."

"Yo." Spike knelt down and picked up the package, handing it to the bear of a man who accepted it with almost childlike glee.

"Yes! Yes! Perfect!" He brushed a pile of junk from a table with a massive forearm and placed the package down, ripping the tape away to get to the part. "In perfect condition, too! Glad you didn't treat it rough like some guys do."

Spike scratched his head a little guiltily. He'd been anything but gentle on the way over here. "Eheheh, no problem."

"Oh, Doohan's gonna be stoked!" He set the part on a shelf, then turned to see Spike blinking at him. "What?"

"Doohan, you said? You mean the asteroid racer who built Swordfish?"

"The same," the man nodded. "I'm Reggie, his outfitter and supplier." He extended a hand and Spike shook it, trying to hide his reaction to the man's extra-firm grip. "And speaking of which!" He suddenly abandoned Spike and ran over to the other end of the hanger, where he'd strung up a ridiculously large plasma screen TV. "The race should be almost over!"

Spike eagerly followed uninvited, though Reggie didn't seem to mind the intrusion. Reggie flipped through channels until the familiar bright red of the Swordfish II's paint job whizzed by on screen. "There!"

"—Swordfish II, followed very closely by reigning champion Hopper in the Nighthawk," the announcer's voice came over the sound of the huge fans keeping the building cool. "What an upset for Salenas, who was a favorite at the betting polls today. And Doohan is in the lead! Who would have guessed it?" Spike grinned at the news. The video feed switched to the final checkpoint's tracking camera, which caught the two ships at a distance, now vying neck and neck for first place.

"Come on, come on!" Spike whispered under his breath. Similarly, Reggie had his fingers crossed, and Spike could guess that the large man had money on Doohan as well.

"And they're entering the last stretch of space before the final checkpoint! Only two hundred more klicks to go."

Spike unconsciously stopped breathing, eyes glued to the screen. The final stretch was always the hardest, coming out of the Kirkwood Gap and into one of the densest strings of asteroids in the belt. Not only would the ships be jockeying against each other, but avoiding getting slammed to bits at the same time. It was high stakes for the pilot as much as it was for the bettors.

"Oh, look out!" Nighthawk barely missed colliding with a house-sized asteroid, doing a last minute barrel roll to avoid it. Swordfish took the opportunity and ran with it, firing its jets for an extra burst of speed. But Nighthawk was quick to make it up. "And Hopper's catching up! It's still close, fellows. A hundred more klicks to the finish line!" The two ships swerved and dodged and pirouetted through the obstacles, like a trippy, cosmic ballet. What Spike wouldn't have given to be in the Swordfish right then.

Nighthawk pulled ahead by a tad, and a string of colorful curse words escaped Spike's lips. "—God damn mother fucking—" He cut himself off as the unthinkable happened; one of Nighthawk's wing stabilizers grazed Swordfish's undercarriage, and the two stuck.

"Oh my word, are you getting this?" the announcer breathed. This looks bad. I'm getting flashbacks of the Swordfish I here. Just a few more kilometers, and—"

An explosion. Nighthawk's wing broke free, and a piece of the Swordfish came with it, spiraling off and ricocheting against the engine. Swordfish began trailing smoke, listing dangerously to one side and wobbling.

"Oh my, this could be a tragedy here today. But wait, wait… Look! It's a miracle! Doohan's somehow regained control, holy shit! Oh wait, am I allowed to say that on air?"

And it was true. The whole ship was vibrating erratically, but Doohan compensated beautifully by cutting his lateral boosters. The ship spun, jerked forward, and—

"OH MY GOD!" the announcer yelled, deafening over the microphone, which wasn't meant to pick up such loud volumes. "DOOHAN WINS!!"

"Yes!" Spike and Reggie cried simultaneously, turning to give each other high fives. Spike immediately grabbed and cradled his wrist, but it didn't put a damper on his jubilation. "Holy Moses, that was close."

"Sure was," Reggie replied. "Here, have some lemonade." He turned and poured another cup from a pitcher he had sitting on the table, and Spike accepted it gratefully. Reggie offered him a rickety old stool and they sat and watched the damaged Swordfish pull in and get towed off to the pit. Then came the accolades, and the three ranking pilots stepped out onto the winner's rostrum.

"I had an exactor bet on Doohan and Hopper, yanno," Reggie said between sips, swirling his ice around. But Spike wasn't paying attention. Instead, he stared at the screen, eyes squinted.

"Is… is that Doohan?"

"Yup."

"He's old."

Reggie let out a guffaw. "Well he's not young, that's for sure. But he's a sharp fellow, and a damn good pilot." He got up to go dump the ice out his cup. Spike lingered behind, still staring at the short man with grizzled gray hair, looking cool and unbothered while camera flashes came from every direction. But Spike wasn't fooled. He could see the pride in the man's eyes, even through the pixels.

"How much do I owe ya?" Reggie asked, coming back with a rolled up wad of woolongs in his hand. Spike gazed at them thoughtfully, glanced down at his clipboard—and suddenly it hit him. A broad smile stretched across his face.

"A favor."

"Huh?" Reggie asked, scratching his head in a comical cartoon gesture. "What kind of favor are you talking about, kid?"

Spike laughed and clarified, "Just one thing. I'll pay the shipping out of my own pocket if you can get me in to see Doohan."

Reggie raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, kid, he's a busy guy. Always working or tinkering with something. But hey, I'll see what I can do."

Spike grinned as Reggie slipped the woolongs back into his pocket. The idea he was hatching was terrible, could very likely get him arrested. But that was possibly the biggest fun in the plan.

He was going to steal the Swordfish.