Young Blood Remix

Author's Note: Though it utilizes some of the same elements, this story stands apart from the Darkwave Chronicles in that it explores the question: what if Jet had come across Spike when he was a kid and teamed up with him before he'd been recruited by the syndicate by Mao? In Diving Deep Into the Night I dropped a nightmarish scene with Jet encountering a juvenile Spike. The scene became an irresistible scenario of 'what if ' spawning a rare AU for me … so to indulge my wicked fancy, here we go … instead of Mao buying Spike from Joe, a naive young officer Jet comes to the rescue.

Updates on this one will be more sporadic as I am focusing on Diving Deep Into the Night, this is a lighter work I'm doing in addition, but there is a full plan for an arc.

Session 1

The Year 2057

~JET~

Well this was disconcerting. The more I looked around Deseado the more the rumors proved to fall short of reality. This crater was the most Godawful shithole Mars had to offer. Not exactly the choicest introduction to the planet's charms, but it's not as though I had been asked. I'd been with the department as a beat cop for a couple years, just one of the grunts. I knew enough to be well aware—when your police chief tells you you're going somewhere—you're going.

Night had set as I walked through the trash strewn streets riddled with potholes, lined by more ruin than intact buildings. The place seemed like a war zone, complete with the occasional hostile fire. Wasn't much of a tourist trade, the only thing someone could pickup around here was blood poisoning from all the glass, metal, and wood scattered all over the place. The few residents that wandered between the buildings glanced my way with a hand reaching beneath their clothing, as if going for a weapon. It took everything I had to not reach for my gun. No chance at getting the time of day from any of them, though I had to wonder how many of them were even literate to begin with. I would bet that the vast majority here picked their alcohol out by the pictures on the labels.

I tugged up the collar of my suit jacket feeling rather over dressed, unless I was going for some kind of crime boss. Frankly, I wasn't at all certain what my role was supposed to be in this assignment. All I was told was to met a couple local cops at a bar called the Last Shot. So far my efforts to find that place amounted to locating a glass needle in a haystack.

There was no real logic to the streets, many of which were dead ends. Packs of dogs scrapped over trash and bones, running each other down into vicious brawls. There were so many curs I lost count.

Yup, there had to have been some proverbial 'drawing straws' back on Ganymede. And I clearly lost. Just the joys of being a beat cop. At least here I didn't have to wear the uniform. Apparently that was why external help was requested. All the local cops were known. They needed an undercover face. Kinda feels like I'm gonna be the bait.

Walking past a delivery truck with the doors open, I marveled at the fact there was an actual grocery store in this place.

An angry voice echoed from the alley. "I got you now, you little shit!"

I froze and cocked my head, taking a few steps backward. A heavy built man in a ball cap held a bat in his hands, his back to me as he stalked down the narrow alley. Something moved in front of him against a wall, but he was too big, I couldn't see what it was.

"Now I caught ya in the act. You're gonna get what you deserve."

"I didn't take anything!" The high pitched voice of a young boy answered in angry defiance.

"Yeah, like last time. I'm not a fool." He swung the bat into his own hand with a solid thuck. "I got deliveries to make. Can't have useless gutter leeches performing a five finger discount out of my truck. I saw you run off, now drop it or I'll drop you."

"Doesn't work, jerk off! Can't drop what I didn't take."

I crept into the alley catching my first glimpse of the target of the accusation. This wasn't some massive thug. Backed against the wall was a twig of a boy. Caught in the light of an overhead lamp of the nearby backdoor, he hardly stood at half my own height. He was hardly a worthy threat dressed in ill-fitting ragged clothing too large for his lean frame; jeans with the knees worn out, a dark gray long-sleeve shirt with a vest over it, his canvas shoes had once been another color that now could only be guessed. Beneath a mop of scruffy dark green hair, his light brown eyes seemed clever and quick.

Still one strike from that bat and he'd be finished.

"I've had it with you and your lies, Spike! You've had this coming for months now! All I had to do was corner your ass!" The trucker raised the bat.

The boy, who I assumed must be known as Spike, crouched down, quickly glancing up and grabbing at the building wall. The brick crumbled and he slid back down to the ground with a curse.

I couldn't let this continue. "Hey, does he look like a ball to you?"

The trucker glanced over his shoulder, pointing with the bat. "Stay out of this if you know what's good for you."

"Just wondering what would warrant assault and battery."

"Heh, how about repeated theft. This little shithead thinks he's entitled to whatever he can carry off!"

Still cornered, Spike stuck his tongue out.

"Does he now. Uhh, I can see both of his hands. They're empty. And I doubt he's got much in his pockets."

"Really? You'd be surprised." The trucker snorted a laugh. "Let's see." With a swift low swing of the bat he sent Spike into a straight upward leap to avoid it. That brought him into the swipe of his other arm. With a meaty hand he caught Spike's wrist and yanked him into the tumble against the wall. Several cans flew from his pockets, clattering into the alley. One landed beneath the trucker's foot. "Uh huh. Didn't steal nothing, did ya!"

Spike eyed the cans and backpedaled, scrambling to his feet. "I was hungry, you prick."

"So, get a job!" The trucker raised the bat and was about to rush him when I grabbed the end of the weapon.

"He's just a kid. Leave 'im alone."

"Leave him alone? You have any idea how much theft happens from these street rats? I can't afford the loss from everything they take. You give them an inch, they swarm you!"

Accompanied by a gust, hasty footsteps echoed past me out into the street. I turned to glimpse the sole of a worn sneaker as it vanished. That was one fast kid!

"Hey! Get back here!"

I picked up a can and set it in the man's hand. "You got your stuff back, let him go. Any chance you know where the Last Shot is?"

The trucker grumbled, picked up the rest of the cans. "Pain in my ass … Yeah, two blocks that way, take a right. It's the joint with the busted window in the door."

~JET~

The Last Shot. An apropos name for a dive bar in a slum. I found myself in a hole in the wall establishment, that literally had holes in the wall. Bullet holes. Wind and debris blew in from the outside. Was everything on Mars covered in red dust? The bartender had more spaces than teeth as he chewed his own gums. The disturbing thing, the man couldn't have been more than his mid-thirties.

Beneath one of the few dim booth lamps I sat nursing a black and tan. Across the table two local cops, Rich and Dodge reclined, cold bottles of beer in their hands. It didn't take a discerning eye to know they looked older than they were. Their eyes were bright and youthful, but their skin spoke of the harsh world they lived in. Scars marred there faces, evidence of the skin splitting. Dodge had one ear that resembled cauliflower, the sure sign of a man who had brawled—repeatedly. Neither of them wore a uniform at the moment, but the edge of their badges peeked out from the pockets of their casual clothes as they made small talk, largely ignoring me.

Yup, I was overdressed. I ran a finger beneath the collar of my dress shirt, loosening my tie.

As I took a draw off my drink, Dodge lifted his beer bottle, about to take a sip himself he pointed with a lifted pinky finger. "Hey, you barely look old enough to be drinkin', boy."

I set my glass down and eyed him beneath heavy brows. "I'm twenty-one."

Rich elbowed his partner, wrinkling a scar on the bridge of his nose. "The chief asks for help and they sent us a young blood."

"He'll have to do." Dodge shrugged, setting his bottle down. "You ever done undercover work before?"

For a moment I considered lying. But neither of them seemed worthy of trying to earn their approval. I scratched my beard. "No, but it doesn't seem like it should be very difficult. The chief mentioned something about all of you were known around here."

"Right." Rich leaned back in the booth. "Ain't very many of us in this crater. The locals get to know us even if we don't want them to. Fact is, there's some stuff getting through, and those involved get all squirrely when they see any of us."

"So, here's what we need from you. There's a fella we think got his hands on the shit a day ago. But we can't just go in there. If he sees us sniffin' about, he'll hide it."

"Right, but a guy like you? Heh, he'd never think even once about a new face. We need you to go into his joint tomorrow, hang around for a while, and keep your eyes open for this." He showed me a picture of a glass vial filled with a purple liquid, an aerosolyzer attached to it. "Shit's called Purple-eye. You don't need to do anything. Just see if you can spot this in his building. Then, met us back here."

"If he's got it, we'll score the warrant and do the raid. Simple as that. Even a searat like you can't screw that up."

I raised an eyebrow. Searat? What the heck kind of a dig was that? At length I sighed, the sooner I finished this, the sooner I got to go back home to Ganymede. Rubbing my forehead I glanced through my fingers. "Where am I going?"

Dodge's smile sat uneasy with me. "Hope you like playing pool. The joint is called Uncle Joe's Pool Hall."

~SPIKE~

The squeak of the old couch springs dragged me out of a restless sleep as I stirred beneath the blanket. Peering through a hole in the fabric, that once had a visible pattern before time had worn it away, I watched the light turn on with a flicker of quiet dread. It wasn't enough that last night my attempt to score my first decent meal in days had gone tits up … erff, I could still feel the memory of the cans' weight in my pockets … now the old hard ass was awake early. Which only meant one thing for me.

The floorboards creaked under his weight. I couldn't see him under my rather pathetic refuge, but I followed the sound of his sluggish progress across the room. The snick of his lighter, followed by the scent of cigarette smoke.

Shit, that made me itch for one something fierce. But even more so the desire to be left alone for as long as possible won out. I'd only gotten a few hours of sleep, if that could even be counted. The complaints of my empty stomach repeatedly disrupted my efforts. My fist tightened. I'd really needed that score last night. Now it was another day of sipping beer and sneaking pretzels when Mr. stingy wasn't looking. If I was lucky—he would leave!

A sharp flick caught my elbow, apparently there was another hole in the blanket. I hissed.

"Wake up, you useless shit." Joe yanked the blanket off and threw it on the floor.

I groaned, covering my eyes hoping he didn't guess I'd already been awake. Truth was he usually wasn't that perceptive.

"Lazy, good for nothing." He held up an empty vodka bottle. "What's this?"

Faced with that, lying down was not the position I wanted to be in. Slowly, looking as casual about it as I could, I sat up and yawned. "A glass all empty."

Joe wielded the bottle. "Smart ass! How many times I gotta tell you to restock the bar. Every. Fuckin'. Night!"

I rolled my eyes. "It was late, I was hungry. I had to get out there befor—"

In a massive crash the bottle shattered as it struck the wall above my head, the neck of it still in his grip. I couldn't help it, I flinched as the shards pelted my shirt and by sheer luck bounced off to rain onto the couch … where I slept. Son of bitch, that was gonna be hard to clean up. Joe's empty hand clamped like a vice around my right wrist holding it up above my head.

Don't let him see the fear. I swallowed every damnable ounce of it, fighting to keep a dead-eyed stare and my breathing even. If I was being honest, I was terrified. If there was one thing I was terrible at—it was honesty.

With the cigarette clamped between his teeth, Joe's grip on my wrist tightened painfully. He hefted the shattered edge of the bottle above my pinned hand, shaking with fury. "Time to teach you a lesson!"

Survival instinct alone stripped any sense of urgency from my voice as I calmly looked from the sharp glass to my wrist and finally to his face with a confidence I didn't have any right to feel. This man was twice my height and probably four times my weight, but did I mention the man was an idiot? "Hey genius, I can't play the table if you jack up my hand. That'll cost you your meal ticket."

The grip on the bottle loosened. The furious glare lost its intensity as he stared at my pinned hand. With a growl he threw the remains of the bottle against the far wall and pointed. "Clean that up. Then down to the cellar and I want that bar restocked like you should have done last night!" With a hard yank, he threw me into a tumble on the floor before stomping off with an unintelligible grumble.

I sighed, halfway in relief. That could have gone so much worse. Luckily years ago I had learned to take a roll when he lost his shit for no apparent reason. This guy was a grade A loser. Dusting myself off, I grabbed the broom and started to clean up his mess. What did that make me? After all, I relied on this jackass for what little kindness he showed.

Kindness, hah! Yeah, I got a roof to crash under, but that was pretty much it. The only reason Joe bothered was because he'd taught me how to run a pool table like it was nobody's business when I'd shown interest. He'd taken me in more or less to do all the odd jobs he didn't want to do, if I could con his customers out of more woolongs, all the better for him. I had the best poker face in all of Deseado. Then again, competition wasn't precisely fierce around here. The locals were all either cutthroats or dead beats. Both were easy marks. One because of ego, the other because they were too shitfaced to notice when I was light fingering their pockets.

Not that I got to keep any of it.

I eyed the drop box Joe had set up. A hidden wood panel in the wall behind the bar on the other side of the door. Back here in the office the panel led to a cardboard box that I'd use a bit of sleight of hand to empty my pockets throughout the day while refilling drinks.

Yeah, Joe no longer ran this place. I did.

From the dustpan, the glass clattered into the trashcan beside his desk. I narrowed my eyes, hello, what's this? Strange things showed up from time to time after Joe visited the pawn shop. After all, a lot of jewelry ended up in his box. But over the six years I had spent in this place I had never seen something like this.

I knew better than to touch Joe's things, so I examined it only with my eyes. A thick-walled glass vial filled with a purple liquid. A metal device with a trigger sat next to it, a needle that looked like it was designed to pierce the seal of the vial.

A shiver went down my spine. Trouble. That's what this looked like.

I grabbed my pack of cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, lighting up before I trudged down the creaking stairs. I already knew what I needed. I'd looked last night. But it was dark, and the single light bulb over the stairs wasn't enough to prevent the real concern of breaking my neck on the ill-repaired steps.

Joe was a tightwad. He no longer came down here. That was my job. Why would he care? He should, for the precise reason I'd mentioned to him before. He'd come to reply on what my antics brought in.

The bulb swung back and forth overhead casting moving shadows as I rifled through the shelves digging out stock. A bottle of vodka, a couple different whiskeys, and a cheap ass bottle of scotch. Luckily I didn't have to lug a keg up the stairs today. I reached down intermittently, the back of my right calf itched, the flesh rough beneath my ragged jeans. A tired reminder of the recently healed dog bite that had been troubling me. Had Joe given me a break when I was limping? Nope. I'd still had to haul this shit up the stairs and the empty bottles out to the back alley trash. Still had to run the bar and the tables from open to close. Lazy asshole.

Gripping the box, I hefted it up and staggered against the sloshing weight. Halfway up a dry-rotted board groaned beneath my foot.

SNAP!

My foot went right through. The bottles clattered as I made a desperate hop, catching the next stair and coming down on my knee, the other foot hanging over the edge. That had been rather close! Taking a steadying breath I edged the rest of the way up the stairs and lugged the box to the bar.

The bottles clanked as I traded them out. My stomach grumbled anew, I silently cursed its needs. I didn't have time to go scrounge something up now. The hall was open. I had to run the joint so Joe could … I sighed, eyeing the half open office door. The box of yesterday's jewelry scores was gone. He must have taken it to the pawn shop. Good, that should leave me with at least a few hours of peace.

The clearing of a throat jolted me.

Or … not.

Great, I thought the least I had done was clean up out there before I left to forage last night. What did Joe find to be pissed about now?

Gripping the edge of the bar I hauled myself up, prepared in case I should have to duck, wouldn't be the first time. My eyes widened, the nearly spent cigarette fell to the floor.

Beside one of the tables a man stood holding one of the house cues. Not just any man, I had seen the chump, just last night. He'd been wearing a suit. Today he was more casual, wearing a t-shirt with a jacket and jeans. He was a black-haired man with a beard, stocky build and a sure step. An annoyingly sure step. He'd had one use, providing the distraction that allowed me slip off from the trucker's wrath. That damn jerk had set a trap, and in my desperation I had fallen for it and nearly been snuffed out. This man was a stranger here, or he wouldn't have interfered. Still, what the hell was he doing here?

For a moment shock flashed on his features, replaced by a smile splitting his beard. "Oh hey, sorry, I heard someone moving bottles." He made a show of looking around. "Uhh, is your father here?"

By sheer automatic response, I shook my head. Joe was not my father.

"Ok, who's in charge."

I rolled my eyes slowly to the office door. Looking back at him I sighed and pointed to my chest. "That would be me."

He rubbed his beard. "Heh. Well then, how does this work? Do I pay up front or what?"

Punching the release on the register I yanked out the wad of house money and strode around the bar. "You wanna play? Ante up." I grabbed my favorite cue from the rack, chalking it.

His eyes widened, looking down at me. "Against you? Heh, you'd need a stool to reach the table, kid."

"You asked a question. I gave you an answer." I leaned against the table. "You see anyone else to play against?"

He did a slow sweep of a room before shaking his head.

I reached out a hand and beckoned with my fingers. "Opening bet?"

Pulling out his wallet, he tugged out a few woolong bills and set it on the rail. "This really isn't fair."

Eyeing the amount I tugged out the match. "Starting small, tch. Hardly worth the time." I cocked a grin up at him. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on ya."