DISCLAIMER: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise does. I do, however, own this original story.

Life in the Fast Lane

By The Lady Razorsharp

Lyrics by The Eagles

Part 1: Kitty

He was a hard-headed man 
He was brutally handsome, and she was terminally pretty 
She held him up, and he held her for ransom in the heart 
of the cold, cold city…

Io's desert heat discouraged all but the most hardy of life forms, whether they be plants, animals, or people. The humans that shuffled along Tombstone's dusty streets were a rawboned lot, leathery and tanned against the fierce sunshine that pummeled the satellite. Made up of outlaws and drifters trying to make a few woolongs at the long-depleted mines, the hardscrabble citizenry of Io were like hungry, rawboned dogs waiting for scraps that never fell.

Because there was little else to see, Kitty watched three old pokes that had taken refuge under the meager shade of the open-air café's tin roof.  She waved her fan ineffectively under her chin as one of the codgers quarreled over the cards another had dealt him, while a tired-looking waitress in a dirty apron served them frosty mugs of the local grog. Kitty felt her throat tighten; the beer tasted like old socks, but it was always ice-cold. She wondered if she should go introduce herself to the Geezer Brigade, but thought the better of it. If she made some good money tonight, she would treat herself to a big shaved ice with strawberry syrup.

Though there's little chance of that, she mused, shifting from where she leaned against the doorframe of Miss Birdie's Bathhouse for Gentlemen. Business had been achingly slow of late.  As a result, the girls lounging listlessly on the parlor furniture behind her had set to complaining in loud, whiney voices, their accents borne of a hundred cultures that had long been confused by mankind's exodus from a shattered Earth.

"There's no good men in this town anymore," groused Maria, a thin Hispanic woman in a red satin chemise trimmed with black lace, who looked far older than her thirty years.

"There never were any good men in this town," volleyed Angelique, a Creole with café-au-lait skin and a bleached blond weave that fell in ringlets past her waist. She plucked at the limp organdy ruffles of her pink babydoll pajamas. "Don't act so disappointed."

Samantha, the blue-eyed blonde that customers got when they asked for 'the girl next door', moaned in protest from where she lay on the antique sofa.  "Will you guys shut up?" She flapped the hem of her aqua silk chemise, exposing her matching bikinis. "I'm trying to think of something cold, and you're breaking my concentration."

"Like skinny dipping in a tub full of ice cream," Kathleen gushed, her apple-green eyes lighting under the sweaty mass of coppery hair piled on top of her head.  Her skintight Kelly green halter and hot pants were soaked, and she sighed heavily. "Doesn't that sound lovely, now? Ice cream, mmm, all over."

Chantal's deep chocolate skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that darkened the champagne satin of her lace-trimmed slip. "Kitty, get away from the door," she called from the entrance to the hallway.  "You're blocking the breeze."

Kitty turned her head, glad she had pinned her brown waves up off her neck.  "The only breeze is the one you're making with your flapping mouth," she shot back, her Baltic accent thickening with annoyance.  "So shut up already, all of you. We all know it's hot."

On cooler afternoons, Kitty's words would have signaled the start of a yelling match, but today they brought a few half-hearted calls of  "screw you," and little else. It was too hot even to fight, something that rarely happened with the volatile group.

It was no use; standing in the doorway only felt as if she were staring into an oven, and Kitty snapped her fan shut.  Maybe Maria was right.  She scanned the street one last time, and prepared to go back inside.  Perhaps there was enough change left in her pocketbook for a small shaved ice… 

That was when she saw him, coming towards her out of the shimmering heat waves like some dark-haired desperado out of a long-forgotten movie.

A man in a long black duster was walking up the street with strong, measured steps, his eyes hidden from the harsh sunlight by dark glasses.  As he drew closer, Kitty shaded her eyes to get a better look at him.  He was tall and tanned, with long legs clad in black jeans.  His white shirt hung open to his waist, revealing a set of washboard abs that gleamed with sweat.  Eh, not bad, she mused. This man was a lonely cowboy, down to the spurs on his boot heels, and lonely cowboys were just her type.

Kitty put on her sexiest smile and opened her fan again.  She shrugged off one strap of her curve-hugging ivory slip and loosed her hair so it brushed her shoulders.  "Hey, handsome," she called out, moving her fan in long, languorous waves.  "You look so hot and tired. I was just about to take a nice cool bath. Why don't you come in here and join me?"

The man turned toward the sound of her voice. He smiled, revealing teeth that gleamed white in his brown face.  "And how much would this cool dip set me back, little girl?"

Shifting her weight to thrust out one rounded hip, Kitty gestured him closer with her fan.  "We can talk about it over a beer," she suggested, placing one hand on her hip, then letting her hand slip slowly down the tight fabric to the lacy hem. "How about it, handsome?"

He clanged up onto the sidewalk, lifting a hand clad in fingerless leather gloves to his face, where he removed his sunglasses in the shade of the porch.  When he spoke, his words were an easy tumble of Russian syllables. "Aren't you a little underdressed to go out drinking, little girl?" he breathed, his brown eyes turning into chips of onyx in the shade.

Kitty gasped.  He must have heard my accent!  "Where did you learn Russian?" she blurted, switching to the language she hadn't spoken since her baba, her grandmother, was alive. Since the day I fought with Grandfather and left home…

"My mother, God rest her soul, she taught it to me. She refused to speak English."  He offered her his arm.  "Let's go for that beer," he gestured with a jerk of his chin back toward the café.

"Are we going to talk business or pleasure?" Kitty teased, slipping her arm through his.

He grinned. "Both," he said in English.

Six hours later, Kitty and her desperado cowboy, who had given his name as Asimov, still hadn't discussed the terms of their business transaction. When she tried to broach the subject, he'd merely said, "We've got plenty of time for that," and bought her the first of many beers and bloody mary's. The two of them struck up a conversation with the three card-playing codgers, and as long as Asimov was buying drinks, the old men kept telling stories of their lives as construction workers for the Gate Corporation. Kitty had been trying to teach them the words of an old Russian drinking song, but she herself was too drunk to remember the words. They had all collapsed in laughter, and Kitty was beginning to see spots when she felt Asimov's fingers against her face.

"Come on, Katia," Asimov said gently, using the Russian diminutive of Katarina, her real name. "It's time to go."

"Oh, so soon?"  She looked around and saw the three old men passed out and snoring.  "Guess some people just can't hold their liquor."

Asimov smiled and helped her to her feet.  When she tottered and fell back into her chair, giggling like a madwoman, Asimov knelt down and removed her high-heeled slippers.  "We still have to talk business, remember?" he reminded her in English.

"What's that you say?" She didn't like standing up; it made her head hurt.

"Business, little girl."  Asimov swung her up into his arms, and she curled into his embrace.  "How much are you going to charge me to put you to bed?"

"Oh, that," Katia sighed, finally remembering that she knew how to speak English.  "I'm expensive; I don't think you can afford me," she said airily.

"Oh, I can't?" They reached the door of the bathhouse, and he set her down long enough to open the door.  "Try me."

"Five hundred thousand woolongs a night, plus expenses." She leaned on his arm as they stumbled through the doorway.  "I only eat strawberries and cream, Beluga caviar, and Dom Perignon."

He chuckled. "Is that all? That's a bargain." Asimov nodded to the other girls, some of whom were entertaining men who looked as if they had been scraped off the sidewalk.  "Evening, ladies."

"Hey," yelled Chantal, tugging on Katia's other arm.  "She's drunk! She can't tell a woolong from a parking ticket right now; how's she supposed to know you paid her?"

For all intents and purposes, Asimov ignored Chantal, choosing instead to address a wide-eyed Kathleen who was coming down the stairs in a towel. "Hey, honey, do me a favor; send up a bowl of strawberries and cream, a jar of your finest Beluga caviar, and a bottle of Dom Perignon, well chilled?" Asimov swung Katia up into his arms again and carried her up the stairs.  "Just put it on my tab."

"The hell you say?" Chantal glowered up at the duster-clad back that retreated into the shadows at the top of the stairs as Kathleen scurried out of the way.  "We don't have any of that fancy shit here! The hell you think this is, the Neptune Gardens?"  When that elicited no response, she called after Katia, "Kitty! If Mr. Fancy-Ass starts breaking shit up, you give a shout!"

The only response was the slamming of Katia's door.