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

Life in the Fast Lane

By The Lady Razorsharp

Part 3: Ticket to Ride

Eager for action and hot for the game
The coming attraction, the drop of a name…

--The Eagles

Smoke curled lazily against the ceiling as Asmiov sat propped against the headboard, Katia draped across his body.  Neither of them paid attention to the images that flashed soundlessly across the television screen, the bluish light casting shadows in the drifting smoke. With the glowing end of Asimov's cigarette the only other light in the room, Katia slipped into a light doze in the pre-dawn silence.

She dreamt of her grandparents, she dreamt of her co-workers at the brothel. Again she saw Johnson, the poor unfortunate mark, lying in a pool of blood from his broken nose. Her dreams slipped into the future, where she saw herself in a mirror, her abdomen rounded with child.  The serene expression on her face reminded her of the Madonna in the old Orthodox church she had gone to as a child.

Then her dreams changed; became darker and full of dread. Images came faster now, ones of a hurried flight to…somewhere. Someone was chasing them. Restlessly, she stirred in her sleep, and Asmiov's hand strayed to her tousled hair.

Katia dreamt on, and found herself face to face with a lanky stranger with emerald hair and mismatched garnet eyes. Asimov tugged viciously on her arm, pulling her away from the stranger, who raised a gleaming cannon of a weapon. As they ran, gunshots echoed through her dream world. In slow motion, she glanced to her left to see Asimov slumped against a wall, his eyes frozen wide, and a bullet hole in his forehead oozing blood.

Her breath stolen from her by horror, Katia let go of Asimov's lifeless hand. Too late, Katia realized they were high in the air, and she caught a glimpse of the stranger's distraught face as she fell. The ground rushed up to meet her.

"Mmphf," she grunted, as her muscles jerked her out of the dream. Asimov shifted under her, and she sat up with a hand to her aching forehead. Her blood pounded in her ears, and it took a moment for her vision to adjust to the pulsating light from the television. "What time is it?" she mumbled in Russian, her addled brain groping for the words that came easiest.

"It's 2 am," Asimov answered quietly, also in Russian. Smoke poured from his nose as he glanced at her.  "You okay, dollinka?"

Katia rose from the bed, the light painting her nude body with splashes of blue-white. "Just had a nightmare, that's all."  She went into the bathroom and flicked the switch, screwing up her eyes even though the ancient fixture cast only a feeble glow. "Please tell me we have some aspirin in here."

"Okay. 'We have aspirin in here, Katia.'" Asimov chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. He reached beyond the ashtray and grabbed a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, then took a long pull.  He swallowed with a grimace and held the bottle out to Katia. "Here, have some of this. It's for…what do they call it…medicinal purposes."

Groaning, Katia gave up the search and walked back into the bedroom, her hands pressed against her head. "That's what gave me the headache in the first place."  She slid back onto the bed and turned away from the flickering television, hands over her eyes. "We need some food."

"We need money, you mean." Asimov mimicked the voice of a stuffy old professor he once had before he dropped out of school. "Money is a unit of agreed value that is exchanged for goods and services."

"Shut up, Asimov." Katia groaned, trying to curl into a ball. "My head hurts."

Grabbing Katia's bare shoulder and flipping her on her back with a sudden, rough movement, Asimov poured whiskey into the mouth Katia had opened to yell in protest. "For medicinal purposes!" he boomed, as Katia gurgled and gagged.

When he let go, she vomited over the side of the bed.  Her nose and mouth on fire from the liquor, Katia blearily glanced up at Asimov, who was in a rage. "Asimov, I'm sick," she whined, hating herself for her pathetic tone.

"You're not sick!" He tossed the bottle away, where it crashed against the wall. Heedless of the indignant yell that came from the other side of the thin partition, Asimov grabbed Katia by the hair and brought her face close to his. "Look, you want some food? Go out and walk the street if you want money for food. We're broke." He let her fall back to the bed, glaring at her as she curled into a sobbing ruin. "Put on one of those dresses I bought you. Maybe then you can get some rich guy to buy you some food."  He sat heavily in the straight chair next to her side of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Maybe he'll take you home and give you lots of nice things," he added mournfully. "Pretty things.  Ribbons for your hair. A house on Mars with a maid and a butler."

Katia shook her head, which only brought another wave of nausea. "Asimov, don't," she whispered.

"Maybe one of those stupid French poodles you wanted, remember?" Asimov's voice was thick with tears. "When we saw that lady walking her stupid dog in the park on Venus, with little diamonds on the leash."  He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with sobs. "I'm no good, Katia. No good at all. You'll starve to death because of me."

Her heart breaking, Katia turned to face him. "No, I won't. Asimov, I don't want those things. I want to be with you."

"I'm no good," he moaned. "Papa said I was no good from the day I was born."

"Asimov, come lay down with me. Let's forget about this." She slid over to make room for him, and then patted the mattress. "Come on. It'll be all right."

Like a child, Asimov crawled into bed next to her, and she held him tightly. He was still crying, his half-formed apologies tumbling out half in Russian and half in English.  Softly, Katia began to sing a Russian lullaby, and Asimov's taut frame slowly relaxed into sleep.

Light was pouring in when Katia jerked awake again—though this time it was from the sound of the door crashing shut, rather than a reaction to a dream.

"Get up, lazybones!" Asimov appeared in her line of vision, though it took Katia several tries to bring him into focus. He was holding a small brown paper bag that wafted delicious smells. Katia knew she should have torn into the bag like a ravenous wolf, but the smell of food turned her stomach.

"Where did you get money for food?" Katia asked, sitting up. She clutched the sheet around her with one hand, and her forehead with the other.

"Eat,"Asimov commanded, digging into the bag and pulling out a ham and egg sandwich with cheese on a cinnamon-raisin bagel. He waved it under her nose, and she snatched it from his hands. "And drink some of the coffee, too," he ordered, moving to the closet and throwing the doors open.

"Where did you get the money to buy food?" Katia asked again, between bites of bagel and sips of hazelnut-vanilla coffee. A horrible thought gripped her, and she nearly dropped the hot coffee in her lap. "Asimov, you didn't—you didn't do anything—like those perverts—"

Asimov grinned at her. "Don't be foolish. Playing the whore is your job, Kati, not mine."  He turned back to the closet as she meekly finished her sandwich. "We're getting out of this dump. Get some clothes on."

"Asimov, I want an answer." Katia crumpled the paper and put it in the empty coffee cup. "What's going on?"

Like a schoolboy with a secret, Asimov flopped down on his knees, elbows on the mattress. "For the amusement of her Highness, the Grand Duchess Katerina. Observe: Nothing here." He pulled up one of his jacket sleeves. "Nothing here," he noted, showing her that his other sleeve was empty as well. "However…" One fingerless-gloved hand reached behind her ear, and came back with a small vial of blood-red liquid. "Ah! Voila!"

Katia laughed. "What is that, cranberry juice?" She shook her head. "You're so silly sometimes, Asimov."

In answer, Asimov made a face and balanced the vial between his nose and his top lip, like some glassy red mustache. "Nnn?"

 Katia laughed again. "Be careful or your face will freeze like that," she warned him, waggling a finger like her grandmother used to do.

His face suddenly turned serious, and the vial dropped into his hand.  He leaned in conspiratorially. "What if I told you that selling this would feed us for a week?  And not just Rocket Noodles and Pippu; we're talking your Beluga and Dom Perignon."

"I'd say you're probably crazy," Katia nodded without hesitation.

"Well, you'd be wrong, as usual." Asimov rolled the vial in his hand, making it wink in the sunlight. "This is Bloody Eye, a very pure form of a powerful stimulant. To get the biggest high, the liquid is put into a special dispenser and sprayed directly into the eye."

Katia shuddered. "That's disgusting. I hate getting anything in my eye. Imagine doing it on purpose!"

"Imagine getting the biggest high of your life," Asimov countered. "A rollercoaster ride, winning the lottery, and the best sex you've ever had, all in this little glass tube." He tossed it the air and snatched it up again. "People will pay anything for that. All we have to do is give it to them."

…They knew all the right people, they took all the right pills

They threw outrageous parties, they paid heavily bills…

At first, Katia had been skeptical of selling the Bloody Eye. Asimov said he had run into someone, a friend of a friend, who turned him on to selling the potent drug, and it wasn't long before he and Katia had a steady supply of the little vials. The premise was almost as easy as their previous cons: Asimov spread the word that they were throwing a little party. Katia would pass around a tray of the little vials as if she were handing out canapés, leaning over to give the guests an eyeful of a different sort. The men—and sometimes women—would tuck cash cards down Katia's dress, then one by one, go into the bathroom to enjoy their purchases.

Katia never got used to how they looked when they came out, their eyes bulging and bloodshot, their pupils a mere pinpoint dot in the center of a constricted iris. When they were all gazing with wonder at their fingers or climbing the walls, Asimov and Katia quietly packed up the party and left.

"No guns. No shouting. No blood. I love it!" Katia exclaimed one evening as they toasted their success. First sipping from her champagne glass—alas, not Dom Perignon, the sommelier had said they were fresh out—Katia snatched up a triangle of perfectly toasted white bread and spread it thickly with inky black pearls of Beluga caviar. Her eyes lit up as the salty beads burst in her mouth, and Asimov laughed.

"It's easy to sell people things they want, isn't it?" He cut a thick piece of meat from his steak and chewed it with relish. "Much easier than trying to mug someone. That seems so…common."

"Very," Katia agreed, polishing off her toast and licking the sticky beads from her fingertip. She dug her spoon into a bowl of ruby red strawberries; the walnut-sized fruits were nestled perfectly in a snowdrift of sweet white cream. The juice from the fruit burst from the flesh, staining the cream a brilliant pink, and it reminded her of their clients' bloodshot eyes. Frowning, she put her spoon down. "Asimov…can…could anyone die from doing Bloody Eye?"

"Oh, probably," Asimov remarked, wiping his face with a linen napkin. "But we'll be long gone if that ever happens. It'll be their fault anyway, for being so stupid."  He cut off another cube of steak. "If you're worried, maybe I can arrange a little demonstration."

Alarmed, Katia stopped with the spoon halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"

"You and I could do it." He leaned in and waggled his eyebrows at her. "What do you say? Wanna ride my rocket to the moon?"

Katia bit her lip; the most she had ever done was smoke a few cigarettes and get drunk a few times. "I don't know, Asimov. I don't think this is a good idea."

Asimov shook his head. "How are we going to be good sellers if we don't know the product?" He thumped his hand on the table, making the flatware jump. "It's settled; we'll do it tonight. We have a few days off, so we'll have some time to recover."

Katia nodded, fear squeezing her insides so hard that she lost her appetite.

There were lines on the mirror, lines on her face

She pretended not to notice, she was caught up in the race

Out every evening, until it was light

He was too tired to make it, she was too tired to fight about it…

Nervously, Katia held the dispenser up to her eye. In the very middle was a vicious-looking needle that would concentrate the spray, and she instinctively pulled back. Asimov pushed her head closer to the dispenser, and Katia fought to keep from jerking her head back again.

"No, no! You've got to be closer, or it'll just run all over your face and make a huge mess." Asimov took the dispenser from her and demonstrated holding the vial at the proper distance. "Like this. Now you try."

"My eye doesn't want it to be that close," Katia snapped.

"Katia, you could have done it and have come down off the high by now," Asimov groaned, exasperated. "Just do it, or I'll hold you down and do it myself."

"All right, all right!" Katia held the vial to her eye, knowing she was in the correct position by how much her nerve endings were screaming Danger! She pressed the button, and an eye-stinging spray flew to cover her vision with a red haze. She gasped involuntarily as the drug swiftly took effect.

"Quickly, the other one," Asimov coached, and she did as she was told. This time it was easier to get close to the cornea, and she sprayed the stinging fog into the other eye. When she turned to watch Asimov do the same, the world went by in a heart-pounding series of drawn-out moments: vial in hand, hand lifted to face, body going rigid with intoxication. The empty vial fell from Asimov's fingers in slow, slow, slow motion, its glass surface glinting in the light as it fell to the carpet. With pinpoint irises, Asimov reached for Katia, and they fell into the depths of an ecstasy that stretched their sanity to the breaking point.

The light was laser-bright against her tortured eyeballs, and Katia rolled over with a moan. Asimov wasn't next to her, and for a moment, she felt around in a blind panic, groping like a sightless person in an unfamiliar place. "Asimov," she croaked, covering her eyes with one hand and slapping the mattress with the other.

A noise in the bathroom drew her attention; it was the sound of retching. There was a cough, then a flush, and the sound of water running in the sink.  "Katia, are you awake?"

"Asimov," she breathed in relief. "I can't see. Something's wrong with my eyes."  Hot tears stung like needles of agony against the inside of her eyelids, but the pain subsided after a few moments. As the tears leaked out, Katia opened her eyes to see Asimov, clad in nothing but an expensive pair of sunglasses.  She laughed through her tears, and he smiled.

"You look like hell," he quipped.

"So do you," she fired back.

"So what did you think? Was I right? Was it the best night of your life?" He threw himself down on the bed and peered at her over his dark lenses. "You were magnificent. You kept screaming for more."

Katia felt her way to the bathroom and turned on the shower. "I remember screaming, but I don't think it was for more."  She stepped into the shower and wet her hair. "I think it was more like 'stop the world, I want to get off!'"

"I suppose we could ask our neighbors," Asimov called back. "I'm sure they heard you loud and clear!"

When Katia got out of the shower, she found Asimov with his back to her. He was on the phone, making murmurs of agreement, and she drew her hand back to smack one firm butt cheek. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist: No.  The person on the other end was someone important, then. Katia dropped her hand and continued to towel her hair dry, flipping channels on the deluxe holographic television.

She was peeling an orange from the complimentary fruit basket and watching a documentary about the Ganymede Sea Rat when Asimov hung up the phone. His face was solemn under the glasses, and she watched him carefully. "Here." She offered him a section of orange. "Vitamin C. It's good for you."

He nibbled the fruit right from her fingertips, and then kissed each citrusy fingertip in turn. "I called my supplier just now. Turns out he's dead. Someone shot him last night while he was coming back from the theatre with his girlfriend."

The fruit stuck in Katia's throat, and she swallowed hard. "My God. Do they know who did it?"

"No, but I have a pretty good guess as to who did it." Asimov took off his glasses. "The guy who answered his phone just now probably did."

"These drugs are such a dangerous business," Katia worried. "Maybe we should stop, Asimov. We don't want to end up like your friend."

Asimov scowled. "He wasn't my friend. He was my supplier."

"Okay, fine. So who is your new supplier?"

"I don't know." Asimov ripped the orange peel into shreds. "He's a Syndicate guy though. Apparently the Syndicate is trying to get control of their drug operations, and they're starting by rounding up the punk-ass dealers who skim off the top."  He dropped the orange peel and rolled onto his back, replacing his shades in their proper position. "That way they cut out the middleman. The Syndicate supplies, we deal, boom. No sweat. Even better, we get Syndicate protection if things get rough."

Katia finished her orange. "We had a few Syndicate customers on Io," she remembered. "They were always so mysterious. They didn't say much, but they tipped well."

"Just so." Asimov looked up at Katia. "They'll probably raise the price, too, since they're not making it in some backyard still. This is going to be a very smooth operation." He turned over and caught her hands in his. "Just think. Soon we'll be able to get out of this business for good. Then I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

Katia smiled. "Mars. I want to live on Mars."

"Why?"

"Because," she scolded, as if he were a simple child, "they're happy there. They have parks and festivals, museums and trees. Everyone smiles."  Katia nodded. "Yes. Definitely Mars. That's the place I want to be."

Asimov pounced on her, and she looked up into her reflection in his dark lenses. "As the Grand Duchess commands," he whispered, lowering his lips to hers.