Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Cowboy Bebop series, and nothing of the Dark Tower series. They are two very different, yet powerful series, and this is merely my tribute to them.

Edit: 5/20/06

I noticed that my disclaimer was horridly incorrect, so this is my apology to my faithful readers. The true timeline for the events of this story begin at a good space of time after the events in Little Sisters of Eluria, and will end a good space of time before The Gunslinger. As of this writing, Spike is the only character from Cowboy Bebop in this story, but don't rule out the possibility of other characters popping up here and there.

I did some slight editing to this chapter, mostly because I wrote it without a clear idea of where I wanted to take the story. Now I know. Also, I embellished some details of the final fight with Vicious, mostly because I wanted it to be more of a showcase for Spike's abilities. I haven't made any serious changes, though, so don't worry too much about that.

Oh, and I finally changed the name of Spike's gun to Jericho. Heh, oops.

Now that that's out of the way, here it goes!

MidWorld Jazz

Chapter 1: The End of an Era

The rubble was everywhere. Scattered by the explosion that still shook the massive building even to its lowest basement level, the room now resembled a war zone rather than a place of business, shady or otherwise. There were chunks of ceiling, roof, wall, floor, and furniture scattered like building blocks in a giant's playroom. One piece was almost as large as the Swordfish.

It seemed that there were shards of glass and chunks of concrete strewn everywhere except for one long strip down the middle of the room; a grand staircase with a red carpet stretching all the way to the top. A few basketball-sized fragments rested about the sides, and there was an inevitable dusting of pebble-size particles, but it seemed the entire stretch of velvety redness was immune to pollution. Almost.

This room, at one time, served as the headquarters of the Red Dragon crime syndicate. No more than forty-eight hours ago, twelve or more elders (if anyone in history ever met that description, they did) would have sat in line, overseeing the procession of issues that needed their attention. Thanks to a man who called himself Vicious, however, that paradigm had changed. It seemed that the darkest hour for the syndicate was nigh.

Salvation, soon coming, would be short but sweet.

If anyone in that room had been able to avoid injury from the falling debris, (not to mention the explosion itself) one would have seen two lone figures, standing like sentinels over this fallen place. One at the bottom of the stairs, one at the top.

Unless you were someone who was familiar with the bounty hunter community, or perhaps a wanted criminal, you probably didn't recognize the man at the bottom of the stairs. He stood with a confident, but slightly skewed stance, most likely due to a recent injury. His blue suit, presentable at one time, was stained a light shade of purple in quite a few places. The newest, darkest stain was spreading over his left sleeve and down his side. It was barely visible behind the cover of a large overcoat that he wore. Its bulk helped convey the illusion of a healthier disposition. A Jericho 941 was in his right hand.

The gun seemed destined to take out the man on the stairs. Vicious' attire was that of a man who was precise and demanding about everything in his life, not least of which were his goals and lust for power. He wore black, with a cape of a lighter shade shrouding his shoulders. It was as stark as anything he'd ever done in his life. Vicious was not old, yet his hair appeared to be the gray of a septuagenarian. That hair usually flowed into his sharply lined face, hiding his severe features. His eyes were that of a wounded but still vital predator. Many a death and many pints of blood had passed in front of those eyes, and the gaze they carved into the air immediately in front of them seemed to tell the whole story. A man of war, most would assume. They would be correct. No injuries altered the stance of the man on the stairs, yet he embodied the imminent mortality he so often forced upon his less fortunate subjects. His right hand held not a firearm, but a weapon of the old times. A weapon of grace, sophistication and honor. A weapon of such severe lines, precise singular use, and wonderfully horrible efficiency that it perfectly matched the personality of the man wielding it. A misguided ray of sunshine made its way through the shattered ceiling, glinting off the carefully polished blade.

The man in blue raised his gun. His eyesight, along with his stance, was skewed. His journey from the lobby of the building to this room had been quite trying. In any event, his determination won out as it usually did, and he fired at the man with the cape. Every shot missed its intended location, ricocheting off the girders and braces of the wall behind him. The man in blue then rushed Vicious, bounding up the stairs two, then three steps at a time. The man in blue raised his gun once more, now just a few feet from his enemy. Vicious ducked and rolled behind the man in blue, skirting the shot and placing himself in a position to deliver a strike of his own. Blue whirled to meet that shot, blocking the sword with the trigger guard of his trusty Jericho. Vicious kicked him in the side, sending him sprawling to the ground. Blue regained his footing in a crouched stance, then rolled to the right, training the sights once more on his former friend's head. Vicious performed a duck-and-roll as well, rolling behind the ruins of a large, throne-like chair. Blue ran behind it from the other side. He crouched and fired twice more, both rounds missing their mark, seeing as how Vicious had already rolled back to the front of the throne. Blue rolled back to the front of the throne, standing upright this time, hoping to catch his quarry off-guard. Instead, each man found himself caught in a checkmate. Blue's gun was pointed straight towards Vicious' heart, (if he still had one) whose sword was now poised to slice Blue open like a Thanksgiving turkey.

The two regarded each other for a brief but agonizing moment. Right then, with death no longer a question but an imminent certainty for both men, it was nearly unfathomable that they were once close friends, almost brothers. Not only were they both equally matched in weaponry and equally skilled in advanced fighting techniques, but it seemed that they shared an unspoken connection that wasn't quite yet severed. The standoff proved that these men had indeed fought beside one another as friends, but now shared only the bitterest of rivalries. They now fought against each other because of the very syndicate to which they had once been members.

Blue, knowing the end was unavoidable, gave one of his trademark grins which was returned by Vicious with an unchanged glare of determination. Vicious, true to his name, struck first. The arc of his weapon was thrown off slightly, for in the split second after, Blue had taken his final shot. The slug shot right through Vicious' chest, exiting his body followed by a long streak of blood. The sword was deterred by the slug, but only slightly; instead of halving Blue, it mortally wounded him, cutting through clothes, skin, and vital organs as if they were paper.

Vicious dropped his Katana and fell onto his back, instantly dead from Blue's bullet. His head made contact with a chunk of steel beam, a hollow 'tonk' echoing throughout the ruined room; the sound of bone striking metal. His cold eyes stared up through the hole in the ceiling, the failing light reflecting off his corneas like a mirror of the sky. The Red Dragons had now lost two leaders in two days.

Blue dropped his gun. 'No need for that piece of hardware anymore,' he thought. Victorious yet mortally wounded, the man in blue clutched his stomach with his wounded left arm. He made his way down the steps, but he knew he couldn't just walk it off this time.

"Whatever happens, happens," he had said. This time it happened.

He had survived through hundreds of bounties, thousands of police, millions of miles through space, and a handful of seemingly invincible fighters, yet the song had ended with the same notes it had begun with. His past was a muddle of sorrow and tragedy, culminating in the death of the one for whom he had searched seemingly for decades. Julia was almost free, almost cut free of the binds that had ensnared her for the longest time.

Alas, it wasn't to be. So it was for the man in blue.

He had made this last decision while leaving behind his two new friends, only to witness the death of three old ones. "Whatever happens, happens." Every time he had said it, he had come out on top. This time, however, he forgot to repeat his mantra. Perhaps that was because he ignored Jet's insistence that he let it go. Likely, though, it was because he had somehow known that this was going to be his last stand. Julia's death had been much like the female cat's death in the story he told Jet before taking off. Perhaps he had simply decided that without her in the back of his mind to fuel his ambitions, to color his memories, to bring his future into focus, he had nothing left to motivate himself. He no longer had the will to survive that saved him countless times before.

His last steps were down the stairs he had previously sprinted upwards, towards his destiny. By this time, a small crowd of Syndicate lackeys and guards had gathered at the base of the stairs, trying to figure out what caused the war that was raging above their heads. They had seen the final strike delivered by their new leader. They had seen him fall. And they had seen this man emerge victorious. Confusion was the rule of the day. The man before them was at one time a member of the Syndicate. He staged his own death, and became a rogue cowboy. He was one of many suspects of the recent coup of the Syndicate, but now he stood before them as slayer of the true guilty party. What course of action should they take? Kill him? Congratulate him? Promote him? Fortunately for the men, the decision wasn't theirs to make.

The man in blue stopped for a second, taking in the scene. Even he still couldn't believed it had really happened. Not yet, anyway. He saw the confused, shocked faces of the men before him. For all intents and purposes, he was now the leader of the very Syndicate that he had lost his right eye trying to escape. More importantly, though, he had won. He set out to kill Vicious, not entirely expecting to succeed. In a way, he did. A smile crossed his face for the last time.

He pointed his finger in the shape of a gun towards the door fifty feet from where he stood. His last word was inaudible to the onlookers, but that was fine for him.

"Bang."

He said it only for himself. Much like his entire life, this moment was lived his way. Even though he knew he was leaving behind a loyal friend and a woman who loved him, he couldn't have made a better ending for himself.

This last word meant nothing. No symbolism, no big conspiracy, no key to a mysterious door, no beloved childhood sled, nothing. It was merely another one of his acts of defiance and rogueishness, meant to tell the world he couldn't be contained. Couldn't be caught. Couldn't be categorized by the cold, lifeless system the world had tried to imprint on its inhabitants.

He fell forward, sprawling on the stairs like the fallen soldier he was. He had never fought a true war, yet he was a warrior just the same. The guards were the only ones there to witness his last moment. They would most likely try to blame everything on him. After that, they would elect a new leader. Until then, they simply stood. The gravity of the situation had a slow and easy time making its way inside their minds.

The last rays of the Martian sunset fell upon the tattered coat of the man lying on the stairs, and all was right with the world.

Cool. That feels better now.