Warnings: None

Queen of this Backwater Moon

Chapter 07:

"Poker Face"

For a time, Jet slept.

And then he woke up.

He didn't open his eyes right away. Jet had awoken in strange places enough times to know he should play dead before making his consciousness apparent. After orienting himself—racking his rapidly defogging memory for the where, the why, the how—he slit an eye to observe an empty white room. The woman who'd brought him there was nowhere in sight. He sat with slow deliberation to regard a shut door (the room's only notable feature) and a small table at his bedside bearing a glass of water, which he drank after giving it an assessing sniff.

Normally he'd be wary of poison, but the bandages taped across his broad chest told him that the woman (Reina; her name was Reina) didn't want him dead. If she did, she could've done it by now without trouble. Poison seemed a bit much this late in the game, or at least it did to Jet.

Jet's memory came back to him in hazed snippets. Mostly he remembered the horror he'd felt upon waking to find his metal arm cracked open like a can of tuna. His arm was no longer hooked up to wires, thankfully, metal panels returned to place atop the cybernetic limb's glowing innards. Jet flexed his metal hand as he drank, noting that the apparatus worked perfectly fine even if his fingers were numb. But they'd been that way long before he set foot on this asteroid-turned-moon, so that wasn't Reina's doing. She'd been checking him for damage the last time he'd been awake. She'd checked him for damage and asked him a few questions. Had even tried to soothe him when he had a moment of panic at finding her inspecting his arm.

An image of Reina's bronze skin and golden hair flashed through his head. He remembered the cool caress of her fingertips against his chest and face, the way her soft voice had lapped at his fuzzy hearing before he fell back to sleep. What had he and Reina spoken about, again? He had trouble remembering.

… why did Jet have the sinking suspicion he might've said something embarrassing?

Rubbing at his stinging chest through the bandages, Jet shrugged the thought aside and stood. His legs held surprisingly steady as he opened the only available door, revealing a large round room with a high ceiling. The walls and floor were made of the same white ceramic as his small holding room, though this room was comparatively less austere than his cell. Plants in hanging baskets hung on hooks from the ceiling, and the walls (where not covered in panels and dials) were decorated with postcards and framed photos tacked haphazardly in place. A few braided rugs made the place feel… homey, almost, or at least lived-in. Boots sat on a mat near a large vault-like door, and above them, a brown coat hung from a single peg.

Jet took all of that in with a quick sweep of his dark eyes before assessing the opposite site of the room, where a large computer terminal occupied perhaps an entire third of the room's curved wall. Glowing screens stretched from a keyboard-and-dial-covered console all the way up to the ceiling. Charts and graphs in various colors danced across the display—schematics of some kind.

Jet recognized them, after a moment's contemplation.

They were of his cybernetic arm.

And for whatever reason, Reina appeared to find them fascinating. She sat at the command station in a swivel chair, elbow on the console, hand pillowed on her chin, gazing up at the screen through hooded silver eyes. Golden curls hung long and loose around her shoulders. She hadn't noticed Jet come in, it seemed, because she made no effort to greet or study him. Fingers of her free hand toyed with the hem of her shirt; a sigh slipped from her mouth, full lips parting around the sound.

Just as he'd recalled, Reina was pretty. Smooth skin, delicate features, lovely hair. Nice figure, too, with a slim waist and flared hips. Maybe of Hispanic descent? She had an accent, though he wasn't sure what it was. He remembered the way her laugh had sounded, though, all throaty and warm. He remember smiling at something she said and enjoying it when she chuckled at one of his labored jokes.

… yes, he was sure of it. Jet had definitely done something embarrassing earlier. Just his rotten luck…

He must've made a sound, because Reina started and looked toward him, chair spinning as her hand lurched to her side. Her shotgun leaned against the computer terminal just within reach, Reina's long fingers skimming down the stock before she thought better of it and placed her hands demurely in her lap.

The shotgun—and the wary expression on her face—stayed firmly in range, however.

"Jet." His name sounded odd in her mouth, like she wasn't sure if she'd said it right. Still, Reina smiled at him, albeit gingerly. "You're awake."

"Seems that way." He stood carefully in one spot, not coming any closer toward her, and kept his hands visible at his sides while he leaned against the doorframe. Jet nodded once at the screen. "You interested in cybernetics?"

Reina's cheeks flushed. "I am sorry," she muttered with a glance at the readouts of his arm. "I should have asked first. But it is somewhat rare for us to see off-world biotech. I could not help myself." Shyly, as if to explain her actions, she admitted, "I wanted to see how it worked."

There was something so gentle, so hesitant, in her tone that Jet's lips curled into a smile even before she finished speaking. She hadn't meant him any harm—she was just curious. And that was somehow rather… cute, he decided, even if seeing his arm schematics put a queasy, embarrassed feeling in the pit of his stomach. Reina was cute. That helped matters quite a lot.

"Well, in that case…" Jet smiled and gave her a thumbs-up with his metal hand, words good-natured and soft. "Looking's free, but if you want parts, I'm afraid that'll cost you."

Reina's expression brightened. "I will keep that in mind. May I ask you a few questions?"

And with that, they were off to the races, so to speak. Jet continued to stand in once place while Reina spoke to him from across the room, gesturing animatedly at the computer and the schematics of his arm while she peppered him with question after question. Her queries were mostly technical, and Jet answered them as best he could, lamenting the moments when his gaps in knowledge left her without proper explanations for the finer details of how the arm interacted with his nervous system. Still, even when he couldn't give her the minutiae she was after, she just seemed happy to talk about his arm. Like she'd been looking forward to the conversation. Clearly she'd been thinking about his arm while he slept.

Why did Jet find that a little... flattering?

Eventually Reina ran out of questions. She turned back to the screen in silence, smile satisfied and eyes bright—but then she shook herself. A composed mask settled over her features, excitement blanching into a firm, all-business expression. She'd remembered exactly why Jet was there, most likely, and the trouble that had brought him into her world.

Pity, the way her features had changed. Her smile had lit her up like a lantern. The firm set of her jaw and the tightness in her eyes weren't nearly as pretty as that smile. Cliché though it felt to admit, Jet suddenly felt the urge to tell a joke, or get her talking about his arm again. Just to see more of that smile.

But that was stupid of him. Now wasn't the time for jokes. He needed to keep his distance and let Reina take the lead in their interactions. After all, she was a lone woman trapped by a sandstorm in an isolated bunker with a strange man. He needed to give her space. Crowding her would only make her feel uncomfortable—and when he shifted in his feet, weight pitching toward her just a hair, he didn't miss how her hand twitched toward the shotgun at her side.

Rock salt or shells? he wondered. Rock salt or shells…

"Thank you for talking to me so soon after waking," Reina eventually said (and only after he leaned back against the doorframe once more). Grey eyes raked across his chest. "Are you in any pain?"

"Nothing major." Jet had sustained far, far worse than a stinging round of rock salt to the chest before. "How long've I been out?"

"Five hours." Her mouth thinned; Reina stood, movements and speech slow with caution. "Oh. Where are my manners? We need to see to your wounds, get you cleaned up."

"Got a med kit? I can work on it myself," Jet offered.

But Reina shook her head. "Nonsense. I am the one who shot you, after all. I want to help." But she hesitated as they regarded one another, hands restless at her sides. Her eyes swept over him from feet to crown and back again—and then she blurted, "You are much taller standing than you are lying down."

Jet bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing a smile. "That's generally how it works, I think."

"Right. Of course." Reina cleared her throat, face coloring again. "There is a bathing facility that way." She indicated a nearby doorway with a hand. "I don't have spare clothes your size, but I can mend your flight suit if you feel comfortable in a robe in the meantime." Her lips twitched at the corner. "I am, ah… I am afraid the shotgun left a few holes."

Jet's lips twitched, too. "Thanks. A robe'll do just fine."

A beat passed in silence. Then, slowly, Jet moved across the room, heading straight toward the doorway she'd indicated. Reina didn't move from her spot at the computer, watching his progress with obvious tension writ into the lines of her brow. That tension only abated once he opened the doorway to reveal another austere room paneled all in white. This one also held signs of habitation. A few bath products (sans any labels) sat on the lip of a large, square tub full of steaming water, and a toothbrush rested in a rack by the sink; a used towel hung on a hook near a detached shower hidden behind panes of frosted glass.

Did Reina live down here? Jet wondered. The decorations and toiletries suggested as much. But this was kind of a strange place to live, wasn't it? Or maybe Jet shouldn't judge. He did live on a retrofitted fishing vessel, after all…

A plastic basket sat on the edge of the tub; in it he saw rolls of cloth and a few other hygiene items. Towels and the bathrobe Reina had mentioned, he guessed. Jet crossed to it and fingered the hem of the robe, recognizing the material after a moment's inspection.

"So that explains it, huh," he said, shooting a look at Reina over his shoulder through the doorway. "Caught you in a bath earlier."

"I am afraid so," she said. Grey eyes dropped to her feet. "I am sorry it is not more substantial."

"It'll do fine. It's nice, even." He felt the odd urge to comfort her. "I'll pretend I'm at a fancy hotel."

But Reina just looked confused. "A fancy...?" She shook her head. "Anyway. Please take your time. The water smells a bit odd, but I promise it is pure."

It was a dismissal if he'd ever heard one, so with one last smile, Jet turned and shut the door behind him.

Once alone, Jet undressed and gingerly peeled back the bandages on his chest, inspecting the shallow wounds in the mirror above the sink. Reina had dressed them (quite effectively, he noted) in some sort of sticky ointment with a sharp herbal scent, one that clung to his fingers even after he washed it off in the shower. It wasn't a bad smell, though. It was better than the water, which had a faint sulfuric odor; probably sourced from a hot spring, then? An aquafer? Were terraformed moons supposed to have those? Ah, whatever. Felt damn good to soak in it, was all he knew, and the clean, herbal-scented soap from the jars on the side of the bath covered up the smell almost entirely. The sulfur was easy enough to ignore, once you got used to it. It's not like the water on the Bebop smelled like roses…

Up to his chest in the warm bath, Jet draped his arm over his face at the thought of the Bebop. Last he'd seen of it, it had been leaking black smoke into the lilac sky, fire flickering near the engine. The sandstorm might've put that fire out for him, but what other damage had it done?

Jet tried not to think about it. He studied the bathtub, instead, because it was actually kind of interesting (or so he told himself as he tried desperately not to think about his fallen ship). Water flowed from a large slot on one end of the tub toward another slot on the other side, perpetually cycling dirty water out and clean water in. It was nice, the tub. And it had been very nice of Reina to let him use it, too. She's even given him a toothbrush. Very generous, all things considered.

Reina was a nice lady, he decided—and then Jet remembered that he'd actually told her that to her face already, in those exact words, and he sank deeper into the water in an attempt to drown himself.

Dammit, he really had made a fool of himself when he'd woken up the first time. He'd flirted with her, as he recalled. He'd intended to interrogate her, but instead he'd flirted, and then when he woke up the second time, he'd let her interrogate him about his arm. Her eager interest in it had thrown off his game. He'd have to try harder to get information later, once he got out of the bath. She didn't mean him ill (would've been easier to kill him while he was unconscious, if that had been her intention) but still. He needed to know where they were, why CygmaCorp had shot them out of the sky, so he could get the hell off this moon.

Find his friends and get the hell off this moon, he internally amended. Or rather, fix the Bebop, find his friends and get the hell off this moon. One thing at a time…

But Reina had her guard up; that much was clear, made clearer by the shotgun she'd been toting since they met. Much though he been trying to tread lightly to keep her comfortable, she was treading lightly around him, too, by showing hospitality even while keeping him at a distance. Placating him. Trying to keep the peace. Neither of them was sure of the other. He was as wary of her as she was of him (she'd already shot him once, after all). He didn't want to scare her, but dammit, he needed answers, too. Who would be the first of the pair to give, to speak plainly, or to force a hard conversation about who the other was?

Maybe that person should be Jet. "Whoever is first in the field and awaits the enemy will be fresh for the fight," as Sun Tzu would say. But pushing Reina seemed unwise. She could clam up, or lock him in a room somewhere, or just shoot him with that gun of hers. Jet would have to play this very carefully, especially if he wanted to avoid scaring her…

And he did want to avoid that, he decided. She was a nice lady, after all.

After he bathed, Jet folded his damaged flight suit and donned the bathrobe, self-conscious of the way it stretched across his broad chest and wide shoulders. He belted it tight and pulled the hems as closed as he could, but it didn't fit him very well, leaving a swath of torso bare despite his best efforts. Felt plain wrong to be half dressed in proximity to a woman he barely knew and in such an isolated place, but it's not like Jet had much choice. He exited the bathroom and did his best to appear small, even when Reina had to come close to take his flight suit from his outstretched metal hand.

And, yep. She was definitely not comfortable with this. She toted her gun with her when she came to get the suit, firearm held loosely in one hand as she loaded the clothing into a washing machine tucked beneath a panel in the wall.

"So." Jet kept his arms folded over his chest in an attempt to preserve his modesty, eyes turned up toward the plants hanging from the ceiling. "How long was I out?"

"Five hours," Reina replied as she turned toward him, eyes cast down toward the floor.

"And the storm?"

"It will last another five, I am afraid."

Silence reigned. Reina cleared her throat, barrel of the shotgun bobbing beside her heel. A flush rose in Jet's cheeks, though he refused to acknowledge its existence.

"Got any movies down here, to while away the hours?" he said when the silence grew unbearable. "I play a mean game of Go Fish if you don't."

Reina frowned. "Go Fish?"

"You've…" Jet's nerves faded in the wake of bemusement. "You've never played go fish?"

"I am afraid not." She paused. "I know poker, though."

"Well, now." Jet smiled. "That's more my speed, anyhow."

"Good. But yes, we do have movies. Mostly thrillers, and a few westerns here and there." Her eyes dropped back to the floor again. "But before that, we need to dress those wounds."

This proposal posed the obvious problem of increased proximity, as one can't exactly doctor another person's wounds from a safe distance across a room. But Reina was nothing if not determined, and she led Jet to an archway through which lay a small galley kitchen and attached dining room. Although, "dining room" was probably too grand of a name for it; the room held nothing more elaborate than a small table pushed against a wall and two matching chairs. Reina bid Jet sit in the far chair with his back to the wall—and then, after fetching a first aid kit from a shelf in the galley, she stood there in silence, biting her lip and watching him, clearly considering her options.

Slowly, Jet lifted both hands.

Reina's chest stilled, breath catching in her throat.

He clasped his fingers behind his back and leaned away from Reina, pinning his hands in place between his back and the chair.

Reina released the breath she'd been holding and dragged the other chair toward him. She sat close enough that her knee brushed his as she opened the kit on the table at her elbow, but Jet made sure not to acknowledge this. He just held as still as he could while she peeled back the edges of his robe and got to work. Cool, steady fingers traced the edges of the small cuts on his chest before she dabbed at them with cloth and a chemical wash, cleaning to ensure each divot held no debris.

When she spoke, the words cut through the silence like a blade of velvet: "Thank you, Jet."

"Hmm?"

Her head stayed bent over his chest. "For trying to… make this easier on me."

"It's nothing." He resisted the urge to move his hands. "Just what a man ought to do, in a situation like this."

"Not all men do as they ought." She spoke so quietly, he almost didn't catch what she'd said—but he did, and it gave him pause. Reina continued her work without looking at him. "Still. It is appreciated."

Reina's gaze held steady on his chest. Her fingers, too, held steady and cool. From that distance he could see darker striations around her pupil—streaks of amber amid pale grey—and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She was pretty like this, too, all concentration and keen interest.

Jet looked away before she could catch him staring.

Reina worked quickly and methodically, eyes hooded and intense upon her task. She didn't blush or gawk at his scant clothing, either, though Jet found himself growing more and more self-conscious as she moved the robe to reach the wounds on the outside edge of one of his pectorals. To cope with the distraction of her breath ghosting over his skin and the scent of her hair in his nose (a scent that matched the clean, fresh scent of the soap he'd used in the bath, he noticed), he found himself fishing for jokes, desperately trying to ignore the slim, cool fingers on his chest—

"Why did you come to this place?" Reina murmured. Her eyes flickered upward like stars streaking through the dark. "This moon. You were not with Cygma. Even they would not fire upon their own."

So much for arriving at the battlefield first. But Jet wouldn't give up the high ground to Reina so easily, even if he wanted to be gentle with her.

"That why you didn't kill me?" he replied, trading a question for a question. "Just because I'm not with them?"

"Yes."

Jet blanched. He… hadn't been expecting her to put that so bluntly. Reina had said it without hesitation, not pausing in her work on his wounds even for a second. She must really hate Cygma, whoever they were to her. Jet stared at Reina in silence for a moment, considering.

"Is that all it takes to gain your trust?" he asked eventually.

Reina drew in a breath, then gestured at the shotgun at her side. "Who says you have that, yet?"

"My mistake." He couldn't keep the wry chuckle at bay, letting it resonate inside his chest. "So you've got some beef with them, I'm guessing."

She neither confirmed nor denied this assertion, merely stating a conclusion she'd come to: "You really were not sent by them, then."

"Working with corporations isn't usually my style," Jet said, smiling. "But I could be lying to you."

"No." No hesitation, Jet noticed. "You are not."

"How can you tell?"

"You are as curious about me as I am about you." Reina lifted her face at last, expression solemn. "I see the questions in your eyes, waiting. If you were from Cygma, you would already know about me."

Jet shrugged. "Maybe I'm just a good actor."

"Maybe you are." Her tone held steady, bland. "But I do not think you are the kind of man who would lie about things like this."

"We only just met, and you think you know the kind of man I am?" Jet asked as gently as he could.

Reina's gaze dropped back to his chest, back hunching as she returned to her work. "I will ask you again. Why did you come here?"

Jet decided to be honest. "I'm looking for someone."

Reina's spine straightened. "You're a cowboy?"

Oh. So that got a reaction out of her, did it? She was smart, putting it together so quickly, but her reaction told Jet quite a bit of information she might not have intended to reveal. Clearly Reina wasn't military, ISSP, Syndicate, or a member of any organization that trained its field operatives against interrogation techniques. The way she'd told him her name, this reaction to his profession—it telegraphed that she thought people might be looking for her, or perhaps for people she cared about, and that was interesting indeed. But Jet cared less about that and more about the fact that she'd glanced at her shotgun, her hands stilling upon his chest, no longer working to heal as she wondered if he intended to hurt.

Time to play peacemaker. With a jovial smile, Jet said, "A cowboy? Yeah. I suppose that's what they call me."

Reina swallowed. "And whose head did you come to collect?"

"Not yours. I'd remember a face as pretty as yours if it showed up on Big Shot." But his attempt at lighthearted flattery didn't erase the lines from the corners of her mouth. "Does that help?"

For a time, she said nothing.

Then her head shook. "No. It doesn't."

Reina resembled a guitar with strings tuned too tight, neck threatening to bend and break rather than play a beautiful tune. Every line of her body spoke of tension, and in spite of himself, Jet found words forming on the tip of his tongue. Dammit, she wasn't even trying to manipulate him and he was getting soft. So much for his ISSP training, but Jet didn't like seeing women in pain.

"Killian Marco," he said. "That's who I'm after. Do you know him?"

Reina's shoulders sagged. Jet wasn't sure what he read in her face. Fatigue, he supposed. Resignation? She had hunched again, head bowed once more over his chest as she resumed dressing the wounds she's wrought there.

"Yes," she muttered. "I do know him."

At least she seemed more relaxed now. That was a start.

"Care to tell me about him, or would you rather keep me in suspense?" Jet said. "I'll bet those movies you mentioned don't have anything on you."

Reina chuckled, looking nearly surprised at her own reaction. But words slipped free easily enough: "He is from here. Born here, as I was. But I have not heard from him in six months." She offered Jet an apologetic smile. "I am afraid you came all this way for nothing."

"Local sources put him in the area. They're sources I trust, not in the habit of telling tall tales. Bad for business, a lying informant." When Reina didn't react, he had to wonder just how good of a poker player she actually was. "You really haven't seen him?"

"No." She smiled. "But I could be lying to you."

"I don't think you're the kind of woman who would lie about things like that."

Another easy laugh slipped free when he parroted her. "We only just met, and you think you know the kind of woman I am?"

Oh. She was quick on her feet, this Reina. Banter flowed easy between the pair of them. In spite of everything, Jet realized he was enjoying himself. A smile creased his mouth—but before he could reply with some witty rejoinder, Reina shook her head.

"And you are right," she said. "I am not the kind of woman who would lie like about things like that." Reina set aside her gauze and ointment and reached for the first aid kit. "Lucky you."

Wounds cleaned and covered in medicine, she unrolled a spool of bandages and put together a compress, which she began to affix over Jet's wounded chest with bits of medical tape. This, too, she did with practiced ease.

"What do you know about this place?" she murmured as she worked. "This moon?"

Jet resisted the urge to shrug, which would ruin her handiwork, as he quoted the information he'd acquired from his contacts. "Terraformed some fifty-odd years ago by a scientist. Colony of folks live here, among them this Marco character. No main exports to speak of, not a center of industry. Just a tiny backwater moon and home to a wanted felon. But that's all."

Reina's face didn't change. She didn't look at him, focusing on her work. But something in the set of her mouth spoke of dissatisfaction, and Jet once more found himself trying to make amends.

"Bounty hunters aren't in the business of asking questions," he told her. "We hunt down strays and bring 'em in for cold, hard cash. That's how the game works." He smiled at her, even though she wasn't looking at him. "But any bones you can throw me this old dog, I'll accept."

Reina didn't react right away.

Then, slowly: "You say Killian is a felon?"

It did not escape Jet's notice that she used Marco's given name and not his surname. She knew the man personally, then. Interesting. But Jet would keep that observation to himself.

"He's wanted for corporate espionage and trading military tech on the black market," he said, noting the way her brow furrowed at his words. "You really didn't know that?"

Reina shook her head, eyes troubled.

"He really hasn't been here in six months," Jet stated.

Her chin ducked. Her hands left his chest at last, returning items one by one to the first aid kit. When she spoke, she directed her words to the tabletop.

"It is as you said," Reina murmured. "I am not the kind of woman who would lie about things like that. And I do not think you are a liar, either, Jet. Cygma would not play such an elaborate ruse, pitting their own against each other in the distant hope they staged their little pantomime in my proximity, and in the even more distant hope that I choose to intervene, take pity on you and bring you here. Too complicated, and that razor of Occam's…" She shook her head, golden hair tumbling about her shoulders. "But this moon has secrets, and for the sake of my people, I cannot tell them to you. We are not in the habit of trusting outsiders."

"Can't say I disagree with that," Jet said. "It's a wise policy."

"Thank you." Relief brightened her eyes somewhat. Looking him over, Reina appeared to come to some kind of conclusion. Determination gelled behind her gaze, and she said: "You have been candid, Jet Black. Please allow me to return the favor. Killian Marco is not here. I am sorry you came all this way. But for your sake, it is best you leave this moon as soon as you are able. My people and I will do our best to help you achieve exactly that."

"Mighty kind of you. But first I have to find my friends. And fix my ship." He recalled the smoke he'd seen billowing from the Bebop and winced. "Got any mechanics on this moon?"

"Of course." At last she smiled, like rain falling in a desert. "We will reunite you with your ship, your friends and a mechanic when the storm abates."

Jet nodded absently. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Who's the 'we' you keep mentioning?"

Just like that, the smile was gone. "You have your friends. I have mine. And I have a hunch our friends are getting themselves acquainted as we speak." Gesturing at the galley, she asked, "Are you hungry?"

An obvious change of subject if Jet had ever seen one, but he didn't fight it—mainly because his stomach chose that moment to rumble. "Now that you mention it…"

"Good. I don't have much here, but you are welcome to all of it."

As she backed out of the kitchen, Jet's hands came out from behind his back—but just before he could reach for Reina's arm, he stopped and placed his hands on his knees. Reina noticed, of course. She froze, gaze flickering between his hands and his face as she held the first aid kit to her chest like a shield, other hand gripped tight around the shotgun.

He hadn't meant to move so quickly. It was just that the heaviness hovering over her, that dark cloud of tension and pressure—it visibly weighed on her shoulders, lowering her head until golden hair shrouding her darkened eyes. Jet didn't like seeing that weight press down on her. Hell, he wouldn't like seeing that weight on any woman. It was in his nature to protect. Spike would tell him to stay the hell away, to distance himself, to not try and help somehow, but that felt… wrong. Jet couldn't quite articulate why. It was clear to him that this CygmaCorp wanted something from Reina and there was much more to this tiny, backwater moon than a single, simple bounty. Was there more to the bounty than met the eye? And how did this all connect back to Reina, for it to weigh so heavily upon her? Jet had to wonder just how deeply these connections ran, threads of association winding like veins of ore deep into the crust of this terraformed moon.

But Reina's guard was up too high for him to ask such prying questions. It was none of his business, much though his instincts screamed at him to help. So Jet sat very still and kept his hands visible as he searched Reina's face, looking for answers he knew she was not prepared to give.

"This Cygma organization," was all he asked. "What do they want from you?"

For a long time, Reina said nothing. She just looked at him in silence, trying to read answers in his face, too. Then she turned away, jaw hard, expression fierce.

"They want everything from me," said Reina, eyes a quicksilver slash in her bronze skin, "but I do not intend to let them take it."

NOTES

Realized recently I was super overthinking my approach to this story, so I just hauled off and wrote this this morning. Sorry for the typos. Need to just start cranking out chapters and not overwork stuff.

Spoiler: Canonical Jet has a tendency toward "benevolent misogyny" that we're gonna examine and unpack as part of his character arc in this story. Reina is not the type to let others handle her problems for her, and Jet's going to have to unlearn some of his more patronizing habits if he wants to help Reina. This is not a "man shows up and saves the princess" kind of story (although Jet would very much enjoy for that to be the case, if he had his way).

The forthcoming liveaction Bebop adaptation dropped its opening and some set photos recently, and it got me inspired to return to this. Sorry for the long delay. I'm hoping to update this regularly again.

Thanks to these fine folks for their reviews since the last time I updated: SinuousHalo, Tsarashi, Como D, SweetFoxGirl13, MyGhostJustYells, Orihime-san, edgeof4teeners, KaiyaAzure, Luck Kazajian and guests