Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Play Me Some More of that Old Blues ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

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A figure sat at a small metal desk. Absently, he tapped a pen against his teeth, barely registering the tiny click of sound. He was studying the results of their latest round of tests.

 

He wasn't smiling.

 

All that work, and here they were, back at square one. He sighed, lifting his arms above his head in a long stretch. Mr. Caulder was going to be furious when he found out. The tall man grunted. And, of course, that asshole Mathis would be the one to take his pound of flesh when he had to announce the latest turn. Rubbing his bleary eyes, the man started lifting the printout, only to drop it to the table again. Staring at it wouldn't change the results one iota. The simple fact remained; the experiment had failed. The devices from sample B had divided cleanly for about two hours after Mathis had gone. Then, abruptly, the mitosis had stopped. The devices returned to their inert state, and nothing he did restored them to activity.

 

The phone on the desk rang sharply. He answered it in the middle of the third ring. “Wilde.” The voice on the other end spoke briefly, and rapidly. After a few seconds, Wilde hung up. A new light was in his eyes, along with a dart of hope.

 

Perhaps all was not lost after all.

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Faye winced as the tip of the blade scored a red line across her flesh. “Damn it!” She said, grasping the side of her hand. Why the hell she'd decided to cook, now, she'd never understand. She'd never had a desire to cook while aboard the Bebop; granted, what they had for food was limited to begin with. As it was, her restored memories gave no indication that cooking was something she enjoyed from her past either. Yet, in spite of this, here she stood, chopping away at a head of wilting cabbage while a boiling pot sizzled on an open flame behind her. As Faye set down her knife to see to her cut, she considered why Jet seemed to take such pleasure in a task he obviously had so little skill with. Staring at her hand, she came to the conclusion that perhaps Jet was just nuts.

 

The sizzling sound behind her grew louder. “Oh Crap!”

 

Faye ran to the stove where milky water was boiling out from under a jumping cover. As she lunged to reduce the heat, a splash of steaming liquid sputtered on the heating element and peppered her already wounded hand with pinpricks of acid. “Ahhh! Damn, damn, damn!” Angrily, Faye lashed out with her foot, kicking the stove several times as she sucked at the damaged flesh.

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When Jet arrived back at the ship, dinner sat waiting for him on the table. Looking at the results of Faye's kitchen adventure he groaned, running a hand over his eyes.

 

“And she claims MY cooking is bad.” He murmured under his breath.

 

A lumpy pile that had started out as boiled cabbage sat unceremoniously on the side of a plate. Jet poked it tentatively with a metal finger while examining the rest of the meal. There was a gluey substance next to the cabbage he assumed was either over-cooked noodles or school paste. The only other food item was a sprig of parsley, obnoxiously enough, set in the middle of the disaster as some sort of macabre garnish. Jet backed away from the table, keeping his eyes locked on the plate in case it moved.

 

Several seconds passed while he was in the kitchen. Then he returned, clad in apron, goggles, and heavy gloves. Catching the edge of the plate between two fingers, Jet rushed outside, flinging the entire production into Cook Inlet.

 

Returning back inside, Jet shed his protective clothing and picked up the bag he'd brought back with him. Reaching within, he pulled out the coil he'd managed to acquire for the Hammerhead. Rubbing at a patch of corrosion on the unit, he turned and made his way to the docking area.

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Dr. Christopher Wilde, once rising star in the forefront of medical science, squatted on his heels in a forth storey apartment. He shoes squeaked a little on the fine grit covering the floor. All the pertinent evidence had been removed over a year ago by the ISSP. However, some things remained. The floor was warped, the wood faded; yet the stains were still visible. A winding streak of dirty brown curved from the main living quarters to the entry room. Another stain marred the base of the door, spattering across the surface in a violent sweep. Wilde had been in this room before, and found it just as distasteful as his last visit. The flies had long since gone, as had the bodies. And yet, there was still that lingering scent, that dark rotting odor that teased at the base of his throat. Standing, Wilde walked to the row of windows in the other room. The broken one was boarded over, but the rest were still whole. Flicking open the lock, Wilde set his feet and shoved, hard. The window stuck. Gritting his teeth, he leaned into the effort, feeling the wood under his fingers crumble and flake. After a moment of futile struggle he gave up, examining the reddened skin of his palms. A small splinter was imbedded in his flesh, and he removed it impatiently.

 

When he glanced up, a dull glint caught his eye. Stepping to the far corner of the room, he crouched down, reaching under the edge of the baseboards for the thing that had caught his attention. With one finger and his thumb, Wilde lifted the triangle shaped piece of metal from its resting place. It appeared to be some kind of button, the threads on the back cut cleanly. Wilde frowned, rubbing the button absently. There had been two victims in this room, and neither one of them had been wearing clothes with buttons like this. Wilde knew this for a fact, for he had examined the bodies himself before the autopsies. He bounced the button on his palm. Could someone else have been here? The caller from earlier insisted that there had, in fact, been another person in this room…. Someone who hadn't died like the others.

 

There had been someone else, someone who, unfortunately, had been outside their reach. They had followed her at a discrete distance, always waiting, always watching. Wilde remembered Mr. Caulder's fury when she's been killed. She had been their best chance at making their work possible.

 

And now she was dead, wasted effort.

 

As with the other, her body resided now at the facility. However, tests on her revealed nothing. As with the alpha subject, the devices in her body had become inert, useless.

 

Wilde examined the button again. But if there was someone else out there…

 

Wrapping his fingers around the scrap of metal, Wilde stood and strode from the tainted room. Time to call in some old favors.

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“You do understand this isn't free; ISSP doesn't pay what they used to.”

 

The voice sounded flat within the close confines of the car. Without speaking, Dr. Wilde slipped a portable transfer device from his jacket pocket. Quickly, he slid the card into the machine, punched a few numbers, and handed the card back to his contact. Without even glancing at the numbers, the contact slid the card under his coat.

 

“You were right. Vincent had three visitors to his apartment. The first one, of course, was his accomplice, Lee Samson. Guy was a complete nutcase, spent all his free-time playing ancient video games. As you know, Vincent didn't keep him around too long.” The contact paused to light a cigarette, taking several seconds to breathe in a pull of nicotine- then releasing it with a short cough. “Murata, his contact, was the next one he killed there, stabbed him in the chest, nice guy.” Wilde drummed his fingers on his leg impatiently. He knew all this, he'd been to the apartment, seen the bodies. Biting his lip, he swallowed his agitation. He knew from experience it would be pointless to rush this man, he had an irritating habit of clamming up if he thought he was being pressured. Another breath of acrid smoke billowed within the car. Wilde waved it away, wrinkling his nose. Finally, when the cigarette was about halfway gone, the contact spoke again.

 

“Between the two killings, someone else dropped by for a visit… a bounty hunter.” Wilde sat up, turning his head sharply towards the other man. “You're… you're kidding… who was he?” A puff of smoke. “Not he, she. Her name is Faye Valentine. Seems she tracked Vincent to his apartment, planned on picking up that tidy bounty, and got something else instead.” Wilde blinked, not saying anything. The contact continued speaking, small tendrils of smoke mixing with the words. “Currently, Miss Valentine is staying aboard an old fishing vessel called the Bebop. In fact, her partner is an old ISSP officer named Jet Black.” He said more, but Wilde didn't hear him. His mind was already ten moves ahead.

 

Faye Valentine.

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Richard Caulder sat loosely in his leather chair. One elbow rested on his polished table, his hand at his chin. Outside the carved oak doors, he could hear a phone ring. Moments later, a red light flashed on the unit on his desk. Straightening slightly, Mr. Caulder lifted the receiver.

 

“Yes.”

 

He listened for a few seconds, his eyes never betraying the sudden rush of excitement, of hope, that ran through him.

 

“Very good. Alert me immediately when the subject arrives.”

 

Not waiting for the acknowledgment of his orders, Mr. Caulder rested the receiver back on its base. Sitting up sharply, he pressed a white button on the underside of his desk. In moments, the heavy outer door swung open. Silently, Andrew Mathis slid inside, allowing the door to fall shut behind him. Barely glancing at the other man, Mr. Caulder stood and walked to wall-sized window dominating the space behind his desk. Placing his hands behind his back, he turned to examine the ships cruising by below. Mathis waited, arms loose at his sides. Finally, Mr. Caulder turned.

 

“I have a job for you.”

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