Arbitrary Author's Note: I chose characters based off of personalities, and nothing else. Technically, Vash should be a 'neutral', not on either side, and so should his sister, but then he couldn't fire a gun so I didn't do that.

Yeah, this isn't that original of an idea, but whatever. I did it for fun, and I hope you enjoy. :)

Gilbert was infatuated with the gang life.

He wasn't sure why because, in all honesty, he should have been killed long ago for his smartass mouth. But no, he had survived (no, thrived) on the streets. When asked about it, he could never really pinpoint what, exactly, he liked about it. He enjoyed sticking it to authority. (Always pleasant.) He liked fighting, more than he would care to admit. But deep down, what he really liked about being in a gang wasn't either of those things. And though he would have never admitted to it (it's not very badass) the simple reason was that he felt loved. His mother died giving birth to his baby brother, and his father was shot by someone, though Gilbert was too young to remember who, exactly, his father had pissed off. The point was, he grew up alone, having to care for his little brother on the streets. Being taken in by (and, eventually, becoming the de facto leader of) the Jets was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He always tried to remember that during times such as this one.

Gilbert did enjoy the adrenaline rush of fighting, but he simply wasn't very strong. His true strength lied in his speed, because he was fairly good at dodging attacks and, if he had to, running away. (It was a moot point. Gilbert never ran away from a fight.) He fought alongside Roderich, or Rod. In Gilbert's opinion, Rod had major anger issues that he needed to work out, but in his particular 'line of work', anger issues were not the worst vice to be had. Besides, Rod was his best friend, so he was partial to overlooking his flaws. The other two members were Vash, who was amazing at fighting, and his nameless little brother. Little brother had a soft, girly voice, and was not so amazing at fighting, but it was somewhat of a package deal.

Just as he was about to wipe that smug smirk off of Antonio's face (Antonio being the leader of their rival gang, the Sharks) the cops had to show up. Damn, damn, damn. Of course Gilbert hated the cops, not only because they were cops, but because these particular law enforcement men were complete and total dicks.

Lt. Jones was pretty bad. He had a serious patriotism fetish, which he made completely obvious every time he opened his mouth, and it was a common joke among the Jets that he jerked it to pictures of American flags (when he wasn't screwing Officer Kirkland, of course). Officer Kirkland was even worse, because he spoke in a proper British accent. Gilbert's friendly advice to him was usually something along the lines of, "Gee, Officer Kirkland, maybe if you got that stick out of your ass, you'd be a much happier fellow!" Okay, not the smartest thing to say to a cop, but surely he was used to it. Of all the Jets, Gilbert had the biggest mouth.

"Cease and desist! Cease and desist!" cried Officer Kirkland, foolishly acting as if he had any control over anything (which, and anyone could attest to this, he did not). "You need to stop it, right now. Any questions?"

"Si," replied Antonio. "Can you give those instructions in Spanish?" His little cronies snickered. Gilbert rolled his eyes. If you can't speak the language of the place, then don't freaking move there. Of course, he knew that Antonio knew English perfectly well. He also knew that Antonio was the only member of his gang that spoke Spanish. He had a French goon, a Chinese goon, a Russian goon, and a Japanese goon, but as far as he knew he didn't have any other gang members who would know what he meant when he said "Vamos!" (And Gilbert was familiar with Antonio's gang. After all, he had fought against it how many times now?) The fact was, the Jets were for people born in America, and the Sharks were for imigrants. Not that Gilbert wasn't proud of his parents, who were both born and raised in Germany, but he didn't pretend that he himself was an imigrant. In other words, he could speak German, but he always spoke English. It was just the way the world worked.

Officer Kirkland huffed. "Please vacate the premises," he said in flawed Spanish. Hell, it could have been perfect grammar and Gilbert wouldn't have known the difference. No, it was flawed because his British accent trying on Spanish words sounded hilarious. After they left (apparently Gilbert had been wrong about them not understanding "vamos") Lt. Jones turned to face Gilbert's gang.

"Okay, now let's be reasonable here. Okay? Okay. Now look, as great as it is to be an American, you have to understand that those people love wherever they're from, too. Even if it's not as good as America is, the important thing is, they're here now. And that's kind of like they're honorary Americans! So be nice, okay? Or else I might have to intervene. I'm not going save you if you're on the side of evil, boys. So play nice. Say goodbye to the nice boys, Arth-I mean, Officer Kirkland."

At being called by his first name, Officer Kirkland's face flushed, but he did not acknowledge it. "Goodbye, boys," he replied, and both of the men got into their squad car and drove away, the sound of the siren fading into the night.

When they left, Rod snorted derisively. "They make a very nice couple, do they not?" Everyone laughed at this. Gilbert snickered, but then put on his serious face. "Everybody! Line up! Time for examinin' the damage..in." Whatever, so it didn't rhyme. They could bite him. Suddenly, he heard a baby soft voice cry out.

"Bruder! Your ear has blood on it! Who did it to you?" Now, Vash acted more like a soldier than anyone else in the Jets, himself included. It wasn't at all surprising that he had completely blown off an injury. His motto was, "Pain is a message, and you can ignore it just like any other." Despite how he acted, Gilbert harbored a ton of respect for Vash.

"I'm a casual," he said simply, his voice a monotone.

"Oh, no! Those imigrants! They branded you!" Wow, who knew someone like Vash could be related to someone so innocent? Everything that happened was met with wide-eyed shock from Vash's little brother. Gilbert swore, he could be such a girl sometimes. You could have put a ribbon in his short little blonde bob, and you probably wouldn't have known the difference.

"Hey," said Gilbert, intervening "Vash, who did it to you?"

"Antonio. I heard him say, 'This is for shooting one of my compañeros. Who was it I shot, anyway? I've long since forgotten," he finished. Vash had not been a member of the Jets for very long, perhaps a month or two, but he had fit in almost instantly. He was quite mysterious, too. All GIlbert knew about Vash and his brother was that their parents were from the Alps. Maybe that was why he was so good with a gun. Nobody could shoot like Vash could.

Then, they heard a loud, defiant "Hey!" A scrawny girl wielding a frying pan approached them. Oh, great, it was Liz. Liz was a tomboy and, despite the fact that she probably had more 'nads than anyone else Gil knew, he just couldn't let himself have a girl in his gang. (Besides, she was kind of hot. Not much, but kind of. It would be awkward.)

"You're still here?" asked Rod.

"How about me getting into the gang?" she asked, her face inches away from his own. Gilbert felt his face heat up. See, this was why she couldn't join, ever. It was things like this. Gilbert coughed and turned his head away.

"There's a better chance of the gang getting into you than that ha-ow!" Damn, her frying pan hurt. He winced and rubbed his head.

"Listen. I was brilliant in that fight, Gilbert. And you know it. Why don't you let me join ? I think I could really be helpful. Not that I want to be near you, of course. Or any of your members, especially. I mean, I could technically start my own gang, but-"

"No one would join," finished Rod.

"Yes, exactly," mutterd Liz. She stared at her steel-toed boots for a while, then looked up. "Anyway, Gil, if you don't let me become a member, you're a real idiot." Perhaps it was true. He had been called an idiot before.

"The road, little lady, the road," he said. She glared at him once before spitting defiantly on the ground. She ran off after that. Of course, she would be back. She never stayed gone for long.

"Okay, guys! Now, we fought hard for this territory, am I right? Don't answer that. Of course I am. Are we going to let those imigrants take it from us? Of course not! We were here first! Now, I'm not saying they will take everything we've worked for. That really wouldn't be fair," he admitted, showing a breif moment of reason. "But I am saying they might, and damn it, I don't want to take that risk! So, what are we going to do? I will tell you. We are going to fight if it means we all end up dead!" Everyone cheered. Gilbert made a great cheerleader when the need arised.

"Then there we have it," he said, his voice carrying a touch more seriousness than it had before. "I will challenge our darling little Antonio, and that will be that. I'll do it at the dance. It's neutral ground," he said.

"Wait a minute," said Vash. "You have to take a lieutenant." Gilbert knew that he was right, and also that he was stating a fact rather than trying to hint at himself being moved up a peg. As far as he could tell, Vash didn't care about gang hierarchies, he cared about keeping himself and his brother safe.

"I will be his lieutenant," said Rod loftily. But Gilbert shook his head.

"No. We need West." He hated to say it. His response was met with groans from the other gang members. There was a time when he was a member of the Jets, but he had all but quit. Many of the members resented him; he now worked at Doc's, the local pharmacy.

"We do not," said Rod. He squinted behind his glasses and looked down his nose at Gilbert. Gilbert smirked at him and flipped him off before continuing.

"We most certainly do, my little bespectacled one. He's one hell of a better Jet than you are, that's for sure."

"Does he even want to be a Jet? If you don't mind me saying, I don't think he does." Ugh, Rod could be so annoying.

"But who wouldn't want to be a Jet?" Gilbert wasn't sure if the question was directed at him or "Big Brother Vash". He scowled at Rod.

"Listen, Rod. I do mind you saying it. He's my brother, and he's always been here for us. More to the point, he always will."

"But he hasn't been with us for over a month," insisted Rod. Thankfully, Vash spoke up in Gilbert's defense.

"What about the day we defeated the Emeralds? Which we couldn't have done without West," he said, his voice calculating. When Vash spoke, it always sounded like there was steel in his words.

"West saved my neck," said Vash Jr. in agreement. (Gilbert made a mental note to ask Vash what, exactly, the name of his little brother was when things weren't so stressful. For now, Vash Jr. would suffice. It was true, anyway. Vash's feminine little brother never dared to disagree with him as far as Gilbert could tell.)

"And there you have it! Once you're a Jet, you're always a Jet!" declared Gilbert. "Don't worry, I know him like the back of my hand. He's in. Just watch."

"In, out, I don't really care," said Rod, crossing his arms.

"You should care," said Vash. "Gilbert, where are we going to find Antonio, anyway?"

"I told you," replied Gilbert. "At the dance tonight. At the gym." When everyone stared at him, he gave them a look of mock innocence. "What? Do you think I'm up to something? Relax, I'll be a good little boy. I'm only challenging him, I won't lay a finger on him at the actual dance."

"So, everyone, dress sharp! And be there at ten," insisted Rod. Gilbert let him pretend to be the leader. It was how he coped with being outnumbered. As everyone walked away, he smiled to himself. Now he just had to convice West; no easy task, but certainly doable. He sang to nobody as he walked, his voice echoing in the streets:

"When you're a Jet,

You're a Jet all the way

From your first cigarette

To your last dyin' day.

When you're a Jet,

If the spit hits the fan,

You got brothers around,

You're a family man!

You're never alone,

You're never disconnected!

You're home with your own:

When company's expected,

You're well protected!

Then you are set

With a capital J,

Which you'll never forget

Till they cart you away.

When you're a Jet,

You stay

A Jet!"