Cowboy Bebop - Tumblr Posts

Friendly Fire

"Shit!" Jet sworn as he vaulted over the bullet-riddled retaining wall that had safely separated him from the foggy seashore where Spike had been engaged in hand-to-hand combat with several dark suited mafia members.

"What the fuck was that?" Faye screeched, hot on his heels as they both raced towards the heap of bodies being gently tossed by the waves.

A cough came from the pile of limbs ahead of them and Spike surged upright out of the mess with one hand gripped tightly around his left upper arm. "Fucking friendly fire, Jet?" He rasped, glaring at the ex-cop.

Hastening to get to his partner's side, Jet scowled as he started to help the other man to dry land. "Look, between the fog and how much your suit looks like theirs thanks to the water... well hell, be lucky I only grazed you."

"Gonna make me be the one to haul the rest of these assholes out of the ocean here?" Faye grumbled.

Spike winced at the salty spray that managed to get past his white-knuckled grip on the oozing bullet wound. "I ain't about to bust my ass with all that." He muttered. "Leave me be, Jet. The bounty is more important. Dead OR alive was the stipulation, right?"

"For his sake I fucking hope so." Faye muttered as Jet waded out to help her. She glanced up at Spike and a worried look crossed her face.

Spike frowned back at her. "It's just a flesh wound, Faye. I've done worse to myself." He didn't want Jet getting all weird and angsty about something that wasn't really his fault - or at least, wasn't intentional on his part. The older man tended to hold himself to high standards and Spike was concerned that guilt would make him act weird and beat himself up.

"Yeah?" She mumbled, abandoning her halfhearted attempt at dragging a corpse from the surf to instead slog over to where Spike was standing hunched over on the thin strip of sand between the waves and the retaining wall that sheltered the spit of land on the other side. "Just gonna try to hide that one then or what?" She gestured curtly towards his abdomen with a furtive glance back at Jet struggling with three bodies at once.

Spike coughed again and couldn't hide the spasm or the bloody phlegm that he spat into the seawater.

Faye's worried look grew more intense, color washing from her already pale features. "Spike..."

"Leaving me to haul them all out myself?" Jet called up to them. "The water does half the job for you, Faye!"

"Priorities, Jet." She snapped back, reaching out to tug at Spike's clothes. "Got something to take care of here. I'll send Bob your way but I'm gonna bring this lunkhead back to the ship."

"For a graze?!" Jet's voice was incredulous.

"S'hard to fly one-armed." Spike offered as an excuse. His body was beginning to go into shock and he knew he didn't have much time before his condition was obvious to Jet. He was fortunate that the ex-cop was preoccupied with trying to get all the mob men rounded up before the ocean swept them out beyond reach. Faye gave up on checking his other, more critical wound, when he glared at her. She rolled her eyes and gave him a gentle push to get him moving. His body automatically began to take steps in the direction she had shoved him, accustomed to operating on basic instructions when he was truthfully too hurt to be in motion at all. The cold seawater was an agony of its own that somehow burned in a different way than the edges of the raw entry point of the bullet... the fact that he couldn't feel a corresponding injury on his back was disconcerting. Faye was nowhere near qualified to dig around for a missing bullet. Dammit. Either he'd have to reach out to Doc or let Jet know he'd been clipped worse than originally thought.

His shoes hit against the base of the retaining wall, which was only about four feet high, but he knew it was going to be nearly impossible to pull himself up and over the stack of concrete bricks.

"Faye..."

She gave him a hard look. "What do you need?"

"Gotta tell Jet... can't..."

"About damn time you saw sense."

Pain was blurring the edges of his vision. Unconsciousness was coming to claim him quicker than he'd expected.

"JET! Forget them for now! We've got a situation here!" Faye bellowed, the volume of her voice making Spike's ears ring.

His gut was a maelstrom of hurt. Trying to walk it off had no doubt exacerbated the issue. Having a waterlogged bullet wound wasn't exactly helpful either.

Mercifully, Spike sagged into Faye's arms and passed out before Jet arrived at their side. He didn't want to go into that great beyond with the guilt-ridden stare of his partner as the last thing he saw...

Casino / Luck / Escape

There had been no good bounties for weeks. They were down to their last 5000 woolongs. But Jet had had a dream and apparently the answer to all their prayers was... to risk everything they had left in the bank.

Spike wasn't exactly inclined to say no. For one thing, the only reason they had any money left at all was due to Jet's ability to squirrel away a little bit here and there. For another, it had been ages since Spike had had a chance to fleece a place like Spiders On Mars. For a third thing (not that he needed more than one reason to go along with Jet's idea) one of Spike's favorite things to do was to risk it all.

The last time they had been at an actual institution of gambling had been amusingly memorable... Jet had cottoned onto Spike's ability to count cards a few hands before the casino folks did as well. They'd been escorted off the premises about as politely as one can imagine... fists flying, feet kicking up a storm, heads knocking... it ended with a touch of grand theft auto (although could you even call it that when you leave the vehicle a couple blocks away?) and a lifetime ban from the Lucky Duck Casino on TJ.

This time he was gonna be good. He was gonna wander around and just observe. It was nice to simply exist in a busy place like this sometimes. Watching all the addicts throw money away... the well-dressed women, the hard-drinking men, letting the the melodic jumble of various machines ringing and chiming and enticing players with bells and whistles and flashing lights wash over him. So many high hopes, so many strikeouts, so much money changing hands...

It was a place of possibility... of potential... of ...surprisingly gorgeous dealers.

Well... it couldn't hurt to just take a seat at the table.

***

Luck was finally on his side! The jingle of chips pouring over each other in an ever-growing pile was like music to his ears. The stogie, clenched between his grinning teeth and burning slowly, was adding to the mellow high of a night on the town... it wasn't often Jet got to get all dolled up, as the ladies would say, and swagger around a place like this. Gambling wasn't usually his style, to be frank, but he was a man who believed in hidden messages and life having meaning that might not be immediately discernible. Sometimes it was good to follow your hunches, to chase your dreams. It was certainly paying off now!

The weight of the box of chips he carried was a welcome one as Jet made his way from the winning slots. He was also a man who knew to get while the getting was good... greed would lead to downfall, that was always the way of things. He'd won plenty for one night and was happy to call it and cash out now.

...his luck abruptly ran out when he ran into the commotion that would have been entertaining to watch had it not been the fault of his devil-may-care companion. When would he learn that he just couldn't bring Spike anywhere?

Winds of fortune were soon smiling on the pair of them again though! Their accidental savior was turning out to be a hot little ticket... A substantial bounty on her head, zip craft they could pawn for a couple hundred Woolongs, and before taking care of the girl they could make a bundle off this Gordon schmuck!

The fates were certainly taking care of the Bebop boys tonight!

***

Freeing herself from the stinking bathroom stall was an absolute breeze, especially after the man in the jumpsuit was convinced to lock just one hand to the bars on the toilet instead of both like the initial way they'd had her done up in there.

They'd claimed not to be weirdos yet were entirely too willing to hand her over to the police for a wee bit of cash. Fuck that!

Overhearing their hastily made plans, she was privately amused when Gordon rammed their ship with his own. What a perfectly distracting situation! It was time to make tracks and get far far away from both ridiculous parties.

But first... Neither side knew she was loose. Neither would be ready if she appeared out of nowhere and snatched the case of cash! She could grab the money and run... Escaping Gordon and these bounty hunters in one savvy swoop!

Opportunity knocked and Faye opened wide the door...

Blood

It's not the first time that this has been an issue.

As long as Spike survives... it certainly won't be the last time either.

Doc had given Faye, still clad in a provocative crimson dress that revealed more of her skin than it covered, a curious side-eye when she trailed into the small office after Jet. With very little heads-up as to their abrupt arrival, it was no surprise that Doc was wearing pajamas underneath his hastily donned lab coat. He gestured impatiently at the table for Jet to unload the bundle of bloody rags that he had carried bridal-style from the Hammerhead currently parked on the roof of the unassuming medical building.

"Kid's a real piece of work today, hey?" Doc muttered. "Well, first things first. What's your type, girlie?"

Faye, wiping at the dust on her brow and making her way to run shaky hands underneath the faucet of the sink to get rid of the blood that ran from her fingertips all the way to her elbows, scowled at the old man.

"Not short old men that's for sure!" She snapped.

Despite the dire situation, Jet found himself chuckling at Faye's misunderstanding. Doc huffed and gave a nod of his head towards a cupboard that Jet began to root through for the proper tools to draw blood from Faye. He already knew he was no match for Spike, but maybe it would turn out Faye could give a little. It would certainly make it somewhat worth it just having her bitchy ass on board if she could donate to Spike given how often he was in need of a transfusion.

Watching Jet approach her with a needle, Faye's eyes widened in understanding. "Ohh. Yeah. I dunno." She finished wiping her arms hastily, the skin still pinker than usual from the vigorous scrubbing and from the residual streaks of Spike's blood that hadn't washed off in her haste. Accepting the swab of iodine from Jet's other hand, she wordlessly began to smear it all over the inside of her right elbow.

"We'll know soon enough." Doc told her, apparently choosing to ignore the snub she'd given him earlier. "Once you're done there... you should grab some gloves and a pair of tweezers from the drawer under that far cupboard. There's a lot of glass we're gonna have to pick out of him once I get these major wounds closed. There should be some skin-grow in a bottle in the fridge by the window. Get me that and a bag of O as well. Even if she's the right type, he's gonna need more than we can pull from her. Not too worried about the entry point on this bullet wound but the exit is gonna be gnarly. You said he fell down a flight or two of stairs? That won't have helped matters. This gash here... clean cut but who knows how clean the actual blade was. Kid's gonna need some heavy duty antibiotics to fend off any infections. I don't have that type of shit on hand here. Anyway, c'mere with that sewing kit. Set it there. We'll roll him first to check the damage on the back side before we worry about these other issues - don't want him bleeding out while we're doing busywork on his front half."

Jet worked diligently to obey Doc's instructions while Faye flitted about in the background somewhat uselessly. Her task of retrieving shards of glass from Spike's skin was one of the last things down the list of a slew of more critical injuries that had to be addressed first. Fortunately, Jet had some background in triage. It hadn't been a mandatory part of his ISSP training but he'd briefly considered enlisting in the Ganymede Military before finally settling on a cop career instead. Before that, he'd taken some training courses with the military cadets that had included an extensive course on treating violent injuries. Being able to patch up a bloody hole was apparently more crucial than learning how to fire the gun that could make such a gaping maw in a flesh-and-bone body.

The issue with Spike was of course the blood type. It had been one of the very few pieces of information he'd willingly offered up to Jet after they'd first partnered up. Said he was something of a danger magnet and had a history of getting roughed up. Needed Jet to know that he could give blood all day long but that he could only receive from other O types. Which was naturally an issue given that Jet himself was an A type. So, being able to request the right life-saving liquid was something that Jet needed to know - or to tell the medics whenever he had to bring Spike to an actual hospital which had thankfully been a rare occurrence.

More frequently, if they were in the area, they'd simply drop in on Doc. It cost a pretty penny but it was easier than offering an alias to the hospital staff and then breaking out when no nurses could try and catch them in the act. It wasn't a great system but it worked.

"Ah, no good." Doc announced as he inspected Faye's blood. "B, for the record."

"So what, my blood isn't gonna work for him?" Faye demanded pensively.

Doc shook his head. "Figured as much to be honest. You don't seem the O type to me."

Her eyes narrowed to slits as she glared at the older man. "That feels like an insult."

Doc smirked at her and shrugged. "You do the research and you tell me. Anyway, we need more. The bags I've got on hand here aren't gonna be enough. There's a donation center down on the first floor of the building... if you think you can handle a little B&E then perhaps you can be a help."

Faye frowned. "What am I even looking for?"

Jet, busy helping to apply the skin-grow salve around the neat needlework Doc was using to close up the exit hole on Spike's back, sighed. "A freaking label that says O type blood, Faye."

"Look at the one in the trash over here." Doc said. "Take my ID card, you can swipe it to gain access to the center and the refrigerator room. I'll just say it got stolen if anyone asks. You'll owe me for that too, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, Doc. Add it to the tab, wouldya?" Jet already knew this visit was gonna cost them an arm and a leg. Poor choice of words, he reflected, considering his own substituted arm. Spike wasn't really at risk of any limb loss but it would be kind of touch and go for a minute just due to the severity of the wounds he'd received and the ways he'd made them worse by doing whatever the hell he'd been doing inside the smoldering wreckage of the cathedral. Jet had arrived after all the action so he missed seeing any of the excitement - thank fuck, syndicate business was no mess he wanted any part of. Undoubtedly though, Spike had made things worse on himself the entire time he was there.

The kid was always pushing his buttons. Choosing laziness over action more often than not. Picking fights with Faye that made Jet's ears ring with the volume they'd both reach with their shouting. Bringing back flea-covered dogs instead of bountyheads. Destroying bridges and buildings and vehicles during chases that negated any sort of money they'd hope to bring it anytime they actually did bag a bounty. It was a hassle and a headache and he was getting tired of it.

Tired of the worry. Tired of Spike's overconfidence paired with a casual indifference about his own life. If this is what it would have been like having a teenager then frankly Jet counted himself lucky to have not sired any offspring. This one adult was enough of a troublemaker to contend with!

But... Spike was also willing to throw himself fully into their missions when it suited him. He'd get down and dirty and be the one throwing punches or racing after enemies trying to flee in the zipcraft that could outmaneuver Jet's own with ease. Honestly, between the two of them, Jet wasn't entirely sure which of them was the brawn, the muscle, the tough guy. Jet himself was one hundred percent the brain but he was pretty tough too. He'd been knocking heads and choking folks out on the force for years while Spike was probably stealing beignets as a brash little asshole living on the streets. Not that he'd ever told Jet about his past but, well, some things just made sense.

Well. So what was another medical bill anyway? Doc was good about giving them time to pay him back - steady business was steady business, after all, even if the cash from taking those jobs trickled in over weeks instead of getting pulled from some insurance account and probably taxed and whatnot. Jet wasn't exactly sure how medical professionals got paid out, truth be told. A periodic deposit from an anonymous benefactor was just what the doctor ordered and it made Jet's life much easier.

Or as easy as it could be when one had a human wrecking ball for a partner. And a newly acquired foxy little mischief maker like Faye Valentine for that matter.

Between the two of them, he'd be entirely gray in the hair if he wasn't bald to begin with!

Hallucinations

(hypnosis / sensory deprivation / "you're still alive in my head")

***

She's tried everything.

Hypnotism was a sham, of course. You can't shit a bullshitter and Faye was one of the best con artists out there when it came to misdirection and leading someone along to behave or respond a certain way. So no, she wasn't surprised at the inability of the hypnotist to even relax her racing heart rate. What a bunch of woolongs down the drain.

Grief counseling was an exercise in empathy and as it turns out she didn't have much to offer. It seemed to help Jet so kudos for that she supposed but to her it was just a group of strangers crying on each other's shoulders and telling one another that it was okay to feel this way and someday it would get better.

Obviously it was okay to feel this way. Grief was enormous and unwieldy and made her feel like a piece of flotsam being tossed around an ocean. The depths were dark and scary. The glimpses of land she thought she could see seemed more like a mirage than anyplace she could eventually reach. Some days it was like she floated on top of the happy memories, few and far between as they were. Other days she was drowning in a storm of guilt and confusion and rage and loneliness. The waves of grief would crash over her head and suck her down into a spiral of not eating and not sleeping and not doing much of anything at all.

In truth, those were the days that she felt most like him.

Plastered to the couch as if she was another layer of the fabric itself. Stomach emitting growls and groans and otherwise begging for food that she refused to eat despite Jet's attempts to encourage her to it. Well okay Spike would have eaten anything and everything offered to him but her misery stole her appetite in a way that her body didn't understand any more than her mind did. Food just had no appeal. The very thought of eating was sometimes enough to make her nauseous.

It was nicer to just drift in discomfort...

The sensory deprivation tank had been a thought after one of those episodes. Why not drift in reality? Immerse herself in a little bubble of regret and frustration and perhaps purge herself from the ghost that hovered over her shoulder constantly.

But being locked in that tight enclosure... bobbing gently in the temperate water... darkness swallowing her up...

It unlocked a previously unknown fear.

It wasn't exactly claustrophobia. Her zipcraft was scarcely larger and didn't bring her to a hyperventilating nervous breakdown. She had screamed until her throat was raw, screamed until the technicians had hauled her own and toweled her off and finally injected her with something to knock her out. She had screamed until she was unconscious, dragged into the black void of insensate stupor that the drugs in the needle provided.

That was a dead end too. Drugs. She hated the loss of control. The sickness in her gut. The haziness of all her emotions.

She wanted to feel, dammit.

She didn't want to be wrapped in cotton... didn't want to be out of her mind.

She was already out of her mind.

Seeing ghosts.

Hallucinations, assuredly, but no less real despite being not real at all.

The only thing that seemed to help, in fact, was talking to him.

Not that he ever had a response.

Was that because she didn't know him well enough to know how he'd reply? After all, he existed only in her mind's eye... he was only real because her brain conjured him up and spat him out into her vision like a stringy little mote that swam in the corner of one's eye.

"You're still alive in my head." She admitted to him one night, hours after Jet had gotten back from his grief group and tried but failed to get her to eat dinner.

The ghost gazed back at her with mismatched eyes and seemed to shrug.

She snorted. "Of course you wouldn't care. You never even cared in life."

The specter pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one up.

Faye sighed. "You could at least offer me one, you know. Sometimes you did share."

She could practically smell the burn of the paper and tobacco. It made her crave one of her own but she'd been out for days.

She stood from the chair in front of the navigation console and made her way to the windows to stand beside him. She wanted to feel the burn in her eyes from the smoke wafting from his smoke... but the only burn was the sting of tears that welled up to drip down her cheeks. She pressed a hand flat against the cool glass and stared defiantly out at the night sky. Stars glittered far above and, out beyond the hull of the ship, dark waters reflected back the various streetlights and ship lights from other vessels moored nearby.

Surrounded by humanity yet all alone.

Except for the ghost.

Maybe it wasn't so bad... being haunted by the memory of this man.

If it wasn't for the ache in her heart, that is.

Virus

"You look like shit."

A flutter of tired eyes, a forehead creasing into a frown, a glare that at least packed some heat and showed that Faye wasn't entirely down for the count.

Spike shrugged carelessly. "What can I say? It's the truth. Maybe if you hadn't stolen everything that wasn't bolted down and tromped around Callisto in that ridiculous outfit then you wouldn't be taking up valuable space on my couch like this."

He was sitting on the table, hands gripping onto the corners of it behind himself so he could lean back, and trying not to remember how she'd been laid out on this very surface only a few short weeks ago when that mutated lobster had bitten her leg. She'd been sickly pale then too... completely unresponsive just like Jet and later Ein as well. So it was something of a relief that she was semi-conscious now.

It was fun to banter with Faye when she was feeling well. It felt more like beating a puppy when he poked at her when she looked like death warmed over.

To be fair, she constantly teased him whenever he was laid up on the couch, more pain than person. So it's not like his words now were entirely undeserved. Besides, she ought to have known better than to go to an ice world in booty shorts. Hell, she'd made off with his jacket when she bailed... she could have easily snatched a pair of his sweatpants or a spare suit jacket too.

"Faye-Faye caught a bug! Now she's a slug on the rug!" A young voice declared in a joyful tone as Edward appeared behind the couch and peered over the edge. "Weeeeeell... a slouch on the couch?" The hacker amended as Faye's put-out expression transferred from Spike to the teen instead. "Jet-person says you're not allowed to puke! Ed has brought you a barf bag in case you have to blurg, blarg, borrrph!"

Spike noticed as Faye's forehead pinched further, her eyes shutting as if in self-defense, and decided to save her from Ed's overly loud and overly accurate puking noises.

Standing up, he made his way to the back side of the couch to take the air sickness bag from Ed and snickered when he realized she had found one of Jet's old ISSP dufflebags to offer as the answer. Probably better than emptying out the soil and roots of a bonsai tree and making off with one of the pots to use as a vomit pail but still it would not make Jet happy. The virus Faye had didn't seem to be making her very nauseous though so it might be a moot offering in the long run.

"Thanks, Ed. I'm sure she'll appreciate it when she realizes what you brought. I think Faye could use a little break though... hey, why don't you go hop on your computer and find some lullabies or something to play for her?"

Ed's eyes sparkled with delight. "Oh my my, yes yes yes! Sleepy eepy tunes because rest is best! Ed shall return with an audible cure!" Giving Spike a smart salute she was soon dashing from the room.

He watched her go with a half smile tugging at his lips. She'd tricked her way onto the ship to be sure but that was pretty much standard practice for incoming strays at this point. At any rate, it was kind of nice having someone capable of laughter living on the vessel. The rest of the crew were some sad sacks quite often or else bitchy (himself included) and sometimes it seemed like none of them could remember any other emotions beyond Mope and Rage... Ed was a breath of fresh air.

Speaking of, that was likely something Faye could actually use.

He glanced down only to find her looking at him with a strange expression on her face. Thoughtful. Maybe even touched.

Clearing his throat, Spike plopped his ass back onto the tabletop. "Should be nearly to Mars soon. You should think about getting out on deck. Some sun would do you good."

She blinked at him.

"What, cat got your tongue?"

Faye smirked, a welcome expression to see despite how sweaty and ashen her complexion still was. "Why Spike," she rasped in a voice he could barely hear, "didn't know you cared."

He pursed his lips as he looked down at her. It was exhilarating to see how she refused to pull back despite the way he was looming above her given the difference of their positions in the living room. Other people would be intimidated by being in a supine pose while someone else sat above them nearby. Faye, even wracked with shivers and obviously unable to do much for herself in her weakened condition, held her own.

There was a blanket on the floor between the table and the couch. She'd kicked it off at some point previously before he was in the room. Leaning over, Spike grabbed at the fabric and stretched it out to spread over her trembling form.

"I don't." He lied, smiling crookedly at her.

Do Better

In the quiet of his tent, long after McIllicuddy went to bed, Appledelhi let his carefree smile fade away.

There was no one around to impress - not that he was the type of man to bother with posturing anyway.

He was single-minded. Dedicated to his dream of mapping the meteors. Undaunted by the challenge of the ever-changing topography of the land.

It was his sole mission these days. After she died... after the fog of grief lifted and revealed the horrible mistake he'd made... after devoting half his life to scouting craters and the other half to investigating each and every orphanage or daycare center he stumbled across... now knowing that Francoise lived, he could focus the whole of his attention to the citizens of Earth. The inhabitants still scratching out a living on the pockmarked surface. The brave souls who chose to live with the sky stretched wide and wild above them despite the risk of being crushed by remnants of the moon still tumbling down...

He had made a promise in the wake of his wife's death... a heartfelt vow to do what he could to prevent accidents like that from claiming more lives... to build a system of warning that could keep people safe from the debris falling from the cosmos. If there was just enough knowledge gleaned... just enough algorithms properly programmed... just enough mapped out to ensure folks stayed alive...

For so long now he had been a man divided. Driven to chase the tails of meteors as they came streaking down, yet distracted by each and every grubby faced child glimpsed from the corner of his eye whenever they were near what remained of civilizations.

At last, at long last... his guilt over losing his daughter was assuaged. She lived... lean and hardy, bright and joyous... she lived perhaps a happier life than she would have had with him.

It was painful to admit that he had failed her after her mother died. He had been in shambles, out of sorts, distraught and devoid of any ability to take care of himself let alone a young child, scarcely more than a toddler. It had been for the best, he told himself again and again over the years, for the best to put her in a place of other children and adults who didn't forget to make meals or spend days wailing in misery or see in their darling child's face the ghost of the love of their life...

He had been a danger to himself and certainly to her as well.

This knowledge did not ever help him sleep at night after he came back to his senses.

By then it had been many months and he had gone many miles. There was no way to backtrack to exactly when he'd had the strength of mind to realize how to shield her, how to provide for her, by... abandoning her.

For years he was plagued with nightmares of what her fate might be. Did she still live? Did she resent him for leaving her? Did she even remember him at all?

Questions with no answer. Questions that served no purpose except to make him depressed.

So he strove to find answers to the other obsession in his life.

There had to be a reason his wife died, after all. It couldn't be pointless. It had to have meaning. He was determined to make something of himself, in her honor and memory.

To create a future for the inhabitants of this woe-begotten world.

His daughter was in good hands. Those gentlemen with her... they would do better for Francois - for Ed - than he ever could. Traipsing around piles of rubble, taking sensor readings of giant holes in the ground, calibrating devices to record the path of moon chunks tumbling tumbling tumbling down... that was no life for a child. No.

She lived, and she lived well. It was for the best.

She deserved caretakers who would do better by her.

She was his heart and soul. She deserved the very best that this universe could offer.

Cathedral / Captured / Falling

She's never been religious.

(or has she? hell, she could've been a nun before... in a life she can't remember)

She's never had reason to turn to religion since waking up.

That at least is true and certain. So much of her life is up in the air (sometimes literally) and out of her control.

Being captured by a syndicate creep was certainly not on her To-Do list when she brazenly waltzed into the opera house.

Being held hostage in the crumbling glory of a House of God (was it a church? a cathedral? a chapel? a temple? a mosque? a tabernacle? ...which deity was this place giving homage to? whose version of the Big Man in the Sky?) ... that had not been in her plans at any point.

But who could plan for such a crazy turn of events?

How was she to have known that this bounty wouldn't be easy breezy and would instead be a tortuous experience potentially leading to the death of her comrade?

(the fact that he came for her, despite the way he'd claimed it wasn't for her, had twisted something in her heart...)

Then again Jet's attitude - so cranky about Spike's departure - should have alerted her about the danger of pursuing Mao.

She'd been bewitched by the dollar signs... and anyway their targets were always a hassle and a hazard to some degree...

And now she was stumbling along the broken path leading to disaster, well, SHE was stumbling AWAY from disaster but Spike was fully entrenched in the whole rotten business. With her hands cuffed behind her back and no weapon on her person (she'd have to search the zipcraft she'd been brought her in to recover her own gun) it's not like she'd be a lot of help. Given the ease with which Spike had dispatched the goon holding her... well, he was probably fine. One man versus... shit, how many had there been when she was trundled inside?

Explosions behind her gave her pause but only for a heartbeat.

This was a job too big for her on her own. She had to find her stuff! Racing as best she could down the stone steps to the craft she'd been brought her in, she hurriedly sat down to pull the chain of the handcuffs underneath her heels up and in front of her body to more easily get herself free of the simple device. Soon she was scrambling around the floor of the vehicle searching for her Glock, her COMM device, and anything at all to cover up with. In no time she was scrambling back towards the haunting structure looming at the top of the street, intent on offering some sort of aid for the man who'd risked his life (obvious issues with her kidnapper aside) to save hers.

She was only partway back up the steps when a smashing sound made her look up to the great circular stained glass window that had certainly been the jewel in the crown of this once-magnificent building. Something was shattering its way out of the beautiful artwork... something with a mop of familiar messy hair and a blood-soaked trench coat... something, no, someone... her someone... falling, falling, falling...

It felt like slow motion as she stood helpless on the ground so far below... no way to catch him, no way to break his fall, no way to even know if he was alive at this moment.

Fragments of colorful glass danced in the air around his body, descending alongside his battered form, and suddenly an intense blast of fiery light exploded out of the remainder of the window above... smoke and more wreckage and flames licking at the cloudy sky... the blast seemed to propel Spike into real time again as she watched his body hit the uncaring stone.

Sunburn

She had fallen asleep.

In retrospect it had been foolish not to at least enlist Ed into making sure she didn't spend too much time in the sun. But... well... they were on Ganymede, so much further from the sun than Earth. The air had scarcely been warm enough to justify donning the bold bathing suit she'd meticulously arranged on her svelte self after she'd ditched Ed and Spike.

His words had struck a chord for her. No, it was more than his words... it had been the rude tone he'd used. More than a touch of cruelty was present in the tenor of his voice when he'd insisted that other women were better, kinder, more loving and deserving of eternal affection...

It still stung, even now, when her skin felt like it would erupt into flames and turn her bone to ash.

It had been stupid to get distracted by his sensuous lips... by his half-dressed workouts... by the flicker of appreciation in his dark eyes...

Stupid to have developed a crush on someone she lived with and worked with. Especially someone capable of being so callous, so intentionally mean.

Although the stupidest thing she'd done so far was to pass out in the lounge chair after setting herself up to torment him with the sheer force of her natural beauty.

Her shoulders were already beginning to itch... if parts of this sunburn were already peeling...

Night had fallen and it had grown colder. It was the chill in the air that had woken her at all... an icy breeze blowing across the vast Ganymedian ocean to whisper across her overheated body in a stunning contrast of hot and cold that was truly horrible. She was still sprawled on the lounger... in fact the very idea of moving any part of her body filled her with dread.

It felt like her skin was stretched impossibly taut. If she so much as breathed too deeply, surely it would splinter into gashes all along her once-gorgeous body.

Angry tears welled up in her eyes. Even her eyelids ached and burned. Frustration mounted further along with an unhappy feeling of being left behind, being forgotten. And the continued disappointment over Spike's stupid words earlier in the day.

She sucked in a sharp breath when some of the moisture escaped the corners of her eyes and trailed hotly down her sunburnt cheeks, the saltiness making the reddened skin throb even more unpleasantly.

Suddenly she was glad to be alone. Fucking feeling forlorn, at least there was no one out here to see her in all her misery.

No one to judge her for crying and being weak.

No one to call her a lobster or some other idiotic insult.

No one to lecture her about the dangers of too much sun exposure.

No one to...

No one to help her up.

No one to meticulously spread a healing salve over her inflamed skin.

No one to care whether or not she was okay

(she was not)

Sleep...

What a curious thing it was.

Necessary to recharge the human body yet fraught with dangers. It was a time of complete vulnerability... Removed from awareness of the world in which you dwelt, unable to defend against assault in that external realm yet also at risk from internal attack in the form of nightmares and sleep paralysis and other nocturnal terrors.

He loathed it. Dreaded it. Sought to rise above the need his body had for it.

But he also longed for it. The escape from the walls of his prison. The chance to see him again... to let memory coalesce into reality if only in the world of dreams...

And despite his warring emotions on the matter... regardless of how his frail human body required that unconscious shutdown...

He could not sleep. It evaded him. It eluded him. It refused him.

Days became weeks became months.

They plied him with drugs. Medications to reorder his synapses. Trial runs of this product, test batches of that... Concoctions created to tap into his neurotransmitters...

Guesswork, they admitted. Throwing possible antidotes to his issue at the proverbial wall to see what may stick.

He was drowning in medications. Desperate for the most debilitating ones. Jonesing for the injections that let him turn off his brain, that enabled him to briefly forget the silver-haired specter that haunted him constantly. Why would he have betrayed him? Lied to the courts and cast him to the wolves?

In his heart of hearts he knew the awful truth. But it was so much easier to simply go mad. His savior in the trenches could not be his downfall once they were free - it was nonsensical. The man he trusted so deeply, the man who had been so intimately a part of his life...

Better to avoid the weakness of sleep, where dreams would tease him and nightmares would force him to acknowledge the truth. Better to drive himself out of his own skull through sheer lack of rest. Better to succumb to the void through whatever combination of drugs cast him into a stupor.

And so he was an unwilling test subject ... though those institutionalized had little say over their own autonomy.

And so the shadow Vicious threw over his life grew larger and darker still.

He couldn't feel a damn thing.

It was a mad thought. He could literally touch his own body - poke, poke, flick, pinch! - but it was like touching a mannequin. Like he was touching someone else or something else. He could feel the smoothness of the skin, the hairs on the back of the hand, but it wasn't like himself.

It made no sense.

It was numb. Or he was numb. Or something was askew anyway.

It was his own hand, right? Yes, of course. The finger bones connected to the hand bones, the hand bones connected to the wrist bones, the wrist bones connected to the arm bones...and it all connected back to his own shoulder and breastbone and abdomen and all the rest. His right hand verified each and every juncture as he catalogued the trek across his own body, yet it was like he was merely observing from a compartment within his own skull.

His joints were all flexible like normal. Fingers curled into fists as responsively as one could hope. Fists punched into air with speed and feet pattered appropriately through steps on the ground and waist high kicks when he attempted those too.

Everything worked.

But nothing felt real.

That was an even madder notion.

For years now he'd complained that life was but a dream... One foot stuck rooted in the past, one foot unable to step properly into the future...an uncomfortable existence in a present time that always felt sort of unreal.

But this, now. This showed him what a lie that was.

The bittersweet nostalgia for the emotions that once ruled his life... The arrogance, the avarice, the yearning... All these things attached to the milestones of his youth and to the people his very soul was tied to...

That wasn't truly holding him back from total immersion in the present.

All the before times gave his life meaning but there was still more to uncover...

It was a novel idea for some reason. Something he'd inherently known yet struggled to accept. Why shouldn't he invest himself in the now? Why keep reaching towards a time he could never return to? Why not live?

He was giggling like a maniac. He couldn't stop.

Faye was looking at him as if he were a stranger.

Well, he was strange. Everything was strange. Why could he move his body yet not feel anything he touched?

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Her voice was a mixture of irritation and concern.

He tried to stuff some fingers into his own mouth to stop laughing. It felt funny to gnaw on them.

"Where's all the blood coming from?!" Jet's voice sounded in his ears suddenly. The ex-cop appeared out of the shadows alongside him.

"Blood? S'not my blood." Spike explained. He had a vague recollection of fighting someone recently. Clearly, as he was obviously the victor of the altercation - if he hadn't been, he'd be the one lying on the ground somewhere instead of out with friends walking around - clearly that meant someone else had gotten their blood all over him. How messy.

He briefly doubled over with laughter. Messy. Of course fights were messy. Messy and fluid and fun! Dancing with an opponent was only clean until the first hit connected. Was he also wearing someone else's spittle? Their brain matter? How messy had the combat gotten?

"What is wrong with him, Jet? Is he delirious? The giggles are freaking me out." Faye had come up by him also. She was looking him up and down with a nervous expression on her face.

Jet had stopped Spike's progression down the alleyway and was holding his head in between his hands as he felt around Spike's skull.

It was weird being semi-restrained like that and unable to actually feel the contact. He knew from past experience that Jet's real hand was usually quite warm and his prosthetic was always cool to the touch. He could discern neither temperature. He wasn't even sure if Jet was actually touching him except for the fact that he couldn't move his face anymore.

"There's a significant lump back here." Jet announced eventually. "Gashed up pretty bad too, hence the waterfall of blood. This isn't good, Faye. He's definitely got some shit going on with his brain. Ah hell, we're gonna need to go see Doc."

"Gotta start buying apples, man." Spike decided. "Cheaper than doctors."

Both his companions stared at him as if they didn't get the joke.

Well, whatever.

"I gotta numb skull." He mentioned then.

"Yeah, you're a real numbskull." Faye muttered as she rang up Doc on her COMM to advise him that they'd be headed his way.

"Loss of feeling?" Jet fretted. "You dizzy too? Vision impaired? Balance off?"

Spike blinked at the rapid-fire inquiries. "Weeeeeell." He paused. "It is night, right?"

He watched as they exchanged a look that he couldn't quite interpret.

"Ehhh never mind. It's all fine. It's just a bit mad is all... But I mean... I'm mad, you're mad, we're all mad here..."

"Okay, Doc. Yeah. Be there soon." Faye hung up. "Let's fucking go, Jet. He is freaking me right the fuck out with all this Ed-babble."

Jet nodded to her and moved to stand behind Spike with his hands on Spike's shoulders to guide him. Spike couldn't feel the weight of the hands but he could see the fingers if he glanced down out of the bottom corners of his eyes. Heh. Eyes weren't made to have corners, especially not the false one he boasted.

Language was a silly, silly thing.

The frantic antics of his friends made him a little uneasy. He felt no pain - he felt no thing... hehehe... No-thing! - but their urgency was undeniable and so he shuffled along as fast as they insisted.

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall..." He remarked.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Faye snapped from ahead.

"Don't listen to her, Spike-o. Talking's good. You go ahead and babble away, okay?" Jet's voice offered reassurance from behind.

Spike needed neither of their opinions or advice. He was a consciousness within a shell that he was currently disconnected from. It was a fucking trip, man, and boy it was something else.

Sympathy / Blues / Understanding

The lounge was dimly lit and heavily smoky and the blues band on the small stage in the back was deep into their third set of the night.

why fight the feeling when I can't fight back the tears...

I stare at the ceiling and wish that you were here...

I'm going crazy but I ain't crazy yet..

It's just the blues as blues can get...

The guitarist and pianist let the last notes dribble out together, spiralling towards the end like water circling the drain, and then the band paused for another round of drinks to be delivered.

Leaning out from the microphone, the guitarist called warmly down to the table of two that had been there for hours. "Miss? Any requests?"

Faye looked up from the tumbler of Scotch with bloodshot eyes.

"Got anything sadder?"

The band members exchanged sympathizing looks and Faye flashed them a watery smile.

Jet, morosely nursing a nearly empty glass, stared at the ice as if it held all the answers of the universe.

Faye sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her nose, very ladylike. Ever the gentleman, Jet blinked back to the present in time to notice and rummaged through a pocket until he found a handkerchief with barely any grease on it to offer her.

"Didn't realize you'd take it this hard." He rumbled at her.

Glaring back at him, Faye noisily blew her nose into the cloth.

Jet raised both hands as if to ward off an attack. "Love, I caught you eating his food just a few weeks ago."

Sighing, Faye shook her head and then offered a shrug before saying defensively, "well, babe, you always enabled him to eat like a king."

Behind their table, the door to the tavern opened and a young woman swept into the lounge, spied the pair immediately, and flounced over to plop down between them. Her thick reddish hair was a riot in all directions, the kind of body to it that women from the 1980s would have given anything for, and her bright golden eyes dimmed as she took in the depression that had settled over the table.

"Bron-Y-Aur Stomp, please!" She called out to the band that was about to decide on the opener of their fourth set. The guitarist, seemingly relieved to have a slightly more cheerful audience to play for, gave her a nod.

"How can you... How are you... How?" Faye asked helplessly.

The young woman, Ed, shrugged. "He was safe and warm and happy." She smiled faintly, tears glistening in her eyes. "He was home. How could I be upset that he chose to leave us on such a note?"

"There are certainly worse ways to go. Besides, 17 years is quite a feat." Jet acknowledged gruffly.

Ed leaned over to rest her head on Jet's shoulder and reached out to take Faye's hand, linking the three of them together in grief and understanding.

"I'll love him forever. I'll miss him for always."

Faye's lower lip trembled. "He was such a good boy," she whispered.

Jet shook his head. "No. He was the best boy."

Names

The two boys, as disparate in appearance as possible, stood facing one another with their thin chests heaving and a nasty mixture of snot and blood dripping down their faces. Neither was willing to show their pain or their exhaustion in front of the rest of the kids and the exacting trainer who had separated the brawlers just a bit ago.

The boy on the trainer's right hand side had a mop of messy dark hair that was impossibly snarled and tangled. Bits of detritus from the outside world stood out brightly... the majority of an autumn leaf, a smear of mustard, and a few other solids or liquids or goops that no one cared to identify. His brown eyes were nearly squinted shut - well, one was almost swollen shut already - but still full of anger directed at the other boy. There was dirt and dust and splatters of blood on the ragged too-big shirt that the youth had clearly appropriated from someone else's closet. The pants were threadbare and equally stained and barely reached to cover his scrawny shins. The shoes, a size too small, had holes where the big toe and pinky toes could peek out of, but he still stood confidently toe-to-toe with his opponent.

The other boy, on the trainer's left, was a study in contradiction. Sleek silver hair now fell in tangles against his narrow cheekbones and one clump covered a pale eye that was bruising up darkly. It was hard to discern what color the boy's eyes were... bluish one moment, grey the next... but very much shooting arrows of animosity towards the boy who had left him so disheveled. The boy's wardrobe consisted of an outfit more suited for a prim and proper businessman, though the way it fit him indicated it was bespoke. The suit jacket was torn, one sleeve hanging almost completely down the boy's left arm, and marred with just as many blood droplets as the other boy's scraps of clothing. The pant legs, once pressed, were now rumpled beyond redemption and his pristine polished shoes were scuffed to the point where they looked as grey as his complexion.

"Leave off or you both get the boot." The trainer growled. "Drop and give me twenty push ups. Then run the perimeter of this room forty laps. Then climb that rope in the corner. Twice." He glared around at the other gathered youth. "The rest of you, piss off to the weight room. Whoever can spit on these two from up there," a lazy wave indicated the area where the weight room was open to overlooking the gym, "will get a five second head start on dinner. MOVE. NOW."

Later, the pair of fighters lay on the floor of the gym, panting. The jeers and spittle of their fellow recruits had been absent for long minutes now as the others had rushed off for the chance of food. There would be no meal for these two, something they knew instinctively despite no one informing them of this risk. Eventually they climbed to their feet and began the long walk towards the dormitories where recruits were housed. Kids their age were kept in the basement, which was accessible only through a cellar entrance at the end of a dark path through the limited green grounds of the housing sector they were in. A handful of scraggly trees had managed to push up through the dry cracked earth and there were a few patches of yellowed grass that was damp now from rain earlier in the day. The dry snap was ending, though not soon enough for the grass here.

"Well," the dark haired boy said slowly, chewing on his words thoughtfully before continuing to give his reply to the other kid on the question of his name. "My ma always said I was a thorn in her side. So I'm gonna be Thorn. I'll rip people up!"

The silver-haired boy scowled. "Don't be stupid. You can't give yourself a nickname! Thorn is a dumb name anyway. Might as well call you Rose. Rosy Spiegel." He hmmmed for a bit and then snapped his fingers. "I've got it. You can be Spike. It's sorta tough, like a pitbull's name. And I'll be... Calamity. No, wait... Ruthless! Merciless!"

A snort came from the other boy. "Now who's being dumb trying to give himself a name?" They carried on quietly for a few steps as the dark hair boy mulled over the matter of names. Spike. He rolled it around on his tongue in my mind. Kinda sharp. Kinda edgy. Kinda punk. He decided he liked it. Glancing now and again at his companion, he wondered at the ideas the other boy had thrown out. He clearly held himself to high standards and craved some sort of dangerous intensity. His home life prior to this was something Spike couldn't fathom but it seemed to have left some bitter marks on the other boy.

Spike watched as the boy carefully and deliberately brought his shoe down on a worm that had emerged into the wetness of the night. He crushed the creature with a callous air that gave Spike an idea.

"No, I know the name for you. Vicious."

The boys shared a devilish grin.

"No one will mess with us with names like these." Vicious declared.

Spike nodded in agreement. "Tomorrow, we show them who we are. Tomorrow, we get to eat!"

Shivering

She hated showing weakness.

Sitting in that opera box next to the man whose throat was slit, hearing the rise and fall of the singer on the stage far below, trembling with fear...

Sitting on the sticky bar stool all alone at the bar, absentmindedly listening to the music drifting over from the small band in the corner, shivering from the cold...

She was supposed to be strong. This act itself - ditching the eclectic crew on that stinky ship - was supposed to showcase how brave and bold she was. Fleeing a space of moderate safety for the unknown dangers of an ice cold world... going back out on her own to prove that she could handle this universe as a woman all alone.

It would have been smart to steal more clothes before leaving, though.

She had learned a lot over the years, in retrospect. Nothing that ever helped much since it was all gleaned after the fact. Next time, she'd know better. Next time, she'd be prepared.

Subtle tremors had wracked her body since she stepped foot out of her zipcraft but here, finally, in the smoky closed confines of the Rester House bar... she began to thaw. After the second drink she didn't even need the jacket anymore and slipped it off to drape over the unoccupied stool on her right.

The combination of cheap booze, jacked up heat, and no doubt the fact that her immune system was about to bail on her much like she'd bailed on her comrades... it was all adding up to an almost-feverish level of intoxication. She barely noticed when the lights came on in the bar as the band started to disperse. Surprisingly, none of the other booze hounds in the bar seemed inclined to depart even though it was the start of a brand new day. Or was it?

Time here was strange. The sky was perpetually overcast, snow falling almost constantly. She supposed it didn't matter much what time it was.

She had nothing to do. Nowhere to be. And, if her note was properly interpreted, nobody to care.

The sax player came up behind her as she sneezed once, twice, three times.

He tried a line on her and Faye felt amusement stir. Her skin pebbled with goosebumps and perhaps he noticed because he tossed his jacket lightly across her shoulders.

Faye was unsure what to make of this man who flirted yet denied his interest... who alerted her to the scrutiny of the other drinkers, none of whom had left the bar yet.

But ultimately she wasn't concerned. In fact, it might be nice to get her blood pumping with a little ass kicking and from the look of them, most of these fellows could use a whooping.

So she rose carefully to her feet with a projected air of nonchalance and added a bit more sway to her exit than was strictly necessary. It helped to hide the convulsion that threatened as her sweat-slicked skin registered the changing air temperature caused by the wind of her movement towards the door that let in the chill of the outside world.

Her nose felt drippy. Her body felt too warm but simultaneously cold to the bone. If she wasn't sick now then she was well on her way. But there wasn't a lot she could do about it.

About anything, really.

Let the predators come after her. Let the battle leave her bloodied and insensate in a heap of bitter cold snow. Let the perpetual struggle to survive in this world be over and done.

Nobody cared about little Faye Valentine anyway. Not even Faye herself.

You Still Don't Get It

"He's not like anyone else..."

The words haunted him. The images haunted him too. Yellowed scraps of someone's entire life, pictures of innocence... a life twisted into disaster. A military criminal, a felon, a person connected to whoever Julia was... a commonplace name that had sent Spike spiraling. Well, at least he could extend an olive branch to his erstwhile partner. And then tow this childlike adult woman back to the ship. Between the two of them he wasn't sure who was the most emotionally immature...

He often struggled with figuring out what made Spike tick but he'd never really understood women either. Here at least was a chance to try and see what led Faye to run off in a teenage strop. Why had she left the note? Why leave them any way of chasing her down?

Naturally Faye avoided explaining herself.

Her query in response was simple enough to answer (if he kept it on the up-and-up, choosing to focus on a minute detail instead of the way his heart had involuntarily clenched with concern once he realized where she'd fled) ... and when she brought up the sum left in the safe he had to try and play off that he hadn't known how much was there.

Her interest in Julia made his heart stutter and close itself off. Of course. Spike was the more handsome of them. More fun, more exciting. Made sense that a wildcard like Faye would be drawn to another daredevil instead of someone as stolid as Jet himself.

But what of Gren?

That troubled him. Finding her cuffed to another man's bed, that troubled him. The way she shrugged it off yet seemed so... touched. What sort of a hold could a near-stranger have on her already? What sort of person was this Gren who had somehow gotten tied up into the lives of two different crew mates whose paths were so different?

A question for a question, surely he deserved some answers.

"So, who is this Gren?"

A chuckle over the COMM. "You still don't get it." Faye didn't sound bothered by his asking. Amused, yes. Even maybe a bit interested. She seemed in better spirits than the depression he'd noticed as he released her from the cuffs and reached out to update Spike.

A sigh.

"He reminded me of you, if I'm being honest..." Her tone was thoughtful, soft. "Honorable fools, taking in strays... risking a bite to the hand that feeds..." Her voice trailed off into a series of coughs.

Grimacing at her opinion of him as much as at the sickly sounds she was making, Jet exhaled heavily. "Never mind. Shut your mouth, conserve your strength."

Sleep Deprivation

Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | "Leave the lights on."

The room was bright bright bright.

Darkness had no home. Shadows were nonexistent.

There was only light.

Squares on the ceiling, squares on the floor.

Tubes in his hands, tubes in his head.

So bright bright bright.

Lasers shining in his eyes.

Left alone alone alone.

One man all on his own in the square room with the squares everywhere and the bright bright light.

There was no sleep. Forced to stay awake. Study the effects of sleep deprivation, they said.

There was no food. Injections instead. Study the effects of this drug and that toxin and those antibodies.

Sometimes he ran.

Sometimes he danced jerkily as they tugged his puppet strings.

Sometimes they shot him point blank.

Tubes in his skull siphoning out his brains.

Men in bulky bio hazard suits talking about him softly loudly constantly except when they stared so quiet.

Like the cat.

Staring.

One eye normal, one eye strange.

Strange strange strange.

Staring through him. Staring at his soul.

Considering him. Weighing him. Judging him.

There were scans and there were tests and there was the cat.

There were needles in his skin and hoses hooked to his face and the cat.

There was bright bright bright.

Endless bright.

Horrible bright.

There was a thin man once with thoughts in his head.

He was bigger now, shaped by medication and experimentation.

He knew pain and he knew agony and he knew misery and he knew he was alone.

Save for the cat.

The cat with the hateful stare.

Over and over and over again they drilled him on weaponry.

On fighting skills and hand-to-hand combat and boxing and more.

Over and over and over again they left him muddled on an intoxicating blend of poisons.

There was no sleep.

There was no food.

Alone in the bright.

Tortured and scanned and studied.

Trained and tormented and alone alone alone.

Alone in the bright.

Cat's eye shining into his own.

Alone in the bright with no thoughts in his head.

There was only the pain and the hateful stare and the hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt.

Endless bright, endless suffering.

Teeth clenched against excruciating pain.

Muscles twitching in spasm.

Screams echoing in the chamber where they kept him.

Feeding him vial after vial of unknown liquids.

Untested until him.

Trial run.

Break him break him break him down.

Cat's toy.

All alone, always alone...

In the bright bright bright...

Waltz

He leads her slowly up up up into the sky, past the wispy clouds, out of the atmosphere entirely and soon they are circling one another in a carefully executed dance.

A waltz in the stars... he in his zipcraft and she in hers, spiraling so close to one another that they can just glimpse each other through the thick plexiglass domes of their cockpits.

She takes one hand from the controls, risky business when they are so dangerously near and moving so recklessly fast, and she blows him a kiss with a wink.

Then abruptly she dips out and away, spinning out and encouraging him to give chase.

Round and round they go, climbing a vortex together and then dashing apart, instinct rather than choreography guiding their movements.

Pursuit, pivot, reverse, twirling twirling twirling.

They drift intentionally towards the congestion of Gate traffic... large shipping vessels, personal zipcraft like their own, pleasure yachts, interplanetary transport ships, and more.

Now they zip and zoom in between obstacles. It is more than just their own lives on the line now (it's also incalculable woolongs down the drain if they should cause an accident that anyone can trace back to them) and the challenge brings them both heady delight.

Back and forth, up and down, banking hard to the left and then hard to the right, flipping around to come back upside down so he can give a jaunty wave to her below him.

The radio chatter is alive with profanities spewed in their direction. Vehicles slamming on brakes or swerving needlessly to avoid the wild pair who are dauntless in their daredevil game.

And then they burst out of the crowd into the wide open star space outside of the shipping channels and standard fly zone... out into that great good night.

Stars twinkle distantly, lightyears beyond even the reach of the Gates.

A ship hums in the vastness and draws them like a homing beacon to the welcoming deck and the relative warmth of the hangar (once the door is closed and air is pumped back in)

Spike is there at the base of her ship when she opens the hatch and gives him a grin.

He takes her hand, tumbles her down into his arms, and dips her down to the floor to ravish her willing lips with a kiss.

CODE

It had begun sometime after his most recent return from death's door.

Physical recuperation had taken place on the couch, naturally. That was his go-to hospital bed. Much easier to have life-saving machines arrayed around the moveable piece of furniture and besides the proximity to the bathroom was clutch once he became somewhat mobile once more.

Mental recuperation needed privacy though.

For the first time in... well, the entirety of his time on the ship... Spike began to use his small space as more than just a closet and place to stash ammo. Besides he had ammo stashed all over the ship so why not clear off the thin mattress at last and put on fresh sheets and actually utilize the damn thing.

Time slipped by, as it always does... grief once so raw became a beast with slightly duller fangs as he started to forgive himself for things that had never been possible... forgive him for things that weren't really his fault...

And one night, months after they'd retrieved Ed and Ein from Earth, after dinner prepared by Jet and consumed by everyone... after most of the souls on the ship went to bed or hopped onto the internet highway for who-knows-what purpose... there came a gentle tap-tap-tapping at the wall his pillow rested against.

Spike blinked. Frowned. Listened intently. And then cracked a small smile.

Morse code. Something they'd both learned in their formative years, though for different reasons.

U

UP

He shared a wall with Faye. Faye, who had been much more subdued since her memory returned. Who had been so gung ho about pitching in while Spike healed. Who had quietly stolen his pain medication when he started dipping into more than he truly needed. Who had given him space at first... and then gotten ballsy and started needling him about doing some damn work again... and who eventually got herself kidnapped which required him to actually get off his ass and save the day for the first time in a long, long time.

Only to discover she'd already picked the lock - or maybe had never truly been caught at all?

Still, it had forced him back into the swing of things.

Her eyes had slid to meet his gaze when he burst into the room, ready to rampage.

And then she'd climbed to her feet off the floor of the warehouse and strolled past him with a sultry sway to her hips and given him a little pat on the back before exiting the empty building.

That had begun something between them. A meeting of the eyes became a commonplace thing. Ed being too wild and wiggly? A shared look of fond exasperation. Jet grouching about something or other? An eye roll from one and a snicker from the other. Ein whining about needing a trip outside? An eyebrow cocked up onto a forehead as an invitation to join the expedition and enjoy a smoke on the deck.

Their banter had resumed as well, of course. The standard teasing and riling up and whatnot. Discussion of bounties, exchange of information, all that jazz.

But the eye contact... that said so much more.

And now the invitation to... to what?

Well, he was too intrigued and antsy to bother tapping out a reply. Besides, he was a man of action.

So he rolled out of bed and made his way to Faye's room and rapped his knuckles against the door.

Promise

Remember, I'll always be cheering you on...

What a fucking crock.

She had watched the tape a dozen times at least by now. Pausing it frame by frame to dissect the images as they coalesced onto the screen.

It was useless.

Every single one of those shy, giggling school children were strangers to her. But most especially the one that was apparently herself.

Tears welled in her eyes, just like they had upon her first viewing from the hallway, and she angrily dashed them away with a swipe of the hand.

Maybe she was like that innocent little child. Emotional and weak.

There's no way that kid could have gone through the horrors Faye had. No way that kid would have lasted even a day in this lawless future.

No way who she was today was someone that bright child would be proud of.

There was no one cheering her on.

No wonderful person beside her.

Though... the kid was right about one thing.

Faye had to reluctantly admit, if only to herself, that she was surely causing trouble to those around her.

Even in the act of receiving the stupid fucking tape... she'd learned that some mystery package had arrived in her name and she disappeared in a flash. If the thing had been a bomb or connected to anyone trying to get her to pay up... well, she'd left her comrades to settle the score or take the hit. Faye's Famous Disappearing Act. Now that was something that little kid couldn't find defensible.

Who was this kid? Clearly born into wealth just judging from the school uniforms and the enormity of the bedroom. Someone with a loving family. A lot of friends. A bright future.

All the promise in the world.

Who was Faye Valentine?

A loser. A con artist. A nobody with no one. No future and no past either. Stuck in the eternal present with no answers and no clue how to fucking proceed.

Sorry, kid.

She'd done her fucking best every day since waking up and she had nothing to show for it.

No one here to cheer on for anything at all.

Obsession

"What is your obsession with chasing pain?"

"What?"

"You heard me. You're addicted to getting hurt. Not because you want some pills either. So... what is it? Why do you keep showing up at my doorstep with more broken bones than whole ones? With more bruises than a boxer?"

Spike winced as he shifted on the bed, the box spring creaking ominously beneath him.

Julia pursed her lips and simply raised a cool eyebrow, leaning further back to indicate she would not be helping him sit up.

Her passive aggressive approach always amused him. It didn't even matter that everything was on fire in his body. He gingerly tugged at the sheet pooled across his lap, pulling it up and over his exposed midriff, and despite the high quality thread count it still tore at every single invisible shard of glass lodged in his skin. Glass from the broken window had been the least of their concerns - his or hers - when he had so many other wounds to address.

He wondered what she would do if he admitted that half the time he showed up was because he'd let himself get hurt. Take the punches, get touched up by the girl. Not his best plan but so far it had been working out okay.

Besides, beating others up - and getting his shit rocked in turn - was a good way to keep his mind off other stuff. Worry over Vicious, who'd been sent to Titan to orchestrate some drug deals with the government no doubt. The other man hadn't revealed what his mission was but Spike was no fool despite evidence to the contrary. Vicious had always been better at organizing new clients. But war was war and people died every day in combat situations whether here or there... at least here they'd had each other. He watched Vicious's back and Vicious watched his. And sometimes he watched Vicious sink into his own obsession... Red Eye fueling a dangerous rampage... and sometimes Vicious watched him sink into the murky confines of a bottle. Red Eye had already cost him an eye. He wasn't gonna keep going and continue to lose senses or limbs. Vicious could handle his high better... it made him even more lethal and considerably unstable. Probably half the reason why the Van sent him away. Sure, it could work in their favor to have more addicts scattered from here to Jupiter space but it also meant they might be able to wash their hands of Vicious entirely.

Spike missed his brother. He could always corral Vicious when things got too messy. And Vicious, even after a hit, could keep Spike out of trouble.

It's not that he was addicted to pain.

It's just that getting hurt served so many purposes.

Being lost in the moment, nothing else to think about but the here and now and how to survive the next five minutes.

Entering into a stupor of agony where he could acknowledge nothing except the sheer discomfort radiating from whatever cuts, burns, bruises, or broken bits he'd gained.

Getting fixed up by Julia's steady hands, soothed by the melody of her humming.

His obsession was with her, truthfully. This living contradiction... leather catsuit wearing sniper capable of donning a simple dress and apron like the homeliest country girl he'd ever envisioned while reading old Earth novels in the library (that he'd sneak into after hours as a kid, unwilling to believe places like that genuinely welcomed any and all souls during normal business hours) ...she was soft curves and hard lines, gentle yet sadistic (oh he was well aware of how she and Vicious spent nights together)... she was a joker, pulling silly pranks to make them smile, but she was also devastatingly haunted at times.

He craved the missions they got to spend together and the downtime they managed to steal once in a while. Bringing her back to the present moment with him, banishing that far away look from her beautiful blue eyes, distracting her with the urgent need to stop the bleeding before he quite literally bled out...

Okay so he probably took things too far too often. But she was so good at toeing the line of torture it was no wonder she was also absurdly capable as a medic.

And if he died in her arms, in her care...

Well, there were worse ways to go.

Heaven lay in her gaze. Hope beckoned when he heard her dulcet tones. A future away from all the gore and the senseless violence and the dark methods of escape they used... it was possible. It had to be. What cruel world would deny a happier fate to her?

One day he'd be brave and tell her how he felt. Tumble into the sheets with her, showing her all the tenderness that Vicious never cared to express. He'd be the one taking care of her someday... taking her away from these lonely nights and into some bright dreamy ever after.

Vicious was gone, perhaps for good. Spike's heart was as broken as his body. But in the absence of his partner and friend... there was still this beguiling angel. His reason for living (his reason for continuing over and over and over again to endure more suffering than any sane person ought to) ...the jewel of the syndicate... this devil that he dared to love.

Humiliation

The card reader beeped obnoxiously.

The cashier glanced surreptitiously at him for the fourth time.

Jet glared at the machine and only barely managed to school his expression into something less antagonistic when the cashier cleared her throat to get his attention.

"Sometimes the reader doesn't quite..." She trailed off, cheeks flushing with color.

There was a line of people queued up behind him. A bag boy patiently waiting to see what to do with the groceries he'd already carefully put into the paper bags at the end of the conveyor belt. A manager slowly making their way down the aisle of checkout lanes.

He knew better. The cashier was trying to be kind, to offer him an out... as if it was technology's fault that there wasn't enough in the account to cover what he'd painstakingly gathered (he'd done the math in his head the entire time, adding taxes and subtracting discounts, and still somehow he had misjudged...) ...but Jet knew the humiliating truth.

Well. Nothing to be done for it. Taking a deep breath in, he considered quickly what all was in the bags. What could he do without? What would subtract enough from the total to allow him to depart with his dignity in shreds but at least something in those sacks to feed his crew?

To feed Ed mainly. The other two could take care of themselves well enough. Even Ein was no slouch at hunting when the hunger was too much.

So, doing his best to ignore the judgmental stares that may or may not be aimed at him from the folks behind... he stepped up to the bagger and gestured curtly at the conveyor belt.

"Sorry bub, lemme just go through these and give a few things back to the lady here..."

His ears were ringing too much to hear the garbled tunes playing over the grocery store speakers. The cashier was staring down at her drawer to give him a semblance of privacy. And he did his utmost to shut out and ignore the rest of the populace of the place.

Wasn't the first time.

Probably wouldn't be the last time.

Still, the churning gut and the aching chest and the tension in his jaw... all of these kept the humiliation of the moment stacked on him like a scarlet letter.

Man, he hated being poor.