Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Going Under ❯ Smoke Gets in Your Eyes ( Chapter 1 )

*~A/N~*. . . Hahah! Take that, suckas! I'm back, with a new story (finally). This is the first time I've posted a story without finishing the entire thing first, so think of this as a test-run for other upcoming fics. Reviews are welcome! Flames are welcome! Hell, just give me feedback!!!!

*~SUMMARY~* . . . After his `death' on Mars, Spike Spiegel absently wanders the universe, searching to fill the emptiness that he left behind-- the part of him that died along with his Syndicate life.

*~DISCLAIMER~* . . . I do not own Cowboy Bebop. I don't even own the computer this story is saved on. Get over it.

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Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

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She wasn't coming.

Cool raindrops pattered endlessly around him, drumming on the pavement and kissing his face bitterly as he lifted it skyward. They fell drearily, plummeting from the heavens and into his open eyes, collecting on his lashes and traveling down his pale cheeks like crystalline tears.

She wasn't coming.

Everything in his vision seemed to melt, painfully blurring the colorless world further until it was beyond recognition. `Pitter-patter pitter-patter' went the rain as it drizzled down, dragging with it pieces of the sky and crushing them against the ground. The cool droplets danced as they hit, shattering brilliantly before flowing away, forgotten.

The smell was enough to choke him, that thick stench of rain. It clouded his senses and numbed his lungs when he breathed. In, out. In, out. Bittersweet, slightly stale and twisted painfully with the brittle chill of the air.

He was so heavy, his clothes weighted with rainwater, her face a pastel picture intense in his mind. A stunning woman with a sad smile.

His heart clenched painfully.

The icy puddles around his feet rapidly collected the water, ripples defacing the mirrored surfaces as the raindrops dropped from his clothes and face.

Pitter-patter pitter-patter.

He exhaled a broken sigh as he pushed himself away from the damp wall, slipping his hands into his soaked coat pockets and turning to leave. He hesitated for only the slightest moment, his eyes shadowed and his face stoic, listening to the soft percussion of the rain.

Something flowed from him in that moment; it no longer hurt to breathe. Something left his veins and flowed from his fingers and face, trapped in the tiny confines of raindrops and smashed against the ground. He was different. Empty.

A single word formed on his thin lips as his downcast gaze deadened callously, a hoarsely whispered vow to the ever-weeping sky.

"Julia. . ."

Roses in a puddle. Flashes of gold from the corner of his eye. A smoldering cigarette on the damp asphalt. Pitter-patter pitter-patter.

She wasn't coming.

He would feel no more.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sky of Mars was endless, marred with blurry rain clouds and choked with rainwater. A sleek ship cut swiftly through the ominous atmosphere, its faded red paint clearly defined against the overcast sky. It seemed out of place, a mechanical bird flailing against the rising storm.

The rainfall was coming down in sheets now, cold water throwing itself angrily at the MONO-racer's exterior and streaking away in rivulets. Droplets smashed into the windshield, forcing the ship to travel virtually blind.

It seemed to remind him that he really didn't like the rain. She always did, she said the rhythm of the water was relaxing. She enjoyed the clean feeling in the air, the tension in the air during a storm, but most of all the smell. She had once suggested it must have been the scent of heaven. He had nodded dumbly, enjoying the sound of her voice.

But in truth, he had always loathed rain. It was always so goddamn cold, no matter what the season, and the water got everywhere; in your shoes, it drenched your clothes, added dead weight to everything and always seemed miserable. The rain always radiated such a melancholy mood, lonely and depressing. . .

How appropriate that it would rain today.

A little added weight on the controls and the racer's long nose turned upwards at a sharp angle. Its engines roared into the rain as the jets kicked in and the Swordfish II lurched higher, shooting off towards the blacker darkness of space.

The MONO-racer curved gracefully as it sped away from Mars, its pilot crushing the steering mechanisms as he sought more speed. The ship groaned slightly under the strain, the empty air of outer space lashing violently against its body as it cruised hazardously onward.

His fingers were locked in a slippery grip on the controls, sticky with blood. How much of it was his and how much of it was theirs? His clothing, his skin reeked of death and gunpowder and rain, so overwhelmingly strong that it thickened the air in the cockpit. Oxygen fed into the ship soon became contaminated by the sickening stench. It became difficult to think.

To breathe.

He had half a mind to crash the ship into something, send it spiraling back down into the pavement-- give himself a mercifully quick end. Anything would be better than the agonizingly slow memories that were replaying over and over in his head. However, something refused to let him carry out his gruesome intentions. . . her sad face in his mind's eye.

Away. Have to get away.

The monotone gray rain clouds dissipated and gravity thinned as the ship cruised upward, giving way to the empty stillness of the cosmos. The water froze in horizontal icicles from the wings in the unbearably cold vacuum, glazing the off-red metal casing in a thin sheet of glass-like ice.

Everything was cold, and the only sounds to be heard were the stressed roar of the jets and the own merciless beating of his heart as it pounded in his ears.

This whole thing just didn't feel right. It simply couldn't be over now. He wouldn't allow himself to believe that this was the way things would end. He wasn't naïve enough to think that all stories had fairytale endings, but nothing in this escape seemed final enough to be the end. He must still be asleep, still dreaming.

Stars flashed over the windshield of the cockpit, reality becoming a blur streaked with white lights as the Swordfish zoomed by at alarming speeds. His knuckles turned white under the pressure he applied, his fingernails digging into the controls with something akin to ire. It was hard to tell, he felt completely numb.

She wouldn't leave. He couldn't figure her out. She loved him, she *loved* him, and yet she wouldn't leave. Was she afraid? Afraid of the Syndicate? Afraid they would kill her?

What was keeping her from him?

He would escape to a better life, safer and far away from the possessive Syndicate mafia. Didn't she know he wanted to build this new life with her, for her? How did she expect him to live while she held his heart so far out of reach? He couldn't. He couldn't live.

Away. Get away.

A screen on the ship's computer beeped dangerously, flashing red and yellow lights as the Swordfish II pushed its limits against the thick inky blackness that was space. He ignored the warnings and urged his ship faster, faster, faster!

Memories flashed before his russet eyes, broken fragments of a dream, he fought to escape them. Nevertheless, no matter how fast he fled he could never outrun her. Her sorrowful smile would always linger. There was never enough speed to elude the past. Who exactly was he running from again?

The jets blared furiously, the ship's entire frame shaking violently as the beeping became more frantic.

Away. . .

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

Get away. . .

BEEP-BEEP-BEEPBEEPBEEP! The angry staccato sang so rapidly it became a shrieking buzz, screaming for its pilot to release.

Get away. . .

BEEEEEEEEEEEE--

Without warning the alarm stopped, allowing Spike to hear the ominous boom that signified he had blown something up in his haste. The ship slowed to barely a crawl, the interior lights in the cockpit flickering dimly as the MONO-racer's systems automatically shut down. The acrid scent of smoke filled the cockpit, not the sweet fragrance associated with cigarettes, but the stale odor of charred equipment.

At least it didn't smell like blood anymore.

"Shit!" Spike cursed, slamming a gloved hand forcefully into the ship's console, causing the lights to flicker again. "Goddamn it!"

The hum of machinery resonated softly as the screen flickered under his curled fist, the Swordfish struggling to stay in flight. It inched along jerkily, coasting for a few moments before pausing abruptly, then assuming a rather chaotic pace. Stop. Start. Stop. Start.

It was like a bird trying to fly with a broken wing.

"Just perfect. . ." The man rubbed his eyes in frustration, leaning back from his formerly hunched position and feeling the cramped muscles in his back stretch uncomfortably.

Tapping a screen on the ship's computer to reveal the impairment, he assessed the damage: he had completely blown out one of the jets, the nuclear fusion aero spike was badly damaged, and the ship's booster nozzle was dangerously overheated. All in all, not bad, considering he had been traveling at break-neck speeds that should have stripped the Swordfish apart.

Still, it was beyond his minimal skill to repair, and he was stuck with a barely operational ship in the middle of space somewhere between Mars and Earth. He'd have to land, else be stranded in the middle of the cosmos. Trapped, he couldn't hide. And the last thing he wanted was to be found.

No, he had to keep going.

It was a four-day trip to the nearest planet, and by the way the Swordfish was flying he would need a shit load of luck to even enter the planet's atmosphere. Gravity would surely rip the MONO-racer to pieces.

In short, he was utterly screwed.

Damn it.

"Of course, they couldn't make it easy for me, could they?" he mused, not quite sure who `they' referred to but not really caring either way.

Spike patted the ship's console almost apologetically, his hands finding their way to the steering mechanisms and gently coaxing the ship from its erratic course.

"Well, looks like we're going to Earth, huh, baby?"

The ship glided along tentatively for the next four days, a black column of smoke trailing idly from its left wing and leaving behind a dark string of clouds as it limped through the vacuum of space.

Through the tinted window of the cockpit, Spike could see the shape of Earth become more defined from the winking stars as he approached it, coming into focus of the forgotten planet.

Equipped with a thinning belt of asteroids-- pieces of its broken moon caught in orbit, the once green planet revolved forebodingly, its surface riddled with craters from frequent asteroid showers. Where magnificent cities had stood, there were now slummy ruins, dirty and gritty and riddled with devastation.

Few dared brave the vulnerable Earth, and those who did resided mostly in underground cities, away from the falling stars. It would take an idiot to leave something important out in the open, where one fell rock could destroy it in the blink of an eye.

Most of Earth's residents were hackers, using the secluded expanse of Earth to hide in while they sharpened their skills. Others were oldsters and their families, unable to afford leaving the desecrated planet.

Virtually abandoned since The Gate Incident, Earth had become a lackluster plot of rocks and water without much purpose. It revolved aimlessly despite its disregard, its wrecked moon hovering close by almost obediently at the edge of its orbit.

The Swordfish stuttered along, coming closer and closer until the mass of blue and brown became more defined. Continents could be distinguished from the swirling masses of ocean; a few craters could even be seen if one looked hard enough. It certainly wasn't much to look at, but it was a comforting sight to a man whose ship was busted up.

The MONO-racer gave another sudden lurch before entering the Earth's asteroid-ridden atmosphere, the darkness of space abruptly giving way to a cluttered blue sky. Spike leaned into the controls, trying desperately to keep the ship from spiraling dangerously towards the planet's vacant surface. The ship fought with him, its sleek form twisting jerkily as it nose-dived towards the ground.

Meteors flew at him in dangerous clutters, forcing him to spin and swerve to avoid a collision.

The grips of gravity quickly took hold of the Swordfish and pulled it closer and faster, bringing the heavy metal mass hurtling down on the boarder of Spike's control. Wind whistled around the ship's body, friction of air against the hull heating the exterior as it plummeted from a lightening sky. Ladies and gentlemen, the laws of physics at work.

The man growled through gritted teeth as he wrestled with the ship's momentum, yanking on the controls so that the Swordfish's slender nose jerked upwards. The ground was quickly coming into focus, much faster than Spike was comfortable with; the dusty soil looked anything but soft and spongy.

"C'mon!" Spike snarled as the MONO-racer fought to keep a strait course.

The ship curved elegantly, hastily extending a pair of wheels to catch the uneven terrain of a huge plain. It bounced and rattled hazardously over the earth, struggling to keep from rolling over on its side.

The controls vibrated under Spike's clenched fists as he battled to keep the ship upright, his face grim with determination as the ancient ship grappled with an ancient planet.

Finally, the ship was firmly set enough on the rutted ground to deploy the breaks, bringing the runaway racer to a skidding stop. It spun in a wide circle, breaks squealing against the worn tires, kicking up clouds of fine dust into the atmosphere as it sought to decelerate.

When the sand settled, the Swordfish had come to a complete stop, its over-heated engines releasing plumes of inauspicious smoke.

Fuck physics. It was boring anyways.

Fine sand had barely dusted the faded-red frame before the windshield folded back to allow fresh air into the cockpit, bringing with it foreign odors from the ancient planet. It quickly dispersed the thick burning fragrance and the stench of death, replacing it with a deep earthy scent, the smell of dirt and water.

A breeze whipped by the cockpit, showering it briefly with grainy sand and the scent of rain. The weather on Mars was never unpredictable. In fact, people could actually control the weather over certain cities now days. Damn Earth weather.

Rain, asteroids, crazed computer hackers and crotchety old folk.

It was like everyone always said: Nothing good comes from Earth.

Swinging himself gracefully from the slightly cramped confines of the cockpit, Spike leaped fluidly to the ground, his blue boots stamping the earth with a thump and bringing up a small breath of dust from beneath them.

Immediately he grimaced as the movement jolted a bullet wound in his left thigh. Looking down, he took the opportunity to study himself, finding his clothes blood spattered and his body with several new holes. None of which he couldn't handle, of course.

Once out in the open, the man felt a slight heavier than he had on Mars, perhaps from the difference in gravity, but more likely from the bloody crucifix borne on his shoulders. That damn wounded cross.

He stripped off his bloodstained trench coat and tossed it over the wing of the Swordfish, as if losing the bullet-riddled jacket would lighten the weight he felt all over his thin body. The trench coat billowed forlornly in the slight Earth breeze.

He felt like collapsing, felt he already had collapsed; his entire universe had already imploded upon itself. Everything he had grown accustomed to was gone. He had died and was no longer himself. But then, who was he at present?

What the hell was he supposed to do now? Syndicate goons would be searching the whole damn galaxy for a cadaver identified as Spike Spiegel. And when they found none, they would know. *He* would know.

And he would pursue him like a stealthy beast would stalk its hapless prey, driven by a lust for blood and revenge. He'd never leave him be until it was over, and neither could fight anymore.

And he would attack her, too. They would both pay for their so-called sins, condemned from both heaven and hell and trapped in a torturous limbo where everything dear shattered under their fingertips.

What was that he used to call him? Oh yes, an angel forced from heaven. All fallen angels become demons, so they said. He was a reluctant devil, but no more. He didn't want to be a monster anymore.

She was an angel, an untouchable angel. Beautiful, but tragically tainted. She would never be a monster. . .

What now? All that was gone now.

Spike shook his head and ran a hand through his unruly vermilion curls in frustration. Digging into his pockets, he found a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Bringing a nicotine to his lips and lighting up, he took a comforting drag.

What he really wanted was alcohol, to drown in, to kill his brain so that he wouldn't be stuck with those heart-shattering memories. . . but being stuck in the middle of nowhere without a drop of liquor in sight, he had to settle for quenching the former craving instead.

Hands thrust idly into his pockets and a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, Spike paced the ground beside the MONO-racer, absently scuffing the ground with his boots as he brooded silently.

He was being hunted by the devil himself. She was gone with a flash of wings. He was marooned on Earth. He couldn't even search for her.

He missed her already. The thought of never seeing her again made him miserable, he had to find her.

Yeah, that's it! He'd find her, bring her back. They could be happy and safe and never have to worry. . . he could tell her all of the things he should have told her earlier. A small bubble of hope welled inside him.

What the hell was he waiting for?

Spike started back towards the Swordfish, with its smoking wing.

The bubble popped. Damn.

What he needed was someone to fix his ship. A ghost of a bitter smirk broke his pensive façade. Not many had the equipment to fix an old racer like the Swordfish II. In fact, he only knew one mechanic with the experience and knowledge to fix old ships. A man conveniently located on the forgotten planet Earth.

Go figure.

Without a second thought he produced a worn communicator from inside his jacket, tossing it deftly from hand to hand before dialing. The tan face of an aging man appeared on the tiny screen at the top of the comm., his grating voice growling over the crackle of static.

"Yeah, what do you want? I'm busy right now, so you'll just have to-"

"Doohan-it's Spike. I need a ride."

There was a pause as the face on the screen blanched. "That's impossible! You sick, lying bastard, what the fuck are you trying to pull?"

"Why, whatever do you mean?" Spike drawled as he cocked an eyebrow at the screen.

"You can't be Spike," the gruff voice spat.

"And why's that?"

"Spike Spiegel died four days ago."