Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Going Under ❯ Up a Lazy River ( Chapter 3 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: MouseThatRoared 
Anime/Manga: Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama | Type: Self Insertion | Uploaded On: 07.19.2004 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.2K | Visits: 223 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama | Type: Self Insertion | Uploaded On: 07.19.2004 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.2K | Visits: 223 | Status: Completed
*A/N*-- Felt like plugging another chapter before I head out to band-camp *Ignores the multitude of band-camp puns that come rolling through* Also, thanks to all my wonderful reviewers: Kyra, liquidiamond, Lady Razorship, and Plutonian, you guys rock my socks.
*DISCLAIMER*: No. Cowboy Bebop, it's mine. And you can't use it. Just me. Really.
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Up A Lazy River
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Spike cursed himself, stripping off another layer of clothing. Damn him for forgetting that Earth's deserts were unbearably hot.
Lately, it had been warm enough to fry an egg on your tongue if you left it there long enough. The sun beat down lazily and unforgiving upon the poor heads of the desert dwellers; pair that with intolerable humidity and you have one hell of a sauna. The air shimmered and stuck thick in everyone's lungs, creating a lethargic atmosphere in the junkyard.
It was too hot for Spike to smoke, it was too hot for Doohan to make demands, hell, it was even too hot for Kerrian to shout- heat absorbed into their already tired muscles and made every little move quite an effort, and so all movement became sluggish around Doohan's hanger.
He had been sulking in his borrowed room for three days, both the mechanic and his assistance taking pains to avoid him. Smart of them, too, he hadn't really been prepared to face the world quite yet.
Spike had washed himself clean of the blood and gunpowder, but the stench clung stubbornly to his skin. He had dressed the wounds he'd obtained staging his 'death', but they ached dully with each tortured movement-- a constant reminder.
The man didn't have any money for beer, so drinking himself into the ground until he felt better was out of the question (damn it).
He found himself brooding sullenly, too plagued by agonizing memories to actually sleep, his offbeat internal rhythms felt by everyone. He was unbalanced, unaligned, a broken man, coming out of his room only to eat and check on progress with the Swordfish.
And even that wasn't looking good.
If there was a God or whatever sort of superior universal being somewhere out there, they seemed firmly set on complete and utter damnation for one, Spike Spiegel. Either that or they had a completely sick and twisted sense of humor.
"You completely lost a jet, kid," Doohan had growled. Everything Doohan said was said in the form of a growl; his voice coarse and gravelly from cigarettes and inhaling exhaust from his beloved antiques. "The jet is completely shot, blown to bits, not to mention the acceleration pumps are all worn down. . ."
Doohan explained that repairs would be vastly expensive, not including the new parts needed to get the ship to fly again. Hah. In fact, parts were a different matter entirely.
"The Swordfish II was built up from an old thing, Spike, m' boy, barely any working components are in circulation now; they've long past stopped making them."
In fact, parts that were compatible to the MONO-racer's system were so rare that even Doohan's suppliers didn't have them. A few confessed they knew where he could obtain the desired components, but the would be unfeasibly costly, thus their one huge problem:
Spike was very, very broke.
Now, dressed in proper Earth attire --a white undershirt and a pair of sweatpants-- Spike headed out to the hanger once again, hoping to hear good news about the minor repairs being completed on the Swordfish. Once outside he was slammed with a wall of heat, and even his lighter clothes felt uncomfortably suffocating.
The hanger was cooler, but not by much; a cheap rotating fan circulated the hot air in a pathetic attempt to lower the temperature in the building, but succeeding only in blowing hot air into the face of the cantankerous mechanics.
"How's it going?" Spike addressed the pair of legs protruding from beneath the dismantled MONO-racer.
"How'd you manage to fuck this thing up so badly?" the legs responded tiredly.
The muscular limbs withdrew to allow their owner to wriggle out from below the ship. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of a dirty hand, Kerrian leaned her back against one of the racer's wheels, looking disheveled and exhausted.
"Y' know, kid," Spike frowned irritably, "I'd rather you have Doohan coaching you when you're working on my ship."
The woman growled, equally annoyed. "I didn't ask for your opinion, asshole. If you want your God damn ship fixed this millennium, you'll let me work on it when the old man's out."
"You're doing a piss-poor job by yourself."
"What the fuck do you know?"
"Well, tell me then, is it fixed now that you've had your time with it?" Spike asked matter-of-factly, satisfied with winning the argument.
Kerrian sighed, dropping the issue. It was just too damn miserable. Just too damn hot.
Spike almost pitied the woman.
Her thick raven hair was piled on top of her head to keep the heavy strands off her neck, and Spike wondered how the tiny woman could even hold her head up what with the mountains of hair weighing her down and throwing her off balance. Stray strands stuck to her neck and cheeks, limp from the humidity.
She was wrapped in as little material as possible while still trying to keep her dignity --a sports bra and cut-off jeans-- but the exposed skin quickly tanned and became slicked with engine grease and sweat.
He leaned against the far wall of the hanger, grimacing when the lukewarm metal stuck to his damp skin. Damn sun. It heated the hanger like an oven. Kerrian watched him for a moment from under hooded lids, as she had for the past few days, timidly curious but too frustrated with the man to say anything.
Doohan had told her only the most pertinent meager details about Spike, but from what she had observed the man was shady. Carefully guarded but obviously in a depressing funk. His thin face was always blank, when he wasn't sneering or snarling, and it was no secret that he hadn't slept in days; the dark rings beneath his eyes told of the restless insomnia he suffered.
It also appeared as if he had a thing against women. It seemed he went out of his way to be especially nasty to her, not that his was a winning personality to begin with, and she of course returned the favor.
"You're pathetic, you know that?" she mumbled tetchily. "At least I'm working."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Spike inquired with a bored expression.
"Instead of sitting on your ass all day thinking about God-knows-what, why don't you do us all a favor and make some money so you can get the fuck out of here? You're a lump. An irritating bastard of a lump."
Spike sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. His tone was belittling again, though lacking its usual snappy venom. "In case you haven't noticed, genius, there aren't exactly a lot of jobs to choose from. Being stuck on Earth kind of narrows my options."
"Hmph." She didn't rise to the bait. "It just depends on what you're looking for, I'm sure the senile old cod would lend you a ship if you needed travel. He likes you, though I haven't the slightest idea see why."
"What? My personality not befitting to you?"
"You're a dick," she spat idly. "You need work or else you'll never leave and then I'll end up going insane and killing you or something."
Where was Doohan? Out the one time she needed him there. Go figure. The old man had become some kind of un-appointed referee, breaking up their quarrels before they got out of hand and someone died. Poor soul.
The woman paused to stretch and yawn, the heat sapping what little energy she still possessed. Sighing in fatigue she cast Spike a tired side glance before continuing. "What the hell did you do for the past ten years that kept you alive, anyways?"
"I killed people," Spike said simply.
Silence.
Kerrian's head snapped up in shock, sizing up the lanky man for the umpteenth time, pondering whether he spoke the truth. The calm look on his face, his wiry frame and willowy limbs belied his words, but there was something about him; it was his eyes.
They were deathly serious, tired russet eyes. They were closed of everything else, but that killer's air, that dark aura, that past pain could not be concealed.
The man could not have been lying.
Kerrian gulped nervously. Where the Hell was the old man?
"I see." She refused to meet his gaze, tensely looking at the ground. "Were you some kind of assassin or something? A hit-man? Gangster?"
Spike gave a humorless chuckle. "You could say that."
Kerrian paused to think, scrubbing an oil stain on her palm absently. He was making her uncomfortable. She had thought Spike Spiegel was shifty beforehand-- this new knowledge of his former profession didn't exactly set her mind at ease.
She fidgeted impatiently. "Y' know, bounty hunters can make a decent Woolong now days."
"Bounty hunters?"
"Yeah, where've you been for the past thirty years?" the woman sneered. "ISSP couldn't control crime anymore, too many criminals, too much space, not enough men. So they reinstated bounties, let bounty hunters to do the dirty work: catching the criminals and haulin' them in."
Spike had already known this --having run into a few hotheaded bounty hunters after especially violent or high-ranking Syndicate members-- but he found himself feeling particularly generous and decided to let Kerrian have her say.
Her speech finished, the woman returned to a state of semi-consciousness,
Bounty hunter. He tossed the idea around for a moment; it seemed simple enough. Knock 'em out, drag 'em in, then collect considerable compensation for your efforts. Not a bad deal, actually. They made adequate use of his skills, and with his marksmanship and a little bit of luck, he'd be on his way in no time.
"Damn it." the woman's irate voice startled him back to reality. "Tell the old fucker I'm not waiting anymore. I've got places to be, he'll know where."
Spike smirked. "I hope you don't plan on coming back any time soon. . ."
Kerrian grumbled under her breath and tilted her head, closing her eyes for a moment before lazily pulling herself from the ground, leaving in search of her hover-cycle. In no time at all, she was speeding away on the sleek bike, leaving Spike alone with his thoughts.
He watched go, wondering briefly just where she was heading. Then, just as briefly, he decided that he didn't care and shifted against the wall to stare forlornly at the cluttered sky, towards Mars.
If it wasn't Julia he missed, it was Mars itself. Mars wasn't historic like Titan or beautiful like Ganymede or legendary like Earth, but its skies were endlessly blue, and even when it rained they remained open.
Killer or no, Spike Spiegel got homesick.
With an inaudible sigh, he left the hanger, hands thrust casually into his pockets. He headed towards the main lodging building, a small cement block with a tin roof off to the side of the junkyard, hoping that it would be just a tad bit cooler inside the building and out of the sun.
His hopes were quickly dashed however as he opened the door and stepped inside-- if it were possible, it felt more humid inside than out. Goddamn fucking Earth weather!
The heat seemed to add at least ten pounds to his shoulders as he headed aimlessly down one hallway, then another, in search of a cool spot to sit. He entered several rooms, none of which looked particularly interesting, inspecting different odds and ends left out in the open before leaving.
He noted that Kerrian was a big fan of Rock music by the posters she had plastered over her walls. She was disorganized, too, with her music discs laying strewn about the floor with her dirty clothes.
As he turned to leave, his eyes caught the bright pastel colors on the back of the door. So, she knew a kid. She knew a kid well enough that that kid would draw her pictures.
There were several messily scrawled drawings on the wall of planes and ships and horribly un-proportionate stick people-- all done in brightly colored crayons and carefully tacked to the inside of her door. Innocent, shaky lettering in yellow crayon on each one implied an artist's signature: 'I LUV U,' and a capital letter 'R'.
'Just 'R'?' he mused. Perhaps the bitch-woman had a younger sibling somewhere.
Sad. He pitied the poor child unfortunate enough to share the same gene pool with the odious wretch. He smirked to himself before exiting, leaving the room just as he found it.
The next room he explored was Doohan's. He expected the place to be a disaster area, cluttered with papers and old ship designs that would never quite make it to completion. He imagined photographs of people he knew, serviced, people close to him. Doohan loved to surround himself with chaotic disorganization.
But to his surprise, the old mechanic's room was painfully plain; the bed sheets rumpled and discarded on the floor, the sun bleached sallow walls strangely empty. All that remained on the walls was the paint, flaking in the humidity. The floor was bare, with the exception of the crumpled bedding; the room seemed close to being perfectly in order.
This in itself was extremely odd, for the irritable old fool was completely disorderly, everything the mechanic had done that Spike had committed to memory had a slapdash feel to it.
The naked walls were also unsettling. The old man had a fascination with old Earthen cameras, the bulky kind that used film instead of discs. Spike had expected to find at least one photo lying around, maybe taped to the wall as brashly as he had taped them to his dashboard.
Spike hummed to himself, running a hand through his hair, which had gone even wilder and unkempt-looking in the humidity.
Unlike the other rooms he had found, Doohan's had two extra doors on opposite walls facing the bed, one of which Spike found to be a small bathroom; the other led to an average-sized office. Upon opening the door, he was met with a small breath of chilled air. Spike sighed happily and opened his arms in relief, welcoming the change in weak blast of cool air like a dying man in the desert would welcome water.
The thin film of sweat on his body quickly froze in the air-conditioned room, and Spike hastily closed the door to keep the deliciously cold air concentrated. He stood stock still, letting the circulating air caress his fevered body and listening to the tremendously ancient air-conditioning unit clank away as it spat out cold air with little fervor.
He couldn't move. It was a rare moment indeed when Spike was able to experience pure, simple bliss. He didn't want to ruin it.
Nearly half an hour later, only when he actually started to get *uncomfortably* cold, Spike took the initiative to look around. The office was unbelievably cluttered, with incomplete repair forms and half-baked ideas for new hybrids of ancient and modern ships, scattered notes and wads of clothing mounting in the corners of the room- clearly this is where Doohan spent most of his time.
There was a desk buried under mountains of paperwork and unrecognizable tools and parts, conveniently located in front of the only window in the room, which held the air-conditioning unit. Lazy afternoon sun poured through the blinds and created bars of yellow over the desk, mimicking the pattern of prison stripes-light, dark, light, dark.
His lips curving into a small frown of curiosity, Spike made his way over to the side of the room and rifled through the forms on the mechanic's desk with one slender hand, the other thrust nonchalantly into his pocket.
There were several, written in Doohan's cramped handwriting, inquiring about the desired parts for the Swordfish. He caught sight of several figures, all with a sizeable amount of zeros behind them; he grimaced and put the forms away.
He leafed through a few random papers, skimming the contents if something struck his eye, before dropping them unceremoniously on the desk. Nothing tenuously interesting, so Spike let his attention wander.
Lifting his free hand he peeked through the blinds, looking out into the hanger. The doors had been left wide open, and he could see the dismantled MONO-racer from where he stood, looking like it had been stripped, raped, and gutted. It left him with a sense of hopelessness. He'd never get off this God forsaken planet.
Fuck.
He craved a smoke - God, did he ever! -- having gone cold turkey in the scalding weather, but he didn't think he could force himself out of this blessedly cool haven, even for nicotine.
As he moved to occupy the comfortable-looking rolling chair behind the desk, Spike's arm brushed the tack board next to the window, knocking loose a flurry of photos. They fluttered gently to the floor; those that landed face-up stared at him with frozen smiles void of emotion. He blinked, reaching down to retrieve them.
Their faces were happy but empty at the same time, their cheerful energy lost over time as the images began to fade. He carefully seated himself in the vacant chair and held the pictures by their edges to avoid getting fingerprints on the glossy surfaces, studying the fallen photographs with an almost critical air.
There were several of Doohan, standing with a proud grin near his greatest achievements-one of which being the Swordfish II. It was a picture Spike was vaguely familiar with; he had been there the day it was taken. But that was nearly seven years ago. Doohan's face looked much younger then, less grizzled and his eyes missed the jaded glaze to them.
Spike moved the photo to the back of the pile. The next picture was of a young man looking rather stoned on the wing of an Earth antique, Spike recognized him as the assistant working under Doohan when he had visited him last. He was a gaunt-looking man, a disgruntled look breaking through his marijuana-induced stupor as the camera flashed in his eyes. Spike chuckled dryly before flipping the picture to the end.
He turned to the next picture. . . and saw himself.
He blinked in surprise, bringing the photograph up to his face, so close that it nearly brushed the tip of his nose as he studied it closely. This was the first time in years since he had seen himself on film. It was taken the year he had been given the 'Fish, the year that he had graduated to a top-rank Syndicate member, the year he had met Julia, years and years ago, and taken without his knowledge.
Photograph-Spike was sitting propped up against the MONO-racer's right wheel, a cigarette held loosely between his lips and fingers as he stared pensively at something off in the distance.
God, he looked so *young*. He couldn't look away-- his face wasn't as tired as he remembered it, he looked lighter, happier. His eyes were lacking the haunting images; the picture taken before he had his right eye replaced. A beautiful, foreign face.
This man was a stranger.
"Seven years," a low voice spoke behind him. Spike turned to see Doohan leaning casually against the doorframe, his eyes closed deep in thought. "Seven years since everything started falling apart."
Spike 'hmm'ed in agreement, running his long fingers over the image of his face. "I'm not that man anymore."
"Yeah."
Spike let his gaze linger for a moment on the forgotten face; the young, limber frame slouched with long, lanky legs sprawled haphazardly over the dusty ground. Could he have ever been this man? It was hard to imagine. He stamped it into his memory, not wanting to forget the true carelessness in his real eye, before slowly flipping the photograph to the back.
The image that met him caught him totally off guard. It was different from the rest in the pile-- more relaxed, natural, un-posed. Two young people, a girl held piggyback by a boy with red hair in front of the barren Earth landscape. They looked so happy together, affectionate without fear. Spike found himself growing a tinge jealous.
The girl's long raven hair hung like a curtain around her face, nearly obscuring it from view. He looked closer.
Kerrian, and she was *smiling*. It was an open, honest smile-- a rare sight now days-- her amber eyes closed as her image froze in silent laughter. Like himself, she was almost unrecognizable.
"You shouldn't be so hard on her, Spike," the old mechanic rumbled from the door, catching Spike off guard by knowing exactly which picture he was looking at. "She has it rougher than you know."
Spike refused to look up, resting his elbows on the desk and studying the picture casually. Both kids were younger, probably finishing high school. The boy had a handsome smirk, with crimson bangs that were charmingly disheveled. He held onto Kerrian's legs with ease, leaning into her and holding her weight effortlessly. Spike had never seen Kerrian smile like this; her small smiles were always so weary, so sad-like Julia's.
He flipped the picture over the back, finding an address scrawled hastily in red ink:
St. Andrew's Orphanage
333 Abscond Dr.
Singapore, Earth
"Something's off about you, Spike. You bullshit us and try to act like you don't give a shit, but something's wrong." Doohan turned to leave, his voice breaking into Spike's reverie. The old man spoke in halting tones, hesitant. "It wouldn't kill you to talk about it. I ain't one for words, but if y' need a listener, I'm here, kid."
The sound of the mechanic's footfalls echoed dryly over the buzz of the air-conditioner, fading as he left Spike alone with his thoughts. Talk? Yeah right. Spike wasn't really one for words either. Besides, this wasn't something to be spoken about. Saying it aloud would only make it seem too real, and his dream theory would be obliterated. Like he needed that kind of shit now.
He stood without a word, fanning out the pictures on the desk so he could see each face smiling at him, a timeless audience- before heading out, following Doohan obediently. With one last glance to the empty room, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
The breath of wind from the closing door gently disturbed the pictures carefully arranged on the desk, sending one of them flickering to the ground with an air of a wounded butterfly. It was the picture of young-Spike, landing facedown beneath the desk. Written across the back in the same red pen and bold lettering was a message he had missed in his inspection of the photograph:
SPIKE SPEIGEL, AUGUST 2064.
DREAMS ARE FUTILE-- EVENTUALLY YOU WAKE UP.
*DISCLAIMER*: No. Cowboy Bebop, it's mine. And you can't use it. Just me. Really.
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Up A Lazy River
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Spike cursed himself, stripping off another layer of clothing. Damn him for forgetting that Earth's deserts were unbearably hot.
Lately, it had been warm enough to fry an egg on your tongue if you left it there long enough. The sun beat down lazily and unforgiving upon the poor heads of the desert dwellers; pair that with intolerable humidity and you have one hell of a sauna. The air shimmered and stuck thick in everyone's lungs, creating a lethargic atmosphere in the junkyard.
It was too hot for Spike to smoke, it was too hot for Doohan to make demands, hell, it was even too hot for Kerrian to shout- heat absorbed into their already tired muscles and made every little move quite an effort, and so all movement became sluggish around Doohan's hanger.
He had been sulking in his borrowed room for three days, both the mechanic and his assistance taking pains to avoid him. Smart of them, too, he hadn't really been prepared to face the world quite yet.
Spike had washed himself clean of the blood and gunpowder, but the stench clung stubbornly to his skin. He had dressed the wounds he'd obtained staging his 'death', but they ached dully with each tortured movement-- a constant reminder.
The man didn't have any money for beer, so drinking himself into the ground until he felt better was out of the question (damn it).
He found himself brooding sullenly, too plagued by agonizing memories to actually sleep, his offbeat internal rhythms felt by everyone. He was unbalanced, unaligned, a broken man, coming out of his room only to eat and check on progress with the Swordfish.
And even that wasn't looking good.
If there was a God or whatever sort of superior universal being somewhere out there, they seemed firmly set on complete and utter damnation for one, Spike Spiegel. Either that or they had a completely sick and twisted sense of humor.
"You completely lost a jet, kid," Doohan had growled. Everything Doohan said was said in the form of a growl; his voice coarse and gravelly from cigarettes and inhaling exhaust from his beloved antiques. "The jet is completely shot, blown to bits, not to mention the acceleration pumps are all worn down. . ."
Doohan explained that repairs would be vastly expensive, not including the new parts needed to get the ship to fly again. Hah. In fact, parts were a different matter entirely.
"The Swordfish II was built up from an old thing, Spike, m' boy, barely any working components are in circulation now; they've long past stopped making them."
In fact, parts that were compatible to the MONO-racer's system were so rare that even Doohan's suppliers didn't have them. A few confessed they knew where he could obtain the desired components, but the would be unfeasibly costly, thus their one huge problem:
Spike was very, very broke.
Now, dressed in proper Earth attire --a white undershirt and a pair of sweatpants-- Spike headed out to the hanger once again, hoping to hear good news about the minor repairs being completed on the Swordfish. Once outside he was slammed with a wall of heat, and even his lighter clothes felt uncomfortably suffocating.
The hanger was cooler, but not by much; a cheap rotating fan circulated the hot air in a pathetic attempt to lower the temperature in the building, but succeeding only in blowing hot air into the face of the cantankerous mechanics.
"How's it going?" Spike addressed the pair of legs protruding from beneath the dismantled MONO-racer.
"How'd you manage to fuck this thing up so badly?" the legs responded tiredly.
The muscular limbs withdrew to allow their owner to wriggle out from below the ship. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of a dirty hand, Kerrian leaned her back against one of the racer's wheels, looking disheveled and exhausted.
"Y' know, kid," Spike frowned irritably, "I'd rather you have Doohan coaching you when you're working on my ship."
The woman growled, equally annoyed. "I didn't ask for your opinion, asshole. If you want your God damn ship fixed this millennium, you'll let me work on it when the old man's out."
"You're doing a piss-poor job by yourself."
"What the fuck do you know?"
"Well, tell me then, is it fixed now that you've had your time with it?" Spike asked matter-of-factly, satisfied with winning the argument.
Kerrian sighed, dropping the issue. It was just too damn miserable. Just too damn hot.
Spike almost pitied the woman.
Her thick raven hair was piled on top of her head to keep the heavy strands off her neck, and Spike wondered how the tiny woman could even hold her head up what with the mountains of hair weighing her down and throwing her off balance. Stray strands stuck to her neck and cheeks, limp from the humidity.
She was wrapped in as little material as possible while still trying to keep her dignity --a sports bra and cut-off jeans-- but the exposed skin quickly tanned and became slicked with engine grease and sweat.
He leaned against the far wall of the hanger, grimacing when the lukewarm metal stuck to his damp skin. Damn sun. It heated the hanger like an oven. Kerrian watched him for a moment from under hooded lids, as she had for the past few days, timidly curious but too frustrated with the man to say anything.
Doohan had told her only the most pertinent meager details about Spike, but from what she had observed the man was shady. Carefully guarded but obviously in a depressing funk. His thin face was always blank, when he wasn't sneering or snarling, and it was no secret that he hadn't slept in days; the dark rings beneath his eyes told of the restless insomnia he suffered.
It also appeared as if he had a thing against women. It seemed he went out of his way to be especially nasty to her, not that his was a winning personality to begin with, and she of course returned the favor.
"You're pathetic, you know that?" she mumbled tetchily. "At least I'm working."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Spike inquired with a bored expression.
"Instead of sitting on your ass all day thinking about God-knows-what, why don't you do us all a favor and make some money so you can get the fuck out of here? You're a lump. An irritating bastard of a lump."
Spike sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. His tone was belittling again, though lacking its usual snappy venom. "In case you haven't noticed, genius, there aren't exactly a lot of jobs to choose from. Being stuck on Earth kind of narrows my options."
"Hmph." She didn't rise to the bait. "It just depends on what you're looking for, I'm sure the senile old cod would lend you a ship if you needed travel. He likes you, though I haven't the slightest idea see why."
"What? My personality not befitting to you?"
"You're a dick," she spat idly. "You need work or else you'll never leave and then I'll end up going insane and killing you or something."
Where was Doohan? Out the one time she needed him there. Go figure. The old man had become some kind of un-appointed referee, breaking up their quarrels before they got out of hand and someone died. Poor soul.
The woman paused to stretch and yawn, the heat sapping what little energy she still possessed. Sighing in fatigue she cast Spike a tired side glance before continuing. "What the hell did you do for the past ten years that kept you alive, anyways?"
"I killed people," Spike said simply.
Silence.
Kerrian's head snapped up in shock, sizing up the lanky man for the umpteenth time, pondering whether he spoke the truth. The calm look on his face, his wiry frame and willowy limbs belied his words, but there was something about him; it was his eyes.
They were deathly serious, tired russet eyes. They were closed of everything else, but that killer's air, that dark aura, that past pain could not be concealed.
The man could not have been lying.
Kerrian gulped nervously. Where the Hell was the old man?
"I see." She refused to meet his gaze, tensely looking at the ground. "Were you some kind of assassin or something? A hit-man? Gangster?"
Spike gave a humorless chuckle. "You could say that."
Kerrian paused to think, scrubbing an oil stain on her palm absently. He was making her uncomfortable. She had thought Spike Spiegel was shifty beforehand-- this new knowledge of his former profession didn't exactly set her mind at ease.
She fidgeted impatiently. "Y' know, bounty hunters can make a decent Woolong now days."
"Bounty hunters?"
"Yeah, where've you been for the past thirty years?" the woman sneered. "ISSP couldn't control crime anymore, too many criminals, too much space, not enough men. So they reinstated bounties, let bounty hunters to do the dirty work: catching the criminals and haulin' them in."
Spike had already known this --having run into a few hotheaded bounty hunters after especially violent or high-ranking Syndicate members-- but he found himself feeling particularly generous and decided to let Kerrian have her say.
Her speech finished, the woman returned to a state of semi-consciousness,
Bounty hunter. He tossed the idea around for a moment; it seemed simple enough. Knock 'em out, drag 'em in, then collect considerable compensation for your efforts. Not a bad deal, actually. They made adequate use of his skills, and with his marksmanship and a little bit of luck, he'd be on his way in no time.
"Damn it." the woman's irate voice startled him back to reality. "Tell the old fucker I'm not waiting anymore. I've got places to be, he'll know where."
Spike smirked. "I hope you don't plan on coming back any time soon. . ."
Kerrian grumbled under her breath and tilted her head, closing her eyes for a moment before lazily pulling herself from the ground, leaving in search of her hover-cycle. In no time at all, she was speeding away on the sleek bike, leaving Spike alone with his thoughts.
He watched go, wondering briefly just where she was heading. Then, just as briefly, he decided that he didn't care and shifted against the wall to stare forlornly at the cluttered sky, towards Mars.
If it wasn't Julia he missed, it was Mars itself. Mars wasn't historic like Titan or beautiful like Ganymede or legendary like Earth, but its skies were endlessly blue, and even when it rained they remained open.
Killer or no, Spike Spiegel got homesick.
With an inaudible sigh, he left the hanger, hands thrust casually into his pockets. He headed towards the main lodging building, a small cement block with a tin roof off to the side of the junkyard, hoping that it would be just a tad bit cooler inside the building and out of the sun.
His hopes were quickly dashed however as he opened the door and stepped inside-- if it were possible, it felt more humid inside than out. Goddamn fucking Earth weather!
The heat seemed to add at least ten pounds to his shoulders as he headed aimlessly down one hallway, then another, in search of a cool spot to sit. He entered several rooms, none of which looked particularly interesting, inspecting different odds and ends left out in the open before leaving.
He noted that Kerrian was a big fan of Rock music by the posters she had plastered over her walls. She was disorganized, too, with her music discs laying strewn about the floor with her dirty clothes.
As he turned to leave, his eyes caught the bright pastel colors on the back of the door. So, she knew a kid. She knew a kid well enough that that kid would draw her pictures.
There were several messily scrawled drawings on the wall of planes and ships and horribly un-proportionate stick people-- all done in brightly colored crayons and carefully tacked to the inside of her door. Innocent, shaky lettering in yellow crayon on each one implied an artist's signature: 'I LUV U,' and a capital letter 'R'.
'Just 'R'?' he mused. Perhaps the bitch-woman had a younger sibling somewhere.
Sad. He pitied the poor child unfortunate enough to share the same gene pool with the odious wretch. He smirked to himself before exiting, leaving the room just as he found it.
The next room he explored was Doohan's. He expected the place to be a disaster area, cluttered with papers and old ship designs that would never quite make it to completion. He imagined photographs of people he knew, serviced, people close to him. Doohan loved to surround himself with chaotic disorganization.
But to his surprise, the old mechanic's room was painfully plain; the bed sheets rumpled and discarded on the floor, the sun bleached sallow walls strangely empty. All that remained on the walls was the paint, flaking in the humidity. The floor was bare, with the exception of the crumpled bedding; the room seemed close to being perfectly in order.
This in itself was extremely odd, for the irritable old fool was completely disorderly, everything the mechanic had done that Spike had committed to memory had a slapdash feel to it.
The naked walls were also unsettling. The old man had a fascination with old Earthen cameras, the bulky kind that used film instead of discs. Spike had expected to find at least one photo lying around, maybe taped to the wall as brashly as he had taped them to his dashboard.
Spike hummed to himself, running a hand through his hair, which had gone even wilder and unkempt-looking in the humidity.
Unlike the other rooms he had found, Doohan's had two extra doors on opposite walls facing the bed, one of which Spike found to be a small bathroom; the other led to an average-sized office. Upon opening the door, he was met with a small breath of chilled air. Spike sighed happily and opened his arms in relief, welcoming the change in weak blast of cool air like a dying man in the desert would welcome water.
The thin film of sweat on his body quickly froze in the air-conditioned room, and Spike hastily closed the door to keep the deliciously cold air concentrated. He stood stock still, letting the circulating air caress his fevered body and listening to the tremendously ancient air-conditioning unit clank away as it spat out cold air with little fervor.
He couldn't move. It was a rare moment indeed when Spike was able to experience pure, simple bliss. He didn't want to ruin it.
Nearly half an hour later, only when he actually started to get *uncomfortably* cold, Spike took the initiative to look around. The office was unbelievably cluttered, with incomplete repair forms and half-baked ideas for new hybrids of ancient and modern ships, scattered notes and wads of clothing mounting in the corners of the room- clearly this is where Doohan spent most of his time.
There was a desk buried under mountains of paperwork and unrecognizable tools and parts, conveniently located in front of the only window in the room, which held the air-conditioning unit. Lazy afternoon sun poured through the blinds and created bars of yellow over the desk, mimicking the pattern of prison stripes-light, dark, light, dark.
His lips curving into a small frown of curiosity, Spike made his way over to the side of the room and rifled through the forms on the mechanic's desk with one slender hand, the other thrust nonchalantly into his pocket.
There were several, written in Doohan's cramped handwriting, inquiring about the desired parts for the Swordfish. He caught sight of several figures, all with a sizeable amount of zeros behind them; he grimaced and put the forms away.
He leafed through a few random papers, skimming the contents if something struck his eye, before dropping them unceremoniously on the desk. Nothing tenuously interesting, so Spike let his attention wander.
Lifting his free hand he peeked through the blinds, looking out into the hanger. The doors had been left wide open, and he could see the dismantled MONO-racer from where he stood, looking like it had been stripped, raped, and gutted. It left him with a sense of hopelessness. He'd never get off this God forsaken planet.
Fuck.
He craved a smoke - God, did he ever! -- having gone cold turkey in the scalding weather, but he didn't think he could force himself out of this blessedly cool haven, even for nicotine.
As he moved to occupy the comfortable-looking rolling chair behind the desk, Spike's arm brushed the tack board next to the window, knocking loose a flurry of photos. They fluttered gently to the floor; those that landed face-up stared at him with frozen smiles void of emotion. He blinked, reaching down to retrieve them.
Their faces were happy but empty at the same time, their cheerful energy lost over time as the images began to fade. He carefully seated himself in the vacant chair and held the pictures by their edges to avoid getting fingerprints on the glossy surfaces, studying the fallen photographs with an almost critical air.
There were several of Doohan, standing with a proud grin near his greatest achievements-one of which being the Swordfish II. It was a picture Spike was vaguely familiar with; he had been there the day it was taken. But that was nearly seven years ago. Doohan's face looked much younger then, less grizzled and his eyes missed the jaded glaze to them.
Spike moved the photo to the back of the pile. The next picture was of a young man looking rather stoned on the wing of an Earth antique, Spike recognized him as the assistant working under Doohan when he had visited him last. He was a gaunt-looking man, a disgruntled look breaking through his marijuana-induced stupor as the camera flashed in his eyes. Spike chuckled dryly before flipping the picture to the end.
He turned to the next picture. . . and saw himself.
He blinked in surprise, bringing the photograph up to his face, so close that it nearly brushed the tip of his nose as he studied it closely. This was the first time in years since he had seen himself on film. It was taken the year he had been given the 'Fish, the year that he had graduated to a top-rank Syndicate member, the year he had met Julia, years and years ago, and taken without his knowledge.
Photograph-Spike was sitting propped up against the MONO-racer's right wheel, a cigarette held loosely between his lips and fingers as he stared pensively at something off in the distance.
God, he looked so *young*. He couldn't look away-- his face wasn't as tired as he remembered it, he looked lighter, happier. His eyes were lacking the haunting images; the picture taken before he had his right eye replaced. A beautiful, foreign face.
This man was a stranger.
"Seven years," a low voice spoke behind him. Spike turned to see Doohan leaning casually against the doorframe, his eyes closed deep in thought. "Seven years since everything started falling apart."
Spike 'hmm'ed in agreement, running his long fingers over the image of his face. "I'm not that man anymore."
"Yeah."
Spike let his gaze linger for a moment on the forgotten face; the young, limber frame slouched with long, lanky legs sprawled haphazardly over the dusty ground. Could he have ever been this man? It was hard to imagine. He stamped it into his memory, not wanting to forget the true carelessness in his real eye, before slowly flipping the photograph to the back.
The image that met him caught him totally off guard. It was different from the rest in the pile-- more relaxed, natural, un-posed. Two young people, a girl held piggyback by a boy with red hair in front of the barren Earth landscape. They looked so happy together, affectionate without fear. Spike found himself growing a tinge jealous.
The girl's long raven hair hung like a curtain around her face, nearly obscuring it from view. He looked closer.
Kerrian, and she was *smiling*. It was an open, honest smile-- a rare sight now days-- her amber eyes closed as her image froze in silent laughter. Like himself, she was almost unrecognizable.
"You shouldn't be so hard on her, Spike," the old mechanic rumbled from the door, catching Spike off guard by knowing exactly which picture he was looking at. "She has it rougher than you know."
Spike refused to look up, resting his elbows on the desk and studying the picture casually. Both kids were younger, probably finishing high school. The boy had a handsome smirk, with crimson bangs that were charmingly disheveled. He held onto Kerrian's legs with ease, leaning into her and holding her weight effortlessly. Spike had never seen Kerrian smile like this; her small smiles were always so weary, so sad-like Julia's.
He flipped the picture over the back, finding an address scrawled hastily in red ink:
St. Andrew's Orphanage
333 Abscond Dr.
Singapore, Earth
"Something's off about you, Spike. You bullshit us and try to act like you don't give a shit, but something's wrong." Doohan turned to leave, his voice breaking into Spike's reverie. The old man spoke in halting tones, hesitant. "It wouldn't kill you to talk about it. I ain't one for words, but if y' need a listener, I'm here, kid."
The sound of the mechanic's footfalls echoed dryly over the buzz of the air-conditioner, fading as he left Spike alone with his thoughts. Talk? Yeah right. Spike wasn't really one for words either. Besides, this wasn't something to be spoken about. Saying it aloud would only make it seem too real, and his dream theory would be obliterated. Like he needed that kind of shit now.
He stood without a word, fanning out the pictures on the desk so he could see each face smiling at him, a timeless audience- before heading out, following Doohan obediently. With one last glance to the empty room, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
The breath of wind from the closing door gently disturbed the pictures carefully arranged on the desk, sending one of them flickering to the ground with an air of a wounded butterfly. It was the picture of young-Spike, landing facedown beneath the desk. Written across the back in the same red pen and bold lettering was a message he had missed in his inspection of the photograph:
SPIKE SPEIGEL, AUGUST 2064.
DREAMS ARE FUTILE-- EVENTUALLY YOU WAKE UP.