Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Lullaby for the Shattered Soul ❯ A Familiar Jazz ( Chapter 2 )

~Disclaimer:~ I do not own Cowboy Bebop or the song `One Flight Down' by Norah Jones. ^___^ I love that song. HOWEVER the female with the mulberry hair belongs to ME! No touchie!

A/N: Be kind and review. Gracias.

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A Familiar Jazz

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The thick, sultry sounds of jazz slowly lifted the gloomy atmosphere that seemed to forever surround the dank moon of Callisto. It seemed a forgotten melody, sounding sadly through the gritty slums and weighing hard on the minds of poverty-ridden men. The cold didn't quite help to raise the soul either; ice crusted the sidewalk and crunched under Spike's boots as he walked.

The red-orange glow of a cigarette dimly depicted his features against the inky darkness of the Callisto night, hands thrust carelessly into his pockets, smoke clouding about his head and wafting lazily towards the stars as the lanky man continued on his lost accent to nowhere.

Turning idly around a corner, Spike cast a weary glance toward a homely-looking tavern down the street, foreboding and ominous. Its doors were cracked and falling off their hinges and the windows were boarded up by thin pieces of plywood that had been covered in crude graffiti. But something about the flickering neon lights and the faintest thrums of a saxophone drew him closer, until he shrugged nonchalantly and led himself in.

The thick smell of cigarette smoke hovered in the stuffy air and grew stale in his nostrils as he looked around, and the whole place seemed even more dank and murky than the outside world. Scarcely occupied and slowly rotting under time's unwavering hand, the tavern seemed to groan with untold age as the man slowly walked through.

A small stage was set up near the back of the pub, and on it a thin, weathered-looking saxophone player played a melancholy melody that hung in the air like a fog. Spike made his way to the bar and sat, ordering himself a round and taking a long drag from his cigarette.

He had come here to this God-forsaken moon meet a friend. It was true, in a way, but what his shipmates didn't know was that the `friend' he was referring to was only a dirty grave marker, worn with the brittle wintry winds and laid low for many, many years. Spike was never the sentimental type; he barely gave a damn about anything let alone some frozen carcass. But this `friend' of his was a comrade and a mentor, a good man who had taken the curveballs in stride, and even that deserved a certain amount of respect.

He had stared at that stone for hours that seemed to drag on in the chilled air, nearly emptying his box of cigarettes and loosing the feeling in his fingers and toes. The grave looked forgotten, overgrown with frozen weeds and littered with papers and garbage that the wind had tossed their way.

Spike had done his best to clean the grave, paying his respects for the name in the polished rock. After visiting the cemetery the cowboy wandered the streets of Callisto, looking to go no place in particular, only trying to rid himself of the borderline guilty feeling that seemed to seep between his ribs and haunt the back of his mind.

Spike heaved a sigh and took a sip of the bourbon he had ordered, his tongue flinching as the strong alcohol filled his senses.

`I hate it when I drink,' Spike thought absentmindedly, taking another sip. `Such a stupid way out of problems. . .'

Four rounds later, the tavern had started to empty out into an even darker Callisto night, leaving only those with no place to go. Waking him from his drunken stupor was a lone catcall from an obviously drunk man. Spike blinked and turned his head to the direction of the shout, only to let out a low whistle himself.

On stage, the wiry saxophone player was introducing a young woman dressed in black. Unique mulberry locks curled around her shoulders and tumbled down her back to accent her natural curves, long bangs framed a pale face with fair features and striking blue eyes.

It was oddity in itself to find a woman on Callisto, especially one so classy-looking as this; but there was something else that made Spike look again. . . Her face, her eyes, the way she carried herself with such elegance and refinement, they had some kind of evoking quirk to them, something he could vaguely remember.

Julia. . .

The name hit Spike's brain like chain lightning. Her sterling blue eyes, her reddened lips, her pale skin, all Julia's. The mulberry woman suddenly became the angel he had lost, her face no longer her own, but Julia's.

His breath caught in his throat. His mind railed. His hands trembled. His empty glass clattered to the bar with a resounding `clink!' as his eyes grew wide in shock. He knew that smile. He knew those eyes. All brought back in an overpowering wave under the golden spotlight. She drew the light to her and captured it, glowing with a molten gold halo in the dreary shadows. Had it really been three years since he had last seen that beautiful face?

Julia.

But with a single movement the vision was shattered, and the woman with the mulberry hair was herself again, seated at a scratched up upright piano and adjusting a microphone boom.

Spike blinked in surprise. `It had to be the bourbon,' he thought, shaking his head slightly. `Damn, I hate it when I drink. . .'

Though he tried hard to keep his gaze on the floor, on the bar, anywhere but the stage, his eyes moved on their own accord and became transfixed on the woman's every move. Her long fingers settled themselves over the keys of the old piano, gliding into soothing chords and teasing the ancient ivory keys into making sounds too bittersweet to be described. The woman leaned into each note, pouring her soul into the music so filled with bleakness and untold desolation.

A soft snare was added to the background, filling the thin melody with a melancholy march that seemed to trudge on endlessly. With an almost inaudible sigh, the woman opened her mouth, closed her eyes, and began to sing.

Spike was never a fan of female jazz singers. Heck, he wasn't a fan of females, period. But there was something about her voice, so sultry and lowly and filled with trouble, that made his ears long to drink more of the soft sorrowful sounds. The haunting tune weaved itself through the threads of his very being, tying itself tighter and tighter into his soul.

This woman obviously wasn't Julia, but she possessed the same unknown quality that had drawn him to her so long ago. The mulberry woman's words seemed to etch themselves in his brain, striking a chord inside himself as he stared, lost in wonder and mesmerized by it all.

"One flight down,

There's a song on low.

And your mind

Just picked up on the sound,

Now you know you're wrong.

Because it drifts like smoke

And it's been there

Playin' all along.

Now you know.

Now you know. . ."

Her movements were graceful as her spindly fingers danced skillfully on the familiar keys, stepping to a never-ending waltz softly accompanied by the husky tones of her soothing voice. She wasn't playing a song, she was playing a feeling. Several feelings all rolled into low bass notes and a lilting melody. It filled the lonely tavern with a feeling of hope in a cold world when the music swelled, and wrought it with regret when the woman's voice trembled. Time slowed. Time stopped.

"The reeds and brass have been weaving,

Leading into a single note. . ."

The words echoed in Spike's mind, pulling at his insides and tearing at his thoughts. This sort of jazz was different. Different than the easy tunes he usually listened to. What sort of spell was this mulberry enchantress weaving? Like the ancient seamen's tales of beautiful sirens who's mysterious songs and feral smiles could entice a man to his death without a second thought, this siren was luring his mind away.

`W-who is she?' Her endless blue eyes never opened, she seemed lost in a world far from this desolate moon, someplace closed off from the rest of the universe. He longed to be there with her.

"In this place

Where your arms unfold,

Here at last, you see your ancient face.

Now you know.

Now you know.

The cadence rolls in, broken.

It plays it over and then goes. . .

One flight down,

There's a song on low.

And it's been there

Playin' all along,

Now you know.

Now you-"

A shrill scream and the deafening thunder of a gunshot broke abruptly through the song, sending men scattering to get out of harm's way. Spike quickly snapped himself out of his dazed state as the world began to spin at a normal pace. The mulberry woman was clutching her right shoulder, trying to staunch the crimson rivulets that were making their way down her arm. Her spell was broken, and Spike's mind slowly began to process. A man stood in the doorway with his face in the shadows, gun raised and aimed for the woman's heart.