Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ The Highest Bidder ❯ Chapter 1

Title - The Highest Bidder
Author - trowacko
Rating - PG13
Warnings - none needed
Disclaimers - I do not own Cowboy Bebop in any way, nor do I make a claim to. No profit, no harm done.


It was a stolen package. Something that was worth more to the person it was stolen from than to the men who stole it. Not that the thieves wouldn't have fetched a grand price for their booty, but the sentimental value it had was worth more than money. At least that's what the client had said before half-pleading and demanding that the box be returned. Of course, he had to make it obnoxiously clear that nothing untoward happen to the box. More for the annoyance, Spike charged double what the old man had offered. They might have needed the job quite badly at that point - gods knew the last time he remembered eating something other than what had only been partially defrosted in the barely working microwave - but there were principals. Whining wasted patience and patience was something not to be wasted, hence, should be paid for. Sometimes it was the smaller things in life that cost more and the client had finally caved in and agreed.

"We're going off-course for a simple recovery job? This is something for people who have time to waste," Jet growled in half-disgust. The amount they'd get wasn't displeasing, but the thought of chasing down a couple of kids for a box of art made by some guy who had probably been dead for centuries felt like a waste. Spike looked up with a frown, his lighter a good two inches from his cigarette.

"I forgot to factor in the waste of time. I did charge for annoyance, though. And we get this very expensive business card," Spike advised, pulling a digital card from his pocket. Their client's name was lit across the middle while a series of numbers scrolled beneath it. His partner seemed less than impressed.

"At least we can split this one two ways with Faye off on her own." Jet took a moment to stretch before he sat up to punch at his keyboard. Work was work and he'd be wasting time not getting to it that much quicker. "Gimme your leads again, I didn't bother writing them down."

Spike took a long draw of his cigarette and blew a jet of smoke in the other direction. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jet's impatience building and eventually sat up himself to at least give the appearance that he was in as much of a rush.

"Mr. Boga travels around a lot and keeps a fairly predictable schedule. The closest thing near here that might have given thieves interest in robbing him is the auctions on Revin-5--"

"Yeah, what a good way to draw in the low-lifes. He should've known better than to have habits like this. Anyone would've picked him off eventually. Did the old man say what his precious possession is that he's willing to pay off a couple of bounty hunters to get it back?"

"'A fancy cabinet with a 'private treasure' inside. Might just be a box with dirty little secrets. Six feet tall, all marble with gold trim. Heavy as hell from his description."

Jet snorted, amused. "At least it'll be 'easy' enough to swipe back if it's that big. How'd the client end up losing it if it was that cumbersome?" Situations ran through his mind rapidly and each was dismissed moments later. The guy could've been a heavy sleeper for all he knew.

"Security on his barge - yacht, whatever - isn't too shabby, but it's far from being incredibly tight. I made it to his parlor before security showed up to challenge me. My first guess would be inside job; someone Boga trusted or at least knew. I don't know." Spike glanced at his counterpart when he heard the gusted sigh and almost smiled. It was obvious Jet didn't like the situation, but also clear that he would go forward on intrigue and instinct alone if need be.

"How far to R-5? I should probably at least get us there first while we're spinning our wheels." With that, Jet got up and headed to the ship's controls and left Spike to puzzle out their next move. A bunch of fuss over a frickin' box that they might end up making worthless by breaking it. Not that screwing up was their specialty, of course. Sometimes it was simply their forte.

The ship drifted peacefully enough with the comforting whir of engines to lull one to sleep. Which was what Spike had been trying to do when Jet so very rudely called over his shoulder.

"Coming up on Revin-5. One main port and two orbiting satellites. According to this, their main source of income depends on the auctions that are held weekly. It's got a good number of targets floating too, but mostly small time guys. Almost not worth the effort, but we should probably keep a couple of these guys on the line just in case our Mr. Boga decides to boogie."

A very sharp remark to the dull quip almost made it to Spike's lips before his automatic defenses kicked in and he took a long haggard drag of his smoke instead. The abruptness of it nearly made him cough and he hissed smoke between his teeth. Jet's ears pricked at the sound.

"Shaddup and get going. I can feel my time already getting wasted just sitting here," Jet growled. He turned around and tossed a small cube in Spike's direction, who caught it on the fly. "Local credit," he explained turning around again and punching keys. "So, what's the first move, hot shot?"

Spike flicked the butt of his cigarette at the deep ashtray on the short table in front of him. It hissed in few drops of coffee that he'd dumped in it hours before and he waited until it was completely out before he stood up. "I'll play it by ear," he replied as he made his way out of the ship and toward the security complex. "I think I'll get a drink first." The door had already slid shut before Jet could utter a retort and he ground his teeth in aggravation.

"Get a drink first? The only one who needs a drink around this place is me."

There were some nice things in the universe that made for beautiful decorations, but I highly doubted Revin-5 was the place to have them in abundance. It was an oasis of junk and junk that passed for art for the moderately to sickeningly wealthy. The stench of their collective perfume was like the rich man's version of booze and smoke of the alleys. It stunk and only those who gave off that stench were oblivious to it. The only difference was that where the bums would be frowned on for their state, the wealthy were catered to and placated for their stink. A bum might ask for a coin, but the rich man would simply take the shirt off your back if he wanted. I suppose in some ways, it merely proves that everything has a price if someone's willing to pay it.

"Eight p.m. auction! Eight p.m. auction!"

A man dressed in loud plaid with a polka dot bow tie waved brightly colored paper in the air at the people passing close by. His hair was slicked in the classic 'used car salesmen' comb over that was popular among self-conscious middle-aged men. The prominent bulk of his belly straining against a pressed white shirt further spoke of indulgence and something Spike couldn't quite put his finger on but intrigued him. Enough so that he finally stopped and examined the man's state and took a better look around him to take in what he'd suspected earlier and had dismissed.

The lower level of R-5 consisted of a wide arc that displayed a variety of storefronts ranging from garments to fine restaurants. From his vantage point, he could also see the second level, which seemed to accommodate guests in better attire and more elegant surroundings. Above that, he could only see the railing of the third floor, which gleamed brightly in long chandeliers that descended from the ceiling above the fifth floor. In the world of the rich, there was apparently still a measurement of poverty as evidenced by the first level.

"Don't stop here," a thin woman in garish makeup and skintight evening gown hissed. The man she dragged behind her skittered a few steps, having been jerked back from his intended path of the nearest restaurant. He blinked owlishly and scowled at the reprimand.

"I don't see what the difference is. I'm hungry and there's a restaurant right there."

The woman laughed, a tinkling laughter so much like shattering glass. "Someday when I tire of you and you find yourself a woman of first level wealth, you can dine there. Until then, we go up to the third floor and if you're still lucky to be with me by then, we go up to Level Four."

Spike followed the couple and noticed a steady amount of traffic heading in the same direction. While some chose to wander the shops on the first level - first level wealth, no doubt - many headed to the bank of elevators at the far end, all but concealed behind a large fountain. Cards were shown to the various keypads and doors would quietly swish open to take the occupants to their proper level. Spike watched a few patrons leave before he pulled out the electronic card their client had given him. In discrete letters at the upper right corner were the words, 'Level Five'. He contemplated the card for a few moments and tucked it in his pocket instead. With a whistle and a lighter step, he walked back to the Level-One auctioneer.

"Auction at eight p.m., my good sir," the man smiled, glancing up and down unimpressed at the stranger's attire.

"What's it take to see what's going to be auctioned?" Spike asked, ignoring the man's obvious look.

"Oh, I'm afraid the only sneak peek is at eight p.m., the same as any auction," the man whispered loudly, holding his hand near his mouth as if imparting a great secret.

Spike pulled the card from his pocket and showed it to the diminutive salesman. He waited until the man's eyes widened and put the card away again. "What's it take to see what's going to be auctioned?"

"Sir! Sir, right this way!" the man exclaimed and fairly tugged Spike into the bowels of the small auction house...

Three floors later, Spike emerged from the fourth level auction house and pulled a cigarette free and lit it up despite the scattering of 'no smoking' signs nearby.

"Hey, buddy, come in," Jet's voice called quietly from the comm. Spike strolled down the walkway and gazed over the edge of the second to last upper level. The height was dizzying, further accentuated by the grandiose glass and metal chandelier that took up the majority of the open space.

"I read you," Spike replied quietly as he blew smoke beyond the balcony.

"Any luck so far?"

"No, not yet. I haven't even had my drink yet," Spike complained mildly. He mentally chuckled at Jet's rumbling retort and pressed on. "I've checked the houses of each level without any luck. It's either on the fifth level or somewhere else."

"And just how do you plan on getting a sneak at the fifth level? There's no sixth level for you to bribe them with."

Spike took a quick glance around and saw no one in the immediate vicinity watching him and flicked his cigarette against the giant hanging light. Individual panels of glass tinkled quietly and the butt dropped down, landing on the table of a couple, very displeased about the added flavor of their meal. A quiet laugh from behind startled him and Spike forgot about answering Jet.

"Not many people would snub a level they probably worked their way up from," a woman's amused voice offered.

"I didn't exactly start at the first level and work up," Spike answered and turned around, resting his elbows against the railing and crossing his legs in front of him.

The woman who spoke was starkly white and poured into what looked like a second skin of ebony velvet that fairly begged to be held. Elegantly piled hair held with jeweled pins fairly glowed in the soft light and trembled as she shook her head. "Ah," she replied with a knowing grin, "spoiled rich boy and heir. My apologies." She turned and glided in the other direction without a backward glance. Spike peeled himself from the railing and caught up quickly.

"I didn't say I was born into an upper level. I said I didn't exactly start at the first level."

"Lottery winner then?" she asked, her steps steady and rapid. At least she spared him another of her amused glances.

"Fortunate employee, I'd guess," Spike replied. He didn't bother asking permission and took the stool next to the woman when she sat at the elegantly decorated bar. She rolled her eyes as if annoyed at the lost puppy following her and beckoned the very sharply dressed bartender in pressed black garments.

"Borderline Charlie," she ordered and opened her purse.

"I got it," Spike advised and pulled his credit cube from his pocket. "Make it two," he called and tossed the cube at the bartender.

"I didn't say I was going to pay for my drink, I merely ordered it," the lady grinned. From her purse she pulled a cigarette and demurely waited for Spike to pull his battered lighter out and light it. Over her shoulder Spike caught sight of the bartender throwing up his hands and showing him his cube of apparently insufficient funds. At least the lad had the decency to do so from a distance instead of embarrassing him in front of his new best friend. He let the lighter drop to her left knee and she instinctively reached out to catch it. Just as her head was low enough, Spike reached in his pocket and pulled the business card out again. The old man was going to have to cough up some cash up front, he decided, and flicked at the bartender. He mimed out the number 'ten-thousand' and hoped first off that the bartender understood and second that Boga wouldn't such a tightwad that he'd object to some business expenses.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he apologized and lit his own smoke before stowing the lighter away. "I'm not the most graceful of guys."

"Most guys aren't. My name is Sylvie, by the way. We've had such a pleasant conversation thus far that we bypassed the formalities."

"Nice to meet you," Spike replied, nodding at the bartender who returned with their drinks. "You can call me Spike. Here's to new acquaintances," he toasted and took a long draw of his drink. The strength of it was enough to make him pause as he swallowed though he noticed that Sylvie hadn't made much of a reaction to it.

"And just what brings you to Revin-5, Mr. Spike?" she asked, toying with her glass.

He could have lied, but telling the truth wasn't a risk as far as he could tell. Good guy or bad guy, the woman would reveal as much soon enough, he thought and acted on instinct. "I'm here to recover a stolen article for my employer. If it's here, that is. This is the closest possible place it could be."

"Stolen article at the hub of auction houses," Sylvie sighed. "If it were, I'd imagine it would be in one of the lower levels. The two upper levels are very... discerning in what they'll take, especially if the background of the piece is iffy or untraceable. Besides, the snotty rich prefer to have papers with their pieces. Even art has pedigrees," she all but spat.

The woman had just exponentially shot up Spike's 'likeable' meter and he couldn't hold back the grin that twitched at the corners of his mouth. To combat it, he reverted to business as usual.

"I don't know what kind of papers this thing would have, only that it's something large and difficult to move and my employer values it very highly. None of the lower level houses have something big enough to fit the description and what I've seen of this level, it's not here. Which leaves the last level. And a boring three hours of sitting through the auction to see everything that goes through."

The woman regarded him carefully before putting out her cigarette and quaffed the rest of her drink. "Come then, Spike. Once your curiosity has been sated, perhaps we can have our drinks in peace without you on duty." She got up and started walking toward the elevator, expectant of being followed. Spike followed suit and downed the last of his drink with a grimace. The bartender returned with his cube and a sheepish grin.

"What do I owe you?" Spike asked as he scooped up the cube and waited for his receipt.

"Eight thousand," the bartender replied nonchalantly, resting his chin on his tented hands. The smile widened as Spike's signature suddenly wavered.

"What's a Borderline Charlie go for on the first level?" he asked as he scribbled out the full ten thousand. So much for a second drink, he silently bemoaned.

"It doesn't," the man replied and folded the receipt without looking at it. "Two of the ingredients would be too expensive for them to offer it and expect it to sell. That problem doesn't exist on the upper two levels. Though it's a bit more rare to have someone order it down here than it is up there."

Spike pondered it a few moments and took off after his companion. He caught up with her near the elevator and fell in step next to her. As an afterthought, he offered his elbow and she slipped her arm through it. The proximity of the woman and the fact that a number of people turned to watch them walk by was enough to force Spike to straighten his shoulders and walk as steady as possible. His attitude wasn't bred of the need to impress the onlookers so much as it was to complement the woman who walked with him. Walking with his familiar slouch seemed like it would knock her elegance down a peg or two and it was something Spike wasn't quite up to do. He felt himself suddenly a part of a world he barely gave a second thought to that he didn't even take note of the private elevator they rode up or of the silence of their journey until they were at the door of the auction house.

"Ah, Miss Slyvie, how so very wonderful to see you! Your father was by earlier to check on preparations and everything is going very smoothly so far. What is it that I can do for you today?"

The man at the door was very well dressed, his suit freshly pressed, complete with cummerbund and red handkerchief in his pocket and a small rose pinned to the lapel opposite. He was as short as the doorman of the first level with features similar enough that Spike wondered if they were related.

"It's wonderful to see you too, Mr. Hain," Sylvie smiled and shook the man's hand. She gestured to Spike who stepped forward, who suddenly felt very underdressed for the first time in as long as he could remember. "I brought a friend who's interested in viewing the behind the scenes of the auction. I was hoping you could give us a brief tour."

"Yes, well," the small man fretted with numerous glances at his watch. He glanced at the young woman an equal number of times and finally softened. "Miss Sylvie, I'd be delighted. I think there's just enough time before the auction for a very brief tour. Please bear in mind that I must be back here within twenty minutes, so we must keep this as short as possible." He beamed at the light kiss she bestowed on his gleaming forehead.

"You have my deepest thanks, Mr. Hain. I'm so very excited," she confided loudly to Spike as the trio passed a number of security guards. "No matter how many times I've been here, sometimes it still feels like the first time." The doorman smiled and fretted anew and gestured them deeper into the house. He pointed out works of art and explained the origins of a number of them and barely noticed the way the two herded him quicker toward the back of the hall where the first of the auctioned pieces would be stored.

"Normally we wouldn't allow anyone to view some of the specialty items that's going to be auctioned except at a brief preview just before the show," Mr. Hain explained as he swept open the curtains to the back. Another pair of security guards stood watch and carefully regarded the three as they passed by.

"Do you keep large items as well? I seem to recall you mention that they're sometimes kept out of sight and only shown on the monitor if they can't be easily transported," Sylvie prodded as the tour had failed to produce the missing cabinet.

"Oh, yes, we have a number of those right now. It's not easy getting pieces in and out as it is that for the big ones, we keep them in a special viewing hall where patrons can peruse before bidding starts in addition to being shown on the hall monitors. Right this way, you must see a couple of these pieces, Miss Sylvie, I'm sure your father would be thrilled with any number of them!"

"Daddy doesn't own anything on Revin-5, but he owns most of the nearby spaceports and lounges," Sylvie explained quietly as they crossed a hall toward the front of the auditorium.

Harold 'The Hugo' Marchon. Her father did indeed own much of the local hotspots and spaceports. He'd started small and managed to work his way to one of the richest men in the region. Sylvie may have been sitting pretty at the moment, but she probably remembers what it was like before even reaching 'level one' of the local scene. No doubt why she's still a real person and not an extension of the plastic that makes up the local currency. I was really starting to dig this chick. The only thing plaguing me was how many Borderline Charlies it might take just to get her number. Of course, nothing would ever happen, but sometimes a guy's gotta dream.

"One thousand years old and in very excellent condition," Monsieur Hain breathed as he swept a sheet from a large mass of cloth that looked as though it were shaped from clay. "According to its documents, it was originally called a 'bean bag' although a scientific study has determined that it doesn't contain beans from any known world. It will be among the first things auctioned today."

"I'm looking for something more like a large chest or cabinet," Spike interjected before the diminutive man could continue. Not far from their position he could see a small number of items large enough to fit the description given to him.

"I'm very sorry, I must return to my post," Mr. Hain replied, crestfallen. Or reasonably close to sounding crestfallen. He motioned them toward the doorway back to the main area with a helpful grin.

"Oh, it's almost time for the doors to open anyway," Sylvie smiled widely. She slipped her arm into the loop of Spike's elbow and tugged him deeper into the hall. "We'll just be a minute and wander out when the others start seating. No one will ever notice." It didn't take much for the smaller man to simply cave in.

"Yes, of course, Miss Marchon," he bowed nervously. "I trust you'll let me know if anything happens to catch your fancy as well?" The young woman nodded with a brief bow of her own.

"Small price to pay for a private moment," Sylvie whispered, grinning as a child might when given permission to break the rules. She laughed lightly at her companion's quirked eyebrow. "I was going to buy something today anyway. I just let him know it was a guaranteed deal and we get to wander to our heart's content. Ah, let's check this one first," she pointed to the first sheet covered item and yanked it free. A huge chest ornately decorated with gold and marble sat solidly against the wall. It was quite obvious that it wouldn't be easy to move, but it wasn't what Spike was looking for. Spike walked to the next one and jerked the white sheet away.

"You didn't have to do that," he spoke quietly, gazing at the second object that didn't fit the description.

"I know," she replied and started pulling sheets from the remaining few articles. "Think nothing of it. I'd like to know if the house my business goes to harbors stolen items. It'd be quite a shame if it did, I'd have to tell Daddy we have to shop somewhere else and I know how much he loves this place."

"This is it," Spike said tonelessly. He stood in front of a gigantic marbled chest inlaid with multiple 'veins' of gold throughout. The hinges of the twin doors gleamed dully of good silver, further complemented by the muted solid gold handles below a thin lock. To verify what he already knew, Spike pulled the business card from his pocket and flipped it over. He punched one of the two discrete buttons and an electronic picture filled the small screen showing a small but exact replica of the chest he faced.

"Well," Sylvie sighed, "I suppose it was time to find new haunting grounds. The only decent Borderline Charlie you can get is on the fourth level anyway."

She fiddled with the door's handle and found it locked. It didn't seem to faze her that Spike pulled a set of thin metal rods from his pocket and set to picking the lock. Within a few moments, the sound of tumblers clicked quietly and the door swung open.

"That wasn't in the description," Spike muttered, staring at what appeared to be a mermaid in a somewhat cramped tank.

Long, golden blonde strands swirled aimlessly in the water, obscuring the figure's face and much of its form. The shadows hinted at a long tail, but once more light had crept into the murky water, it was apparent that there were a number of tubes and hoses connected to the woman's body. Her face was angelic and starkly white, no doubt a side effect from being sealed inside the large chest. Her hands crossed demurely over her chest and her long hair swirled lazily around her body, alternately hiding her and teasing the eye for a larger glimpse.

"How...Is she... is the girl alive?" Sylvie whispered. Not that the girl would notice, but that was hardly the point.

"Looks like it," Spike replied. He carefully flicked open a smaller set of panels fixed to the tank and puzzled over the readouts. "If I'm reading this right, she's in monitored stasis. Looks like she's been like this for nearly forty years."

"Forty years?" Sylvie gasped incredulously. She regarded the woman critically and finally sighed dejectedly. "I would hope I look this good in forty years."

"Oh, I have a feeling you'd look better," Spike blurted unthinkingly. He tried to ignore the bemused glance Sylvie shot him and instead walked around the cabinet. Near the top of one corner, he found what he was looking for and sealed the cabinet once more. "Got the Lot number. Let's see what the books say about our little gem here and we'll go from there."

Lot 699MB-451. The first three digits indicated its line in place for that month, the last five where it had come from. Nowhere according to the books. It had no history beyond being listed as having a single owner dating back three hundred years. I sort of doubted the girl inside the box had been in there that long, but I've been wrong before. Not often, just before. The auction house had bought it for cash, so finding the thief would be pretty hard, but that wasn't my concern.

"Seventy-thousand for a starting bid?" Mr. Boga fairly shouted. "Never mind," he cut off his own train of thought, "just tell me where to find it and I'll be there within the hour."

"Level Five of Revin-5. I trust you know how to find your way here?" Spike asked. Rather than a response, the buzz of a disconnected line answered.

"Will he file a claim then?" Sylvie asked from her perch. Spike shrugged. For some reason he liked being back on the fourth level rather than the fifth. Less maintenance, he mentally joked.

"He didn't say. But he's on his way."

"Ah, good. So you're all but off duty. Care to join me for a drink?"

Spike considered the tempting offer and calculated his personal stash for the company of the intriguing woman. He could blow the last of his ready cash supply and hope his client had paid up now that the item had been found. Though, he mentally scowled, it had only been found, not recovered.

"My treat," she enticed further. On any other day, Spike might have demurred, but the taste of the lady's favorite drink did have that much of an appeal.

"It's a date," he smiled. He hunched himself on the stool next to his new companion and motioned the bartender.

"My dear, Mr. Spike. It's just a drink," she smiled just as easily.

Damn, the lady keeps climbing higher on the 'likeable' scale... Mr. Boga arrived within the hour as he promised he would. We met him on the fifth floor after seeing him through the glass of the elevator going up. He seemed more indignant that his prized possession would have such a low starting bid than he was concerned that someone might have bought it that very night. An odd man, all told, and not as high ranking as the lovely Miss Marchon on my arm. Still, a job was a job and I had to at least see this one through to conclusion.

Jet thrummed his fingers against the table while the other held up his chin. A yawn threatened to break his bored state, thus he stifled it with a barely noticeable grimace. Somewhere on the satellite, Spike was either taking care of business or goofing off before he took care of business. At times, he wished he could trade places with the guy, but his front man was the most reliable to get out of the stickiest situations.

"Have we got a plan yet, hotshot?" he inquired impatiently.

"Sure," Spike answered, "he either buys it from the House or outbids for it when it comes up. Filing a claim would be moot even though he does have papers. Auction houses are weird that way, I guess."

"This better not be coming out of our payment," Jet warned. "It's not our fault these punks managed to get a house to buy it at all."

Spike grunted and switched the comlink to listen-mode while he sidled closer to the diminutive Mr. Boga. At that moment, he and the auction manager were in a heated debate as to a proper amount of compensation for the stolen item.

"I've bought plenty of pieces from you in the past, Monsieur Jove," Mr. Boga argued. He circled the cabinet as he spoke, checking it for damages.

"As I've stated before, sir, unless a valid claim is filed and authenticated in the next five months, I cannot release the item and it may be sold for auction until such a time as the item is proven stolen."

"It's proven now, you little--"

"I would be careful with your language, Mr. Boga. You are, of course, welcome to bid on the item and after a claim has been filed, a fair amount will be negotiated for the paid sum."

Boga whirled on the taller man with a snarl on his lips. "I'll offer half that amount for its return now," he finally caved in. "But if you plan on letting it be bid on, I'm taking half of what it fetches until my claim goes through. I'm not stupid enough to not be aware of at least that clause, sir."

The auction manager scowled, but finally assented. "Fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an auction to oversee."

Spike waited until the manager was out of earshot before he leaned toward his employer. "So who's the babe in the box?"

Boga's fists clenched and his teeth managed to gnash at the question. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"The woman," Sylvie broke in. "In stasis inside of it. Surely you knew a woman resided within this chest?"

"Of course, I know!" the man grated out. "She's my wife, not some 'babe'."

Before either could ask Boga anything else, a pair of men walked into the hall with a large transport lift.

"We're sorry," the first one offered with a bow, "it's time to take the piece out to be shown."

There's a lot that goes into a marriage, I'd imagine. Apparently, Boga's wife had some supposedly incurable disease when she was first put into stasis. Even after the cure became available, the husband couldn't bear having her age as he did and never allowed her out of the chest. Weird way to show love, in my opinion, but my opinion rarely matters. I was surprised at the interest people showed in the chest once the bidding started. I was almost surprised when the lock I must not have closed properly slipped free and the double doors opened to reveal the lady inside. The frenzy that occurred after that couldn't be rivaled at the seediest joint I've been to. The bidding went from seventy-thousand to three-hundred in the span of thirty seconds. When the gavel finally went down, the top bidder had topped out at three-point-seven million. Not bad for a canned wife, I'd say. Apparently Boga thought so too.

"Your fees have been deposited into your account, bounty hunter. I trust the amount to be sufficient to our original agreement?"

Spike flicked his cigarette to the floor in front of his former boss. "If Jet says so, then yes, our business is concluded."

"What of your wife, Mr. Boga?" Sylvie inquired innocently. "I trust you'll file your claim post-haste?" Boga's eyes narrowed slightly and he frowned.

"The papers went with the chest. She would always have been beautiful for me. At least she's now with someone who will always keep her beautiful too." The old man regarded the two for only a moment and turned on his heel without another word. The two sat and watched him leave, each exhaling a stream of smoke in his direction. Sylvie finally sighed.

"Do you think he'll ever get his wife back?"

Spike shrugged. "He left her young out of greed. For the same reason he just sold her to the highest bidder. It would be life imitating art if it really weren't life becoming art. If someone ever frees her, would that be art becoming life?" Sylvie was spared answering when Jet rolled up to their private corner and sat down without preamble.

"A job well done," he joked. Neither of his companions so much as smiled and Jet finally rolled his eyes. "Alrighty, in any case, the first round's on me. What're you guys drinking?"

A job done, though I wouldn't quite agree on how well done it was. The box had been found, not returned. The man who lost it ended up being the man who sold it in the end. There couldn't be much 'well done' in seeing someone sell their spouse for profit. Still, human nature is an odd thing and one I don't pretend to understand. Except for some things, like the knowing smirk on Miss Sylvie Marchon's face when she read my train of thoughts. I suppose there was some 'well done' to the job after all.

"Bartender!" Spike called across the bar. "Three Borderline Charlies!"


*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko, doesn't necessarily mean it's insane*