Lost in a Memory
I: My Love For You Burns Deep
She felt the pain long before she heard the shot. It was sharp, a blunted dagger that flared white as it entered her back. The power of the blow knocked her forward and she found herself falling.
Falling.
She was on the ground, her face to the side, her breathing ragged. She had not even felt the ground hit her. There was little pain. It was all numbness. Numbness and the cold that crept slowly about her skin.
Somebody was calling her name. Who was that? She tried to move but the body would not obey. Hands grabbed her back. They turned her over and sunlight poured onto her face. The rays were warm on her skin, but only just, before the cold came once more.
Her name was said again. More insistently and she opened her eyes. Drops of water splashed lightly on her face, running in small rivulets across it to the ground.
It's raining.
There was a shadow above her. Her eyes struggled to focus on it. It was so very hard. Finally they rested on a familiar face, recognized those auburn eyes. She studied those eyes, gazing at them with detached interest. Her eyes traced the path down his rough skin, to those lips she had once kissed so often. That was a time long ago, much too long for them both now. She ached for those lips.
Somehow, she was in his arms now. They could not warm her, but she was glad nevertheless. She could smell him in the closeness, heightened by the scent and feel of the rain. She tried to smile. Here she was safe. Here she was happy. She noticed his look of concern. There was such sadness, such worry etched on his face. She wished to reassure him, to tell him that everything was alright. She was fine, merely tired.
The world began to blur and colours started fading to the pureness of white. Watching the lines of her surroundings break away, she realised what had happened. She knew what to say.
She took a ragged breath that hurt, but still she kept on. She needed to ease his worries.
Finally, her lips formed the words she wanted.
"This is... a dream..." she said, her voice barely a whisper in the world. The sky was all white now, the colours about her all singular.
"Yeah," his voice rang out, "just a bad..."
But she did not hear the rest. The world was too bright for her to see and hear anything. The cold was everywhere now and she relaxed into its embrace. She gave a sigh. She was going to wake up now.
II: Embers of Times We Had
Jet stared at his bonsai tree, struggling to find the correct branch to cut. It required concentration and single-minded focus. He edged his clippers to the tiny branch he knew to cut. His hands shook. The clipper snipped. The branch below his intended target fell off.
He stood gazing at the ruined tree stupidly, then sighed and rubbed his metal arm across his bald head.
"Damn cat story," he muttered. Spike was right. It was a bad story. It did not even make sense. After that final incoherent exchange, Spike had left the Bebop, perhaps forever.
"Damn cat story! Damn dead women everywhere!" Jet railed and threw the clippers at the wall. They thudded against the metal hull and fell harmlessly to the ground. The man had no idea why he was so frustrated as well. It wasn't as if he had not been alone before. Before Spike came along, he was doing just fine. Just fine and dandy indeed!
Then there he was.
And we became partners. I guess that's why things went to hell.
He stalked out of his room, his mind picking at the memories Spike had left him – the long periods of starvation, the loss of potential bounties, the causing of expensive damages. He stopped in mid-stride.
He's been trouble all the while.
The laughter came without warning, bubbling up from within him with hysterical suddenness. It soared into the still air, bouncing off the walls, filling the empty hallways. Nobody answered his laughter.
Just like before.
The joke was over. The sound trailed off, less sudden as it began. Jet controlled himself and leaned onto a nearby wall. He touched his metal arm, running his fingers lightly on the material. It was cool on his fingertips, and as they moved, he remembered when he had lost the arm. He remembered the pain and fear when they took it away. He remembered what had happened next – the sorrow and obsession, the destruction of the life he once had.
It was no use, he realised. Just like Spike, he was haunted by memories. He had spoken of wisdom and the strength to throw away the chains that held a person down. They were empty words. Spike had his eye. Jet had his arm. They were like brothers, the most unlikely pairing. He was gone now.
"Like I care," Jet muttered viciously and strode back into his room. What was done was done. He could not help the dead. He could not help one who did not wish to be helped. He would do no more and believed so as he bent over to pick up his discarded clippers.
He stared at the waiting bonsai tree.
III: Been a Fool, Been a Clown
Tears were not new to her. Yes, they were unfamiliar, uncomfortably wet and reminded her of a weakness she could not completely hide. But not new. Not for Poker Alice. Not for Faye Valentine.
And over a man once again! Always over a man!
She cursed her vulnerability and wiped her eyes with a ragged piece of cloth. It had not been a good week. She had discovered that her past was one huge tragedy that destroyed any hope she once had of having a home. She had nowhere to go but back to the Bebop. Then she had met the woman who knew of Spike.
Her name was Julia. She had blonde hair. She was just an ordinary woman.
And Spike would fight the world for her.
Faye knew the man would leave the Bebop the moment he returned that one last time. She could see it in his face... in that stupid story of his! An eye that saw the future, another that lived in the past. It was all utter crap!
Yet she believed him. For he could not lie to her... not like that. Then he walked away. From them. From her.
And here she was on her bed... crying.
Damn the man to hell! I don't even know if I love him!
Fresh tears started to well from under her eyes. They collected moisture until they were too heavy to stay up, falling across the skin of her cheek in a stream. She blinked them away and sniffed. No, she didn't love him.
She didn't love the way he smirked at her, unveiling some part of the mystery that always surrounded him.
She didn't love how he would nonchalantly place an unlit cigarette into his mouth, leaving it there, relishing the taste on his lips for several moments before actually lighting it.
She didn't love his confidence as he got the crew in and out of trouble. He was never flustered. He was always resigned to face life. She didn't love that determination.
She didn't love the way he looked at her as he saved Faye from danger... again... and again... and again.
She didn't love him...
"I don't love him!" Faye cried out, clutching her face in her hands. "I don't love him I don't love him and I never will!" She was sobbing desperately now, her heart screaming in unknown agony. It hurt so... damned... much.
It went on for heartbeats more, her body racked in sorrow, her cries unceasing. Then, when it seemed as if the tears would not stop, the sobs died down as suddenly as it began. The waves of agony receded a little and her shaking seemed to lessen. Faye removed her hands from her face and fell flat on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her nose was all runny and her eyes were blood-red. She took short, deep breaths. Then she closed her eyes.
"Come back you bastard," she whispered, daring the world to answer, "come back so I can tell you why..."
IV: Goodbye, So Long
It is just like the movies, he thinks and smiles wanly. The hero would stand alone in the rain. He would ready himself for that one final fight with the bad guys. In the movies he would win.
The rain never felt this cold in the movies.
He adjusted his brown coat, now soaked thoroughly in the drizzle. It was true. The rain pelting onto him was freezing, the wind lending its support with gushes that strengthened the cold. It was a miserable night.
He placed a wet cigarette into his mouth. The strong taste of tobacco, heightened by the dampness, rested on his tongue. It tasted good. It would be useless to light it in this foul weather, but he would enjoy himself as much as he could.
The man placed both hands in his coat pockets to shield them from the cold. His fingers touched metal – the guns of his trade. In the other pockets about him were grenades. Those and a lot of ammunition. There were plenty of weapons on the Bebop. Jet liked security above all else.
He wondered if it would be enough, then shrugged. Whatever happened happened, he could not carry more anyway. It would have to do. There would be no shortage of enemies for him later, nor would they just let him waltz in to meet Vicious that easily.
No, it would not be easy. Vicious would not let it end like that.
His right hand gripped the gun tightly. Vicious had turned his world around. Just like before, Vicious had ripped apart the veil that covered his world, taking away all of his normality, forcing him to step up. Forcing the man to meet him in a stunning climax of Vicious's choosing. It was typically selfish.
Jet was right. He was obsessed with the past. He could not believe he told him that stupid cat story. He hated cats. Hated that story and the one about his eyes. They were meaningless clichés that did nobody any good.
"Nobody... any... good..." he mumbled and looked up to the sky. Drops splashed onto his face, almost refreshingly. He thought of Faye Valentine. He should not have treated her so harshly as well. She deserved better. All of the Bebop crew did. He did them no favours by leaving like that, without a proper good bye. Then again, it was his style. And he was always vain.
He pulled a gun from his right pocket and stared at it. It was of the dullest black, that gleamed only when raindrops touched it. Memories flitted across his vision. He saw Vicious at his back, his gun drawn ready. He beheld Julia's fleeting smile. He clasped hands with Jet once again on the Bebop and debated another meaningless point with Faye. He gave up playing cards with Ed to watch him or her, run around in circles. He was ruffling Ein's fur.
They were good memories. It was a good dream.
His left hand reached up to grab the unlit the cigarette. He played with it idly, then flicked it into the air. He watched its descent – three somersaults before landing on the wet ground, bouncing off it before finally settling. Then he placed his hands back into his pockets from the cold and trained his gaze onto a dark grey building before him. He stooped a little and began to walk.
It was time to wake up.
END