Hey there, folks. This has been reposted to be in compliance with FF.net's regulation, so that means some of your reviews are most likely going to be lost. Actually, they'll probably ALL be lost. Geez.

No, no, I'm not bitter! Enjoy the story.

A yellow taxi, much like the other 27 yellow taxis that crowded the boulevard, was on its way to the airport. This taxi, however, was important. Not too terribly important in its own right, but it held two of the most notorious bounty hunters in the solar system. The driver, who recognized both men, was torn between wanting to ask for a better than standard tip (they should have money, right?), wanting to pry for information (a little gossip never hurt anyone, right?), and wanting to jump out and run at the next light he came to (death and destruction follows these guys everywhere, right?). Fortunately for his own sake, he did none of these things and instead tuned the radio to a jazz station, hoping that the sound of a saxophone blowing would soothe his hammered nerves.

"Turn that off," the green-haired man ordered, but his partner – the guy with the metal stuck to his face – shushed him. "What's wrong with the blues, Spike? You don't like harmonicas?"

Harmonicas! He could sworn that was a sax… How off was he today? These guys were making him nuts. And paranoid. If only he could get them out of his cab, he'd never complain about a slow day again. He pulled off the main road into the freeway exit labeled "Airport".

"…why are we going after this guy, again?"

"2 million wulongs. That's why." The older man addressed himself to the driver. "Would you mind pulling up by EnE, please?"

"Sure, no problem," the cabby said even as he gritted his teeth. EnE. Entrance number Eight. The weapons checkpoint. Just the other day, six cars had been blown up in rapid succession when the safety failed on a rocket launcher.

"…he's a mind-warp, you say?"

"One of the most proficient." The car screeched to a halt as a troop of gossiping biddies crossed into the first entrance. "That's why he's so hard to catch. He uses the power of suggestion on police to trick them into giving up and going home. Fifty separate hunters sent to find this guy have committed suicide."

Spike frowned as he began to light up. The driver gulped, too afraid to ask him to put it out.

"We'll need a very good grip on what's real and what isn't to stand a chance. Spike, put that out."

Disgruntled, the aforementioned "Spike" put the unlit cigarette back into the pack and the driver heaved a sigh of relief. Moreso because by this time they were in front of Entrance number Eight.

EnE was a sterile gray in color, with signs posted everywhere about the danger of the area. Teenagers went skateboarding by as the two men removed their spartan luggage. Jet handed the driver a wad of bills before departing. The man looked the money in his hand.

5000 wulongs. Easily the best tip he'd ever made.

Behind him, a car blew up, sending its collection of Beanie Babies all over the parking lot. Dropping the cash on the floor, he put the pedal to the same and screamed out of there.

Spike hated airports. Particularly the Silver Stream airport.

Not only was smoking not permitted within a 1000-feet perimeter of the entire terminal, but whenever he went through EnE (and when did he not go through EnE?), it always took close to 30 minutes to get through the luggage check. The weapons check, by comparison, took a grand total of 45 seconds. As if holey socks were somehow more of a danger to humanity than semi-automatic weapons.

Worst of all, in order to keep a "family friendly" reputation, there was no bar. And without a drink to make him forget about the "no smoking" policy, or a smoke to keep his mind off alcohol, Spike Spiegel was an unhappy camper. "Family-friendly. With a weapons checkpoint. Right."

Jet Black, on the other hand, was upbeat. Annoyingly so. He seemed entirely too pleased to be going to meet a man who had been the death of multiple decent bounty hunters. Spike cast his gaze sullenly at the floor.

Their luggage emerged from the conveyor belt, directly into the hands of a young man who looked highly displeased to be at work. He grunted as he lifted their bags, giving the pair a particularly malevolent look. "Whatcha got in there, couple of bodies?"

"Close," Spike replied. "There's a vial of "Black Ice" in there. You know, the stuff that gets on your skin and pretty much causes rashes and ulcers from the outside in? Hey, Jet, there's still no antidote for it, is there?"

"None known," Jet answered woodenly.

The skyhop's attitude improved exponentially. "Where to, gentlemen?"

They were in front of their terminal in a relatively short amount of time, shuffling through a line that including vacationing families, sappy lovers, lonely old women, and lonely old coots trying to pick up said lonely old women. Spike grumbled inaudibly, and Jet wrinkled his brow. "This flight won't be that bad, Spike."

"Why couldn't I just take the Swordfish? We'd be there by now."

"Because we can't spook this guy. The last thing I need is you plummeting from the sky because he convinced you that it was time to take a nap at the controls."

"Sounds like he'd make a great life insurance salesman."

"As a matter of fact, I think that he was." They handed off their ticket stubs to the cheerful agent and filtered out onto the runway. The heat from multiple jet engines made the air shimmer. Spike swallowed thickly and wished for a drink.

They were on the plane sooner rather than later, having been herded into a smaller group early on. He was confused. Where were they headed? The stewardess showed them their seats with a smile. "Here we are. Once we reach cruising altitude, I'll be around with drinks."

"Drinks?" Spike asked, confusion mounting. "Jet, are we in first class?"

The older man nodded. "Someone here owed me a favor."

"Everyone owes you favors, Jet." He dashed forward before Jet could sit down. "I call window!"

Jet frowned. "You should take aisle, considering how much you drink."

"It won't bother me until the in-flight movie." Spike plopped down and stretched out. "Anyway, I can drink you under a table, old man." His partner grinned. "You wish."

The drink is front of me. Wild Turkey. Straight up, with only a few lonely ice cubes to keep it company. Spike is eyeing a glass of Glenlivet. Or maybe he's looking out of the window. In any case, he's pretending to flirt with the flight attendant, and doing a good job of making her think that he's sincere. And she's giving as good as she gets. With panache.

A smile is on my lips, despite my misgivings. I don't like to see men play women. I don't like to see women using men. But this is all quite harmless. She's young and pretty and most likely does it all the time without even really thinking about it. And my monotonely charming partner bats his eyes at her, smiles slyly, and thanks her a little more than necessary for simply bringing him a glass of alcohol. I'm amused.

I'm still on my first drink. Spike's had three so far. He likes scotch, but he's been murmuring about wanting a taste of my bourbon. I give him a look that says Don't even bother to try. That's most likely why he's staring out of the window like a scolded puppy. His hand bumps mine as he reaches for his drink.

Spike's drink is nowhere near my drink.

I look at him and he's staring miles into the back of the leather seats in front of us. So I ignore it, and recline my seat a little. First class is amazing. Since the people who actually take first class have enough home training not to vandalize the seats, it's very richly maintained. And spacious. There's actually enough room to stretch out if you feel like it. If you want to lie down flat and nap, go right ahead. There's a console between the seats, fully equipped to hold the plates from your dinner – a three-course meal, mind you – and drinks. I look at the floor. Deluxe cushioned carpet. Orthopedic and ergonomic. Good stuff.

"Jet."

Spike's voice sounds a little impatient, and more than a little slurry. He's probably called me more than once. I snap out of the reverie. "What?"

"Have you…" He trails off, before clearing his throat and trying again. "Have you ever thought about…what sex would be like…with a man?"

I've done no such thing. But he's drunk, and I'm in a good mood. It couldn't do any harm to play along. "Sure. It'd be like sex. Except with a man."

He makes an aggravated nose. I suppose that wasn't quite what he was looking for. I'm holding back laughter right now.

"You know, that stewardess thinks we're gay."

"That's wonderful." I sip my bourbon slowly. I'm thinking about some peach brandy next.

He trails a long finger along the underside of my chin. I turn my head to voice a mild protest…and meet his lips.

His hand takes possession of the back of my head, daring me to pull away.

Our lips make contact several times. Briefly. He's requesting an audience with my tongue, but I won't give in just yet. He is drunk, after all.

Is he?

We both hear tittering at the same time, and we look up. The cute stewardess is standing there, cooing. "Aww, you guys. Do either of you want another drink?"

I'm too flustered to blush. Spike is too brazen to blush. He still hasn't taken his hand off my head. "Lemme have another scotch, pretty please."

"Of course." She smiles. "Another Wild Turkey for you?"

"Actually – " I adjust myself in the seat, managing to squirm away from Spike at the same time. "Do you have any flavored brandies?"

"Yes. We've got a terrific blended brandy that I think you'd just love. It's peach."

"Sounds terrific." She leaves and I look over at Spike. He's sulking, staring out of the window. I don't bother to speak to him. The only thing that I want to talk to at this point is a snifter full of room temperature Georgia Peach Brandy.

The in-flight movie's running at this point. And it's terrible. But that's to be expected. I eat the London Broil that lies contentedly in a small puddle of gravy. Spike went with fish, and got a fillet of grouper. He's eaten it all and started drinking again, prompting a comment from our eager flight attendant. "Are you sure that your friend's okay? He's had six scotch rocks."

"He'll be fine. Does it all the time." I'm a little surprised by how cool my voice sounds. Almost as if I don't care that my best friend is trying his hardest to develop alcohol poisoning right next to me. She smiles apologetically and heads elsewhere.

He hasn't looked at me since the food arrived, nearly thirty minutes ago. I'm not so sure how the atmosphere became so frosty, but I'm not concerned enough to try to break this wall of ice. No, I'm lying. I'm concerned, but I'm too stubborn. If he wants to not talk, we can not talk. I look his way and see his reflection in the window. He looks tired. Broken. What's on his mind? That woman? The Syndicate? Do I really want to know?

We sit there and don't speak. The food's done and the plates have been cleared and I'm making the acquaintance of my brandy glass once again. Spike shuffles his feet, prompting me to look his way. His eyes are moody. "Jet, why are we after this guy again?"

"2 million wulongs. That's why."

"We could make that by doing five bounties with combined better odds than coming out of this one alive. Why are we doing a suicide mission?"

I open my mouth to answer, but he's still talking. "You yourself said that every hunter who accepted this mission is now dead. And if this guy's such a talented mind bender, how has anyone come away with viable information about him? What guarantee do we have that this whole thing isn't one big setup? Who gave you the buzz on this guy anyway?"

The last question isn't rhetorical. I swallow the last drops of brandy before setting my glass aside. "A partner. A partner who owed me a favor."

"How do you know they weren't just welshing on the debt?" His eyes are less self-pitying, and more angry. "This whole thing stinks, Jet. I can't believe you haven't noticed it. There's too many numbers that don't add up."

I look at him again and shrug. My body feels quite heavy. The brandy, maybe? I was pretty tired before we ever got started today. "If it makes you feel any better, they raised a pretty big stink when I told them that you were coming. They wanted me to go alone."

"Jet, for god's sake…!" He's getting a little loud at this point. People are beginning to look our way curiously. "Can't you see that this is a mistake? What's it going to take to make you see?"

"Uh, guys…" The stewardess is hovering nearby, with a slightly sheepish expression on her face. "Um…I know you guys are…um, tight…but…could you keep the argument down? We've got a few people trying to hear the movie."

I'm too tired to blush. Spike's too mad to blush. So we both nod, and she goes away again, giggling. Spike smacks his forehead. "I don't believe that just happened."