Disclaimer and Author's Note:
Dislaimer No 1: Cowboy Bebop and the characters therein are the copyright of Sunrise/Bandai. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and the following story is not authorized by the copyright holder. Lines in bold italics are from the song "Faith", written by Jill Cunniff and sung by Luscious Jackson and can be found on Luscious Jackson's 1996 CD, "Fever In Fever Out" and is also used without permission.
A/N: This fanfic is a writing exercise revisited and redone due to new inspiration found after I watched the "lost" SessionXX episode (a recap episode that was shown between "seasons" 1 and 2, and was great for character insight, especially for Faye). The fic was intended to be a collection of 7 scenes taken from various POVs during "The Real Folk Blues" (ep 25 and 26). The fic was initially inspired after reading the Apr/May 2005 issue of Anime Insider featuring Cowboy Bebop. When the interviewer asked for a definitive answer to the fate of Spike Spiegel, neither Kawamoto or Minami gave one. The only agreement is that the show ended with the last black and white shot of Spike. The rest is left to the fans to figure out as they wish. This story is my selfish wish. Please note that lines taken from the show itself may not be written accurate and interpretation of the established scenes are my own so I apologize in advance for any errors in details, proofing or otherwise.
Respectfully - P.

Edges of an Afterlife

Seven Alternate Scenes from "The Real Folk Blues"

Scene 1: Faye - Be Free

I cry for the love in your eyes
I try to let you be free

I could not stop the sigh of relief from being released as the fighter ships that were standard issue Syndicate receded from my view.

Why I felt relief was beyond me. I know damn well that it isn't over yet. Not for me. Especially now that my beautiful ship, the only thing that allowed me some illusory claim of independence, was shaking and vibrating as if she were about to fall apart under me at any second and leave me vulnerable to be disintegrated in Mars's burnt orange atmosphere.

I released another, heavier sigh. My thoughts are turning dark and it is a fact that I don't react well to dark thoughts. I probably never did so I'm trying to think of the positives as to why I did something so idiotic as to help Spike Spiegel get away so he could meet up with the ghosts of his syndicate past, but I'm coming up dry and empty as my natural ability for cynicism shortcircuits my best efforts at being positive.

I know that even if I do get my dispossessed self back to the Bebop with all my important pieces intact, neither me nor Jet nor the Bebop are home free. Not that I have experienced long bouts of being home free during my stay on the Bebop, but there is a decided difference between being in peril due to lack of money and decent food and being in peril due to being on a syndicate's most wanted list. The goons will be back. They know who we are and because of that, we are targets.

"Lovely," I bitch under my breath as my hands tighten on the controls. "This is just fucking lovely."

Since no one but me is in the cockpit and my communications transmitter is blown out just like my thrusters, I figure I can say the obvious and not be questioned for my infamous hypocrisy because between me, myself and I, it has to be said: "That Spike was nothing but trouble."

And it is true. That fuzzy-headed guy was nothing but trouble for me. He was a whole lot of other things too but I don't want to think about that at the moment or any moment and now that I see the Bebop, beat-up and broken down, I am able to put off that train wreckage of a thought for a few minutes more as I attempt to guide my thrashed and trashed ship to a landing on Bebop's deck.

My ship is shaking and shimmying and seemingly defying my efforts at delicate, skilled, emergency piloting. I snicker acidically and shake my head. My ship knows me well enough. She knows that the closer I get to the Bebop, the more claustrophobic I feel.

The truth is that I don't want to land. The truth is that I want to run as far away from this place as fast as I possibly can. The truth is that I don't want this to be my only option in this messed up life that I awoke to three years ago. The truth is I want to get away from this chain that keeps drawing me in.

But the final bittersweet truth is that I won't do anything but drop my sorry ass back on the Bebop, because I have got nowhere else to go and nowhere else I need to be. My ship is busted, my money is run out, and the memories of the person I used to be is demanding that I stay.

I don't want to stay, but I can't leave either. Not yet.

I give up the fight and sensing my defeat, so does the Redtail as she allows herself to land with an ungraceful thud on the Bebop.

The retrieval chain clangs loudly as it hooks onto my ship and within seconds, I'm being pulled into the Bebop's mini-hangar. Once the Redtail is secured, the roof of the hangar closes and then there is darkness.

I hear Jet come into the hangar. His crutches scraping against the floor are the giveaway. He begins to drag the cables over so he can hook them up to the Redtail. I look around and after awhile, my eyes adjust to the dim light and I see his shadow struggling.

My rust encrusted conscience is getting to me because I am thinking that it isn't fair that he has to do this. It is a lost cause. The Redtail isn't going anywhere for a long time and neither am I.

But I know that he needs to do this because lost causes and lost strays were Jet's thing. But knowing that didn't mean that I had standby and watch him struggle like it was a spectator sport.

I open the cockpit and slide out. "Jet, let me get that," I tell him.

The twin bushy caterpillars that are called Jet's eyebrows lift to the middle of his forehead in surprise at my offer. I suppose I should be insulted that he would be suprised that I can be nice, but I'm too damn tired to justify my hidden potential of courtesy.

"C'mon, Jet," I try again, "let me get that."

He nods then and leaves me to hook up the heavy cables to my ship while he starts to pretend that he can fix it.

When I am done, I lift my hand to let him know that it is ready. I move around to face the nose of my ship and I attempt to summon despair at the pitiful sight, but my thoughts are too tangled up in the fate of another person that try as I might, I cannot retrieve anything for myself or my ship.

I should hate Spike for his disruption of my selfishness. I really should but I don't. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel for him. How can I know what I feel for him when I don't even know how feel about myself?

I feel a sob coming on and I forcefully choke it down. I'm not ready for reflection and I'm not good at it either. Besides, I've got other things to do right now.

With a show of ambivalance, I walk to where Jet is working. I lean against the metal grating. Before I can think of something to say, he tells me, "You're a lucky woman."

Yeah, right, I think sarcastically to myself. If I'm so lucky, what I am doing here?

But I don't say that because it would hurt Jet and I don't want to hurt Jet. Not when I know that what I really need to say is going to hurt both of us enough as it is.

To set up that moment of truth, I say something flippant about my lousy timing. I'm not sure what he says back. It doesn't matter anyway. I have to seize any opening to get him moving. I've had a lot of practice being bitch so what I said next came out of mouth with the brand precision of a Grade A Cold Hearted Bitch: "That Spike was nothing but trouble. He's probably not coming back. They may have killed him already."

There. I did it. I threw the bait, but damn that Jet, he didn't take it. "It's possible. This is Spike's fight," was all he said.

His passive compliance irritated me and I couldn't control what I said next. "You told him to go after her," I accused petulantly.

What he did next surprised me. Jet, who had never once laid an angry hand on me even when I deserved it, grabbed me by the collar and growled, "My leg is wrecked, my ship is busted. Hell yes he was nothing but trouble and I don't give a damn."

Now Jet Black could tell a lie with the best of them, but I didn't have to work hard to see through this one. He gave a damn. So did I. Too much. Way too much. And it scared us both.

With pained regret flashing in his dark blue eyes, he released me. Frightened of our feelings, we turned away from each other. Then softly, almost reluctantly, he asked the million woolong question. "What's Julia like?"

How do you describe a woman who is perfect for the man who loves her? I thought with an ache that I wanted to ignore. I can't voice my thought aloud. I can't tell him that I had liked her immediately or that she beautiful but not unusually beautiful. No, I can't say that because it doesn't fit for me and it won't make sense about her.

I want to tell him something that can be easily understood like it is her long golden hair that flows like an angelic light about her head and shoulders that draws men to her, but Jet was no fool. He would know I was hiding something. Her looks would be part of the story, but not the whole story. Not even close.

The fact was that Julia was more than beautiful. She was smooth and tough and classy and in her voice, I recognized the plaintive echo of longing that Spike tried to hide from us.

I may not be able to keep a man but I know men and I don't care how strong a man might think he is, I've never known one who could resist that particular siren call. Not even Spike.

But I can't tell that to Jet so I say something poetic about how she's a beautiful kind of ordinary that a man can't leave. "Like an angel from the underworld. Or maybe a devil from paradise."

I wasn't sure why I added that last part. I'm not sure if I was describing Julia or Spike or both.

I hear him sigh in defeat at my words. I'm not oblivious. I know that he needs comfort and I'm not so insensitive that I don't feel shame to admit that I can't give it to him. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

His voice is resigned as he asks, "Why did you give him that message from her?"

I bristle and fight the urge to be defensive. To buy myself time to figure out what to say, I scratch nervously at a scab near my wrist.

Do I tell him the truth? Do I say, "When it comes to Spike Spiegel, I never know exactly what it is that I will do"? Of course I don't say that because it may lead me to admit that I suffer from what I call the Spike-effect. It is an effect that causes a person to have feelings inside of them that simmers whenever they think of him or whenever they are near him and that this feeling makes the person do things for him that they would never consider doing for anyone else.

I wasn't the first person to be afflicted by the Spike-effect. I'd seen others stronger than myself crumble before him. Yet, I was still embarrassed to admit my weakness. To do so would give away more than I was ready for.

Instead, I bit my lower lip and looked straight ahead. There were only shadows in front of me and Jet beside me. Oddly, it was enough to give me refuge to offer a small truth. "I don't want Spike to think of me as a bad person," I admitted. "When I had something to give him that I knew he would value, I did it."

Jet was quiet and then he let out a tired breath and said, "I see."

"No, you don't," I rasped, my face tight, my thoughts bleak. "I finally try to do one decent thing for a change and look what happens."

"It was inevitable, Faye," Jet replied, his big shoulders slumping. "It is his fight. He has to see it through or he'll never be free."

Jet was probably right, but being right about someone didn't take away the stupidity of it all. "Whatever," I snapped as I fished in vain for my pack of cigarettes. Agitated, I spat out in disgust, "I didn't give Julia's message to Spike so he could run off and die. I gave him the message so he could run off and live."

"It doesn't always work that way," he returned sagely as he held up a cigarette for me.

I took it from his metal hand and mumbled a thanks as I put it in my mouth. Jet held up his lighter to light the stick. I was grateful that he said nothing about the way my lips were trembling as I took a long inhale and an even longer exhale or how my voice shook when I mumbled petulantly, "Men are idiots."

I didn't expect agreement and with his silence, Jet gave none. After a moment or two of collective study of the rubber mat floor, I turned on my dirty beat-up heels and walked away.

Next: Scene 2 - Julia - Amongst the Ghosts