Karma Junkie
The box had taken up residence in the corner of her small studio apartment for two years since she had left the Bebop, silently berating her for her less than glamorous departure. She had to admit, that there were at least a million reasons for her to stay but only one to leave. She was selfish. The owner of the ship had pointed that out many times during one of their many heated arguments. It seemed like they fought everyday, when in reality, it was just a couple of times a month. But she couldn't stand it any longer. The room was too sterile without the smell of the cool menthol that usually fogged up the space. The room was eerily quiet without the loud ramblings that consisted of the lack of food, the lack of money, the lack of anything really.
The shelves were accumulating a thick layer of dust and the mattress had lost his shape. But to Faye Valentine, it didn't seem like the room of a dead man. To her, it just seemed like Spike had forgotten to clean up, and that at any moment he would walk through the door complaining about the lack of excitement for his return.
The people of the support groups that Jet had forced her to go to said that she was experiencing denial. They figured that she just didn't believe or accept that Spike Spiegel was dead. And they were partially right. She had talked to a few of her peers about the idea of death, what they felt, or what they didn't feel. Some felt as if a piece of them were gone, ripped from their soul by a faceless reaper. Others felt as if they were drowning in their sorrow, the emotion pouring into their lungs before they had a chance to breathe life. And there were some who just couldn't feel. Their bodies were numb from the sorrow. Food was bland and life just seemed a little bit dimmer.
Faye felt none of this. There were days that she missed his being there. But her soul was still filled with life and the nights she cried became farther and farther apart. She didn't mope around with dark circles under her eyes, tears just barely blurring up her vision. She still chased after bounties; resumed the lifestyle she was accustomed to before, during, and after her life with Spike Spiegel. The problem wasn't an inability to mourn. Her problem was that she just didn't feel like the lunkhead was dead. How can a person cry over the death of someone who wasn't dead?
Of course Jet didn't believe her, stating that several witnesses saw him fall. The violet haired vixen would roll her eyes debating that fact with one of her own: a body was never recovered. The ambulance has a record time when it comes down to the Syndicate paying your bills. The morgue held no one by Spike's description and the area the witnesses pointed to held no clues to the disappearance of the body either. Jet would shake his bald head regretfully. He knew these facts as well. But if Spike was alive, he obviously didn't want to be found. So a few stiff drinks and a few flamboyant words later, a flame was lit beside a stone plaque with Spike's name and date of death. It was only a few months later that the captain of the Bebop began to place ads to rent out the dusty space on the ship. Faye threw a fit and accused Jet of never caring for the man in the first place which she knew wasn't true. So she stormed into the vacant bedroom and packed up the small mementos that he kept around and threw them into a small cardboard box. Without saying another word, she walked past Jet and through the hanger for the last time.
Two years later, her feelings hadn't changed. She reluctantly apologized to Jet for the way she had just left without any goodbyes. She gave her word that she would visit the Bebop every chance she got, which she made good on until it was made known that the room was being rented out. Once again, the female bounty hunter stomped through the hanger, slamming the door behind her with the intention to never come back. But intentions, to say the least, are ideas behind actions that usually stay just that – ideas. And within the hour, Faye was back with her head hung low, inquiring about the new renter. However, the belief that Spike wasn't dead was still twisting inside her brain, planting roots into her spine. As she shook Clyde Kaywitten's hand for the first time, the only thoughts that could run inside her mind were 'You are SO getting your ass thrown out'.
Even now, curled up on her second hand couch that somewhat resembled a Venus fly trap in its shape and color, the box was still taunting her. It was a constant reminder that someone else was residing in Spike's space. A man who wasn't half as cunning, or quite that daring was sleeping underneath Spike's sheets. A man whose only knowledge of martial arts came from Bruce Lee movies was placing his belongings in Spike's closet. A man who could probably appreciate a fine specimen like Faye Valentine was filling up Spike's shelves. Faye pondered the last thought. Perhaps Clyde Kaywitten wasn't such a bad piece of work after all. But the biggest reminder that the box provoked was the fact that it had been years since Faye had taken his belongings and there still was no Spike Spiegel to be found.
She silently eyeballed the box, trying to keep her attention on the rain falling outside. There were days that curiosity would get the best of her and she would tip-toe over the cheap carpet and try to sneak a peek inside. She was in such a state of heated emotion that she had forgotten just what exactly she had picked up. But fate has a nasty way of telling you to stay away from something - doorbells would begin to buzz or Jet's face would appear on her phone screen just as she flipped open the first flap. It was silly, really. She could just tear into it and not a single soul would know she opened it. For hours, she would sit in front of the box, twirling her hair around a thin finger, debating with her inner devil, (which had a bad habit of being louder than her inner angel), wondering if Karma was watching her.
Today, it was no different. She was staring at the box from the corner of her eye, her fingers nervously rubbing the terry cloth fabric her lounge shorts were made out of. She could almost hear the rhythm of the remnants of an old Edgar Allan Poe story beating within its confinement. It sat there, taunting her; daring her to just open it.
"To hell with this! You're being ridiculous Faye!" She quickly padded over the carpet and sat in front of the box, opening all four flaps at once.
The first thing she picked up was one of Spike's many pistols. It was an antique, but loaded bullets told Faye that it wasn't for decoration purposes. Running her fingers over the smooth silver metal, she caught the sight of an inscription. It was scribbled, as if the inscriber had been in an awful hurry. She quickly set the gun to the side and began to dig around in the cardboard again. Her hand finally grasped what felt like a rubber band. In an instant, a pile of photos were hauled from the box bound together by a piece of green rubber. The pile contained numerous pictures that contained memories of those long lost days that the crew didn't fight or find themselves in a pickle of some sort. The first one was of Ed tinkering with the camera when they first found it. The second was a snapshot of Faye on the beach, one arm stretching over her chest as a makeshift cover-up and the other reaching out angrily towards Spike who gripped the red bikini fabric in his hand. She lazily skimmed over the rest before she gasped at the last one. It was a single black and white snapshot of Faye sleeping innocently on the couch, one hand resting peacefully on her forehead. Why one earth would Spike keep this one? She began to rummage again, this time finding an old journal. Most of the pages had been torn out but the ones that remained housed small drawings of memories that were usually kept inside his brain. The very last page held the single image of the infamous Julia, her lengthy blonde hair tumbling about her shoulders like a golden waterfall. Faye unknowingly began to twist her shorter, finer, violet strands as she mentally compared herself to the fallen angel. Next to it was the quick sketch of the snapshot that had caught her attention just moments before.
Faye's bottom lip stuck out, trembling from the urge to cry. A single tear trickled its way down an almost flawless cheek only to be wiped away. A long huff of breath escaped the bounty huntress' mouth as she threw everything back into the box.
"This is stupid. There is no reason to be torturing yourself like this, Faye Valentine." A crash of thunder echoed from outside and she took this as an agreement from bigger forces. She quickly shed her body of the lounge shorts and pulled on a pair of jeans that had been occupying her floor for a couple of days. After a few moments of a mental debate that just seemed to drag on, she threw on a raincoat and hugged the box to her chest. It was time to bury the past.
The makeshift gravesite had been very well taken care of since Faye's last visit. The flame was still going strong, despite the horrid weather and the tombstone had been upgraded from cheap cement to a fine marble. She could only suspect that Jet had received a handsome reward and felt like splurging a bit. She failed to notice the chunks of wet hair falling into her line of vision as her knees bit the soggy ground. The box was already soaked from the short trek to the graveyard and Faye was beginning to feel the wetness drench her clothes. She shrugged it off. It was just a small, annoying thing; kind of like Spike. The first thing she dragged from the box was the stack of photos. Slowly, she lowered one to the fire and let the flames swallow it before unleashing it to the rain's fury. It wasn't her intent to set the entire cemetery on fire, so for the time being she was thankful for the thunderstorm. She watched the paper turn into ashes and smiled. It was the first time, in a long time, that she felt like she was letting go.
She put the stack down momentarily to decide what to do with the pistol. It was too meaningful to sell and it was impossible to burn with the small fire. So, Faye began to dig a hole with her fingernails. It only seemed right to bury a gun that Spike had used. Anything else would be…well, not right, for lack of better words. She had just placed the gun in the hole when a shadow fell over her. She scrunched her eyebrows together in frustration. The asshole behind her better have a good reason for walking in on this little ceremony of hers. She found it even harder to believe that a shadow could even materialize in this weather.
"That's going to take forever to clean, now. Way to go, genius." The voice rang through her ears as her green eyes widened in disbelief. Her vision blurred from the rain pounding against her face as she looked up and focused on the figure standing before her. A slender finger shook eagerly as it pointed towards the stranger and a sly grin crept up at the corners of her mouth.
"Ha! I knew it!" She could've made a killing and taken Jet to the cleaners if she had the decency to make the bet two years ago. Before her stood the green haired lunkhead, looking the same as the day he left the Bebop. The only difference from now and then was that he had traded the old blue suit and yellow shirt for a classier ensemble that reeked of expensive flair. With a flick of her wrist, a red communicator was brought out and her thumb was punching in Jet's number. "You just wait until Jet finds out about this. Everyone thinks you're dead. That's why I was…did you know Jet rented out your room? I knew I should've put money on this!"
The cheap communicator was knocked from her unsteady fingers. Her eyes once again shot up towards the lunkhead, anger flashing brilliantly against the green hue. It took two paychecks to pay for that damn communicator! Apparently, you have to work a bit harder when you're making an honest living. Faye had learned the hard way that if you gamble and cheat through life, it will come back to haunt you. Loan sharks were having a feeding frenzy with her debts, to say the least.
"I'm here on business, Faye. This isn't going to be some emotional reunion. Just business." His words were bland and they created a stale taste on Faye's tongue. She quirked an inquiring eyebrow towards her former partner in crime. Business usually meant money and money wasn't something she had at the moment. But even though Spike's words were serious, his features were softened and a lazy smile graced his lips. "C'mon kid, we'll talk over dinner." He held out a wet hand towards the drenched woman who was still wallowing in the mud like a lost piglet. And even though her jeans now housed two large stains on her knees and her hair was like a giant purple mop, Faye Valentine kept the arrogant air about her that made men lose their wits. She smiled devilishly and accepted the hand in front of. She fluttered her long, smeared eyelashes and flipped her hair back, knocking a large amount of water in Spike's face. The ass can disappear for two years and then think he can act civil with her? He had another thing coming to him. He stared in disbelief for a few moments as Faye swayed her hips ahead of him.
It had been two years since he vanished. For two long years, the people who had come to love him believed that his body was rotting in some unknown grave. Within these two years, a lot of things had changed for Faye. But one thing still remained: her undeniable knack for perfect timing. Sometimes, it didn't work out to her benefit, but it was a knack nonetheless. And as she took a few more steps, she looked back at Spike, a teasing smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.
"I was wrong Spike. You're not a lunkhead. By definition, you're now a zombie." She laughed to herself as she felt Spike's smile warm her from inside. A small fire was brewing within her again. However, she wasn't sure if the fire was from Spike's return, or the pride from knowing that for two years…she had been right the entire time.