Disclaimer: I do not own Cowboy Bebop, its concepts or its characters. Writings are solely for pleasure, not profit.
If there was a God in heaven, he certainly was getting an earful. Mariah Spiegel paced up and down the main room of her apartment, slamming a soup ladle against her palm. She prayed and cursed at the same time, a kaleidoscope of anger, fear and worry patterning across her features. Spike was late. He'd said he was just going out to get a loaf of bread, but that was four hours ago. Four hours ago! Knowing him, he'd gotten into some kind of trouble, the severity of which she couldn't even begin to guess at.
Mariah heard a brisk knock at the door. "That boy," she muttered as she walked up to it, tightening her grip on the ladle. She peeked through the peephole, taking in the whole fisheye view. There was Spike, his wild mop of green hair in even worse disarray than usual. And behind him… "Aghh, shit." She didn't even try to hide her fury as she opened the door.
"Good evening, Mrs. Spiegel," said the I.S.S.P. officer standing behind the sullen-looking teenager. He sounded cheerful enough, but Mariah caught the serious edge to his words. "I'd like to have a word or two with you and your son. Inside."
Mariah nodded and ushered them into the tiny, two-room apartment, sending Spike a poisonous glare. He returned it with equal fervor. "Have a seat." Spike made for the lumpy couch, but Mariah caught him by the scruff of the neck before he could steal the officer's spot. She heard the clink of metal and glanced down to see his skinny wrists bound in handcuffs. Spike fumed.
The officer shifted uncomfortably on the cushion. "Let me get straight to the point. Your son tried to 'commandeer' a zip craft this afternoon."
"What?!" It was all Mariah could do to keep from hurling the ladle at Spike's head. "You stole a zip craft?"
Spike flopped against the wall, itching irritably at his cuffs and refusing to look at either of them. "I didn't steal anything. He gave me the keys."
"If I can butt in," the officer growled, "He impersonated a valet at the Hotel Blue down the street, and ran off with a nine hundred thousand woolong zip craft. The owner immediately reported it stolen, but Spike here took off and gave us quite a chase before we finally caught up with him."
A brief flicker of triumph crossed the teen's face, until he caught his mother's gaze and he instantly schooled his features back to indifference.
"You'll be glad to know that considering the, ah, the circumstances," he glanced around the room, "and since the damages were minimal, the owner won't be pressing charges." Mariah let out a breath of air she'd been unconsciously holding in. "But, as I'm sure you're aware, this is the second time Spike has violated his probation. Once more and we'll have no choice but to give him a year in prison."
Spike's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly at that. Mariah took it as a good sign. The boy needed some common sense and fear of the law knocked into him somehow. "That's regular prison, not juvie again?"
"Correct, ma'am, regular prison. Repeated offenses like this can get anyone over sixteen into prison," the cop said, giving her a grave look.
Spike cursed under his breath. His sixteenth birthday was just last month.
"We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Mariah said sweetly. Her eyes narrowed when Spike refused to answer. "Would we?" she ground out.
"No." If Spike's eyes had been lasers, the dingy carpet would have been up in flames.
"Now apologize to Officer… Officer Harmon," she pressed, glancing over at the older man's badge name.
Spike seemed to realize that the longer he dragged the scene out, the longer it would take him to get his dignity back. He forcefully shoved his pride down and muttered, "Sorry."
Harmon got to his feet, brushing his hands together as if he was dusting off some piece of dirt. "Well, that's good," he smiled, perfectly chipper. He fished in his pocket until he found the key to the handcuffs, manhandling the lanky teenager around to remove them. They came off with a snap, leaving Spike rubbing his reddened wrists where the metal had dug into his skin. "Good night, Mrs. Spiegel. I hope I don't see you again."
"Me too," Mariah smiled. Both of them waited in utter stillness and silence until the door shut and they heard Harmon's footsteps disappearing down the hall. Then in an instant, they each whirled around, eyes blazing. Mariah brandished the ladle.
"Spike Hadar Spiegel!" she growled. It was underhanded, calling him by his Hebrew name; she knew that. But it would work to get his attention.
"Goddammit, what?!" His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles were white. Mariah knew he wouldn't strike her, but he wanted to.
"Hijacking zip crafts? Look at you." She jerked her head angrily in his direction. "You know who you look like?"
"Don't say it," Spike warned, eyes slits from under his bangs. It was an empty threat, but just as fierce as a bobcat cornered.
"You look like your father." Spike glanced up, eyes wide in outrage. She'd get through to him yet. "You look your lowlife, dirty, two-timing father, that's who."
"Shut up!" His eyes were now tightly screwed shut and his jaw clenched. He backed into the wall, shaking his head faintly.
"You know, he got into the very same stuff before they put him away for good. Spike, listen to me. If you don't want to end up like your father, you'd better get your ass on the right track, and fast."
"Mom, I just thought—"
"No."
"I was trying to—"
"Spike, just listen." Mariah sighed, putting the ladle aside and letting her forehead rest in her hand. "When your father… when he got arrested, I knew it would be hard. I knew I'd have to raise you alone, and how much work that would be." Spike actually managed a small, embarrassed smirk. "I knew, I knew it would be hard. But never once did I think about resorting to the kind of things that got your father arrested in the first place."
"I was going to take it to Robara down on Morocco Street. He's a fence. He could have gotten me a lot of money, untraceable, and then we would have been able to afford decent food."
Any remaining traces of anger Mariah felt dissolved at her son's words. He sounded so unusually… timid. She approached him, cautiously, slowly, and he didn't balk when she laid a hand upon his shoulder. "I understand, Spike. But just… for my sake, don't take the same path your father took. There is honest work out there for you. There's a life for you. Just trust me, you'll find it."
"I will."
That night, the scrawny teen lay awake on his lumpy couch pallet. The clock blinked three a.m. and he rolled silently over onto the carpet and slunk into his mother's room. He moved aside a pile of old, worn-out shoes, and his hand brushed against cold steel. His father's Israeli-made Jericho 941. Spike cradled the gun to his chest, wincing when the cartridge clinked. His mother didn't awake. Packing the gun and the few of his belongings he cared to keep into his backpack, he stole from the apartment building and out into the night.
Spike didn't know how or where he would find it, just that his mother was right—there were better things out there. Fuck Mars, fuck this town, and especially fuck his probation officer. His mother was better off without him, without a delinquent son who wasn't much more than another mouth to feed. Honest or not, there was a better life waiting for Spike somewhere. And he would find it.