Remember when I was nineteen
My eyes were focused on a dream
And all the doors were open wide
Was up to me to walk inside

My second chance - it never came
Now I'm not one to cry or blame
But that was supposed to be mine mine mine mine
That was supposed to be … - Annie Moscow

When Ed awoke the next morning, she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach repeatedly all night long, while someone else was trying to beat her about the head and shoulders with a large rubber mallet. She thought to herself: if this is what being hung-over is like, then the drunks of the world can keep it. Despite an excessively long and hot shower when she got back to the ship last night, she felt no better, and she had cried herself to sleep. To show for it, Ed had a soaking wet pillow and her left-side sinus was all clogged up. In other words, Ed felt annihilated. She felt like a wet shoe in the middle of the road. She felt like Papa looked after a decidedly precarious bounty run.

And as a 13-year-old Ed would have put it, like poopy ka-ka.

For a while, Ed wished that she could be thirteen again, to be free of social restraints and apparently free to say or do what she wanted, without fear or repercussions; but instead here she was, eighteen, and mortified that she had shot off her mouth last night. Unfortunately, there was no ctrl-z keystroke for life.

How freakin' pithy, Ed thought as she swung her legs out of her rack and dropped to the floor with an unladylike thud. She never heard if Spike came back last night. Perhaps he did and she didn't hear him. Perhaps he didn't return. Perhaps he decided to run off with the motorcycle and never come back. Perhaps Papa very quietly disemboweled him and dropped his body into the harbour. Yes, she liked that last idea and Ed would have tickled to know that that was in fact, one of the options the Jet had thought about last night while waiting for Spike to return.

With a sigh, Ed came to the conclusion that as much as she'd like to, she couldn't remain in her room indefinitely, mostly because she had already emptied her snack stash and she was hungry. Ed found a pair of flannel pants and another tee shirt and pulled these on, eschewing socks and comb. Ed felt little need for socks and combed hair this morning.

Ed morosely went down the corridor towards the faint breakfast smells, where she found Papa-Jet sitting in his normal space, squinting through a pair of cheap drugstore glasses at the paper. He caught Ed's eye and said, "Okay, I'm trying the glasses and they suck. How are you doing this morning?" Ed shrugged, and moved toward the toaster, where two pieces of bread had just popped up. She handed one to Jet and stuck the other in her mouth. Jet removed the cheap reading glasses and said, "Listen, I was thinking. There are a couple of days before you leave for Venus, and there's nothing going on around here. I know where we can charter a boat for cheap and maybe we could do some deep-sea fishing? How does that sound?" Ed gave Jet the first true smile she had been capable of in the past 12 hours or so. Jet smiled back, not only because he was happy to see Ed's spirits lift, but also because she looked very silly with the toast sticking out between her teeth. "Well, that's settled, then. We'll leave as soon as you pack your stuff. Go ahead and pack for Venus too; I'll take you directly to the transport station when we get back."

Ed gave a small happy squeal, and then she removed the toast from her mouth, leapt forward to kiss Jet, re-inserted the toast, and did a cartwheel out of the kitchen. Jet watched her go with a chuckle.

Ed knew precisely what Papa-Jet was up to, but she was grateful. Unfortunately, her mad dash out of the kitchen meant she didn't look where she was going, and she ran pell-mell into Spike. Ed nearly fell to the floor before she was quickly caught by Spike's hand on her arm. She looked up sharply into Spike's face. His eyes looked like he hadn't slept at all; they were sleep-puffy with dark circles. His unruly hair was flattened on one side. He was still in his rumpled suit, and he had that grumpy I-haven't-had-my-first-cigarette look about him.

And unfortunately, he was still as handsome as he ever was, at least to Ed.

Spike, by the same token, was taking this moment to study Ed. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and spoke of prolonged crying. Her face looked pinched, drawn, and sad - and her cheeks had none of the high color they usually did. And she still held the piece of toast between her teeth.

Oh, geez, thought Spike. Only Ed could look good with toast stuck in her mouth. Out loud, he finally asked, "Are you all right?"

Ed stared for a moment. "Fine," she replied, the word muffled by the toast. Spike dropped his hand from her arm. Ed sidestepped him and continued down the hall. Spike watched her go for a moment, and then continued to the kitchen. Jet glanced up briefly, and then went back to squinting at the newspaper.

"Spike."

"Jet." Spike went to pour himself some coffee. "When were you two planning on leaving?"

Jet rattled the paper. "As soon as Ed is ready to go."

Spike leaned into the corner where the counter surfaces met. He stared for a moment at the surface of the coffee. The clock above the stove ticked off seconds. Then Spike said, "Is there anything on the ship that needs doing while you're gone?"

Jet turned a page. "I think you'll be free to do whatever it is you do around here for a couple of days."

Spike gazed at the back of Jet's head for a few moments. Then he replied, "Okay, then."

Jet drew a breath. "No. Not 'okay, then'." Jet snapped the paper flat and stood, getting up to his full height directly within drill-sergeant range of Spike's nose. "If it were up to me, you'd be off this ship already with your ass up between your shoulder blades, with a second asshole, and your trouser-snake sticking out of your mouth like a damned birthday candle. But it's not up to me. It's going to be up to Ed. And if she decides that she wants you off this ship in the aforementioned condition, it will be my greatest pleasure to do that for her. You should be thanking your lucky stars I'm not going to be here for the next few days. And if you're still here when I get back, you know I'm going to make your life miserable for you until Ed decides yeaor nay about you staying here." Spike had the sense to stay quiet and keep eye contact with Jet while he said this piece. And after saying it, Jet gave Spike one more look that spoke of possible death and dismemberment, and then he left the room.

It wasn't until Jet had been out of the room for a few moments that Spike realized that he had been holding his breath, which he released in a loud and relieved exhale. He hadn't been reprimanded (although reprimanded wasn't anywhere near a strong enough word) like that in a very long time, probably not since his childhood, after had had received the worst beating of his life at the hands of his father. Spike seemed to remember that he couldn't stop laughing after his mother, in a fit of exasperation, had called Spike a son of a bitch. So, once again, the reprimand was certainly deserved.

And while Spike would have probably preferred to just pack up his crap and finally leave this ship, he also knew that leaving before he received his deserved licks from Jet as well as Ed would make him the worst of cowards. Jet deserved his opportunity to give himwhat-for. But certainly not as much as Ed did.

That morning, Faye was absently staring off into the corner of the small coffee shop. She had several poker hands in front of her because she had been playing against herself for a few hours. She hadn't been able to sleep well after her conversation with Jet the night before. It was one thing for Spike to treat her unfairly and with possible malice, but it was quite another for Spike to treat Ed that way. Faye honestly had thought that Spike was rather fond of the girl. On the other hand, Faye also suspected that Spike meant more to Ed than Ed meant to Spike. This was never a good thing, especially for the Eds of the universe.

A steaming cup of coffee was suddenly set down in front of Faye, breaking off her train of thought. She looked up in the ever-handsome face of Justin Winfield, and smiled. "Do you ever sleep, Winfield?"

Winfield shrugged. "The casino never sleeps. I've learned to get by with only a few hours a night and quick naps during the day. You never know when something is going to happen." At this point, he frowned and began tapping at his temple. Then Winfield looked in another direction, and he looked for all the world like he was twirling a lock of his hair. Faye watched, both interested and confused. Finally, Winfield pulled a small filament wire from his hair, at the end of which was a tiny ear bud. "Damn things still aren't working right. There may be too much electronic interference with all the machines."

Faye shrugged. "I wouldn't know about that."

Winfield pulled a different earpiece out of his pocket and screwed it into his ear. "I really want these newer models to go online so that we can be more discreet looking. Problem is, these guys that I have working for me are all numb nuts."

Faye laughed. "Maybe Ed can give them some pointers when she gets here."

Winfield brightened. "That's right. She's coming to visit in a couple of days, right? For her birthday."

Faye sighed and looked across the casino. "Yeah, for her birthday."

Winfield's eyebrows knitted together. "Is something wrong?"

"Well, I'm not sure. Apparently the poor kid had one lousy birthday. Usually, Spike takes her out for dinner or something, and from what I understand, he acted like . . . Ugh!" Faye grunted and rolled her eyes. "I don't want to talk about that lunkhead anymore. I'm definitely not happy with him right now."

"Well, perhaps we can make it up to Ed when she gets here."

Faye smiled at Winfield. "That would be nice." Suddenly Winfield frowned, and looked out across the casino. Then he stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. Faye, confused, began to speak, "What the . . . ?"

"Faye, get down under the table."

"What?" Winfield didn't answer, but he did actually push hard on Faye's shoulder, and her surprise at his strength knocked her out of her chair. Then she heard the unmistakable boom of a high-powered pistol and crashing glass, the kind of noise that made her think that a crystal chandelier had just been shot down from the ceiling. Faye, for one brief moment, felt for her gun before remembering that her Glock had been confiscated upon her arrival and registration into the poker tournament. Presumably she would be getting it back. If not, she'd have to have some words with Winfield, who, at this moment, had leapt over the iron railing that separated the coffee shop from the rest of the casino. He disappeared into the screaming throng who was working to escape from the noise, the opposite direction as he. Faye waited. There was another gunshot and then some yelling, as well as ayelp that Faye figured was someone getting hurt. Hopefully not by a bullet. Hopefully not Winfield because he'd been really nice to her so far.

Faye remained where she was for quite a while, hunkered down on her elbows and knees below the surface of the table, with her fingers in her ears, staring at the floor in front of her. Soon, a pair of feet came into view, male-sized feet wearing very expensive shoes. They could have been ostrich for all she knew. Then the feet stopped directly before her, and Faye could see the legs that the feet belonged to bent to accommodate a person bending down to her level. Then Faye looked up to see the bemused face of Winfield. He chuckled and said, "It's all over but the shouting, Faye. Are yousure you're a bounty hunter?"

Faye took her fingers out of her ears, gave a lopsided smile and said, "I've been told I wasn't actually very good at it. I caused more trouble than I solved." Winfield laughed at that, and held out his hand, to help her up. As she struggled to her feet, Faye said, "What happened?"

Winfield shrugged. "It was a half-assed attempt to cause some confusion so that guys could grab some cash boxes off the trains. None of the cash was lost, but two guys got away before we could grab them. I have to go and check in with the camera surveillance so that we can get some cowboys after them. Andno,I don't mean you." He touched Faye's nose and grinned. "You need to stay here and play poker."

Faye's nose was almost burning from the little light touch he placed on it. Discomfited, she said, "Um . . . perhaps if you gather some intelligence on those guys, I can pass it on to a couple of cowboys I know . . . who are much better at the job than me."

Winfield thought for a moment. "Deal. Just let me get that for you." Winfield shifted his eyes to her ear. "Oh, it seems you forgot something."

Faye's hand automatically went to her ear. "What?"

"Not much. Just this." And in a single move, Winfield dropped a kiss directly on Faye, who jumped as his tongue made a delicate swipe across her lips. "See ya." Before Faye could respond, he was already gone and walking away from her, talking into an unseen microphone.

Ed and Papa took the quick journey out by the light rail, and they soon found a beach bungalow and an old deep-sea trawler for hire. It seemed in no time at all, both Ed and Papa were resting comfortably in deck chairs, fishing line over the side, and their bare feet up on the railing.

"What do you think we'll catch, Papa?"

Jet squinted at the sky. "This time of day? Probably nothing."

"Not even the Old Man Surfing Sea Turtle?"

"You mean Old Pipeline?" Jet chuckled. He couldn't believe she remembered that story he had made up for her so long ago, when they first started fishing together. "I thought I told you, he turned into an old man-person and lived alone on an island."

"But he had to wear his shell for all eternity, because he would still always be a turtle."

"And the moral of the story was . . .?"

Ed sighed. "The More We Change, the More We Stay the Same."

"I thought it had more to do with not squishing someone else's sea cucumbers."

"No, that was the moral I came up with when you first told me that story," and Ed laughed. Jet laughed right along with her when Ed pitched her voice high and silly, chanting, "Apples! Pears! Sea Cu-u-u-u-u-u-u-ucumbers! Tomatoes are good to eat but horseshoe crabs are bad on feet!" When Jet finally stopped laughing, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

Ed closed her eyes, let the sun fall on her face, and smiled. Right here, right now, everything was okay.

Right here, right now, as far as Spike was concerned, everything was not okay. Jet and Ed had left some time ago, but it was a long while before Spike felt comfortable with taking up his normal spot on the couch with a fresh deck of smokes. His feet were on the table, his head rested on the sofa back, and the stick he held in his fingers was lit. He appeared to be the epitome of relaxation.

Inside, however, he couldn't have been in more unrest.

Hadn't he thought, less than twenty-four hours ago, that he'd be able to tell Ed to "let it go" and everything would just work itself out? Now, another woman hated his guts, and he was inches away from Jet either tossing him out on his ass or putting a bullet in his head. Or both.

He took a drag on the cigarette. A long time ago, he had said to Jet, "There are three things that I hate . . . kids... animals... and women with attitude. Why do we have all three neatly gathered here?" Spike began to ponder each one in turn.

Women with attitude. Well, Faye, of course. She'd sashayed right onto the ship and despite his best attempts, right into his heart. Which was simply not going to do? So he'd held her at arm's length, and made her hate him. Because it was easier that way, less messy. And to show for it, he had a scar on his throat where she had attempted to rip it out, with a surprising amount of success, and a dent in his bedroom wall where she'd punched it. Less messy. Right.

Animals. Ein. That damned dog. Ein had puked in his shoes on more than one occasion. Ein had also eaten the last woolongs out of his wallet, and was always given first dibs on leftovers. But Ein worked with Spike for months on end when he'd been released from the hospital after fighting Vicious. And Ein had talked to him when Spike was still physically unable to speak. And Ein had saved his life when Spike was lying on the floor suffering a stroke, causing a severe deficit to his own life. And then Ein had died, alone, decades after watching each of his four-legged friends be put to death in front of him. And when I saw him lying there . . . Spike took a drag on his cigarette. He was not going to visit that memory tonight.

Kids. That should have classified Ed, who had spun into all of their lives with incoherent shrieks and babbling. And then, Ed had grown up from an awkward, silly brat into a lithesome, intelligent, and beautiful woman.

Only without an attitude.

But Spike had lumped her into the same category as Faye, and had been successful in keeping her at arm's length as well, before she could slink into his heart the way that Faye had. Yet she had, even without him realizing it, and that was the cruelest cut of all.

You got rid of Faye, and now you got rid of me, she'd said. Happy, now?

I can't say that I am, Ed, as Spike remained motionless on the sofa, the cigarette in his fingers burning down, unsmoked.

Cowboy BeBop is copyrighted by Sunrise, Inc.