I've worked at this chapter for about two months now. It has been impossible to let go, mainly because after this, we move on to part II of Heroes. I wanted it to be perfect, but that's next to impossible at this point. It might ease confusion if you re-read the prologue since this chapter follows it chronologically. It might make more sense that way. I'm going to clear up a few things ahead of time. There are two Vincents in this story: Vincent from Faye's past (i.e. Vincent Volaju), and Vicious, whose real name is also Vincent. Second, Ella is the girl that helped Julia with Faye when they first met (chapter 3: The Enigma of the Hour). Third, the picture Spike refers to in this chapter is from Chapter 2: Morgan. Lastly, this chapter makes a lot of references to the short story that started this endless project--basically, back to the days when Faye was trapped at that military facility after having woken from cryogenic sleep in 2068.

I hope that clears up a bit of the confusion that's about to ensue. Thanks for your patience, and thank you to those who continue to stick with me and review.

Heroes Don't Exist

Chapter 10: Gravity of Light

Thick blood courses in her stained hands. Long, thin fingers stretch out and reach toward the waves of light. Moths with golden dust on their wings swarm the space around her and swallow the oxygen. There are streams of red and white. At first, it is just one fluttering despondently as her limbs shake violently, then another appears and then there are millions of wings everywhere. They swirl around until she feels as though there is no ground beneath her feet. Gravity pushes down on her palms, but when she glances down at her hands again, there is nothing but empty weight. This is what hell is like.

Vincent? She moaned out his name. She couldn't see him through all the blood. She couldn't hear any breathing or gasping because her heart was inside her head, expanding and floating there.

What have I done?

She touched his face. Even then, as she held him tightly and desperately, she blamed him. If he had truly loved her, then he would have let her go. If she had truly loved him—

Faye! The door burst open. She pulled his body closer to her with a sense of morbid ownership.

What are you doing? Mendelo shouted. He stared at her as if she were a bewildered and dangerous animal.

I've killed him, she thought but wasn't sure she said it. Mendelo kneeled down, and put an ear to Vincent's face and a hand on his neck. Mendelo's dark eyes revealed nothing. He stood up and looked right past her. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then met Faye's eyes with resignation. Vincent was dead.

We have to go, Mendelo told her and attempted to pull her up, but her bloody arm slipped through his grip.

I can't—I don't know, she stammered. She let Vincent go. She felt his blood rising in her throat. Even without touching it, she was bound to his body.

They'll find you, and you'll end up dead too. Let's go, he said in a slow, demanding tone.

I didn't want this. I don't know why—how could I do this? I loved him, she whispered. Mendelo glanced at the body for a few seconds and then back at her.

I believe you, Mendelo said gently, and mustered the strength to pull her up by both arms this time.

She heaved out a last mournful cry and turned away from Vincent. Mendelo got her a towel from the bathroom to wipe the heavy red from her arms. As they made their escape, it was Mendelo that dragged her through the halls. Her limbs would turn stiff or her legs would give out. Her arms became so unbearable that she felt they were ripping at the shoulder joints. Those five minutes—that whole week—became a daze, like one of those distant memory-dreams. But every so often, the whole scene would rise out the depths like a primordial beast, and his death would permeate her mind for days and nights at a time.

She honestly thought that Vincent would agree to come with her. She never imagined that he would cling to his blank past so blindingly. He was a general's son so distinguished and powerless at the same time. Vincent loved her, and she thought that maybe, just maybe, it was enough love to leave that place behind. But loving too hard never translated into selflessness. There were sacrifices that even love couldn't excuse.

Why are you talking like this suddenly? Vincent asked her.

I'm exhausted, Vincent. Don't you get tired of this isolation? This life? You're a prisoner just like me, she said.

This is only temporary, he said and held her. We'll figure something out. Besides, this isn't so bad.

Yes, it is. Her body was stiff in his arms. He let go, suddenly repelled by her. He shook his head.

What do you want from me? Anger glistened in his eyes.

Don't judge me. You know this isn't a contest of who loves whom, she said trying to reason with him.

We're done with this conversation. You'll get us killed.

She glared at him as he walked away. She brought her hands to her face to stop from reaching toward him or running after him. He had made his choice, and she had just made hers. Dr. Mendelo Al-Hedia was ready and willing to help her. She had to do this because she couldn't stay one more day. Mendelo had known all along that it would happen this way. The doctor had prepared for it with enough sedatives to spike Vincent's bottle of gin. Every night, he would take a drink in order to go to sleep. That night, she had to make sure he wouldn't wake up. But she should have been smarter. It was Vincent, after all, who taught her how to be cautious, how to defend herself, and how to trust no one. He must have suspected. Faye didn't realize he had thrown the gin away, not until it was too late.

When she rose from bed, she felt his large fingers on her arm like grappling hooks. She gasped but luckily her other hand had already reached the gun she had taped under the bed. Still, she didn't move for a whole minute to give him a chance to back out.

What are you doing, he asked softly as though barely woken from a deep sleep.

I'm leaving.

No, you're not, he uttered.

Let me go, she whispered. They were both frozen in their positions.

You can't, he said, voice breaking at the seams. She took one deep breath and pulled her hand from underneath the bed. She aimed the Glock at his head. He was so startled that in that instant, he released her arm and propelled out of bed. She did the same but still holding her arm steady in the darkness.

Where did you get a weapon? He was truly surprised. He had violated his own rules about trust, believing he could persuade Faye into staying.

There's a lot you don't know, she answered. There's a lot you never asked. Her eyes threatened her, but she swallowed the balled-up tears down her throat.

He moved toward the door of the room. He would stop her at all costs.

I need you, he said, meaning it to be monotonous, but it sounded like he was pleading.

I know, she whispered back. A tight pressure rose from her stomach to her chest. Her whole body trembled, all except for her hands.

You and I both know this won't happen, he said. His detachment returned.

So you've told me. Most of her emotions ebbed back into her stomach, where she could ignore them. But anger remained pumping in her heart. Her eyes drowned in resentment.

You're not capable of this, he said.

You've no idea what I'm capable of. She cocked the gun. Come with me, she demanded in a low tone. She knew the answer, and so he said nothing.

I won't be kept. I need to be free. I'm not one of those snow globes. You have not seen what I've seen, she said and new tears suddenly breached her defenses. Her arm tensed, and his eyes held terror in them, as though he had foreseen his future in hers. She never knew she would see him—stoic, laconic Vincent—scared. She couldn't have imagined it before if she tried.

She shot him three times. The silencer choked the sound. He had his arm outstretched toward her as she shot him, and when his body fell backwards, she stopped breathing. She had to do it. He wouldn't have moved. He wouldn't have let her go. She needed to be free.

She needed to breathe.

--

She was gasping. The pain in her stomach was unbearable. She could feel herself bleeding to death—liquid hot rushing out of her by the gallons. She was dying. She tried to move her arms, but the pain made her cry out louder. Her eyes could not focus. All she could make out was white. It wasn't the sky.

"Hey, hey. Don't move. Here, drink this for me. I'm sorry, but the IV ran out. You'll need to take this for the pain." Hands lifted her head and put pills in her mouth. She drank the water and gagged a little before swallowing. The disembodied voice mumbled something and then set Faye's head down again.

"It'll take a while to kick in. I'm sorry."

"What year is it?" Faye asked through clenched teeth. How many times would she have to fear the answer to such a stupid question?

The voice said nothing for a while, and then, "Twenty seventy-two."

Tears rushed out unexpectedly from relief, and then all was black again. When Faye came to, she heard the same voice again. She felt calmer now. The pain was still present but mostly as a dull soreness.

"You need to tell me what the hell is going on," the voice urged. "I'm tired of waiting. I've given you a chance to get over the shock, so who is she, Spike? What the hell happened?" Faye finally recognized her. It was Maggie. Faye's eyes hurt to open, but she took a deep breath and allowed her sight to come into focus. She was in a bedroom. All was white. An empty IV bag hung from a large nail on the wall. Streaks of sunlight escaped through the gaps of the window blinds.

"Is she in danger?" Maggie asked. "Oh God, are we?" Maggie's voice was coming from just outside the door of the room.

"You're not," Spike answered. "For now."

"Who are you people? Who the hell did this?"

"Most likely the Red Dragons."

"Who?"

"The syndicate I used to belong to," Spike's voice was as unsentimental and unapologetic as always. There was a long pause after that.

"I'm going to check on her," Maggie said in a lower tone. Faye feigned sleep. The door opened and then closed again. Faye felt the pressure of her bladder as a new pain. When she felt Maggie's hand checking her pulse, Faye opened her eyes again. Maggie jumped slightly, and then shook her head.

"You're awake," Maggie whispered. "How are you feeling?" There were stripes of golden light on her young face. It was coming from a small window. Though shut tightly, the white blinds let in the sun in streams. Maggie's lips, cheeks, and even eyelids trembled, not knowing what expression to reveal. There was no trace of compassion in her face. She checked Faye's vitals, like going through the motions, a familiar routine on an unfamiliar patient.

"I feel like hell," Faye said, feeling more sorry for Maggie than Maggie felt for her.

"It was Vicious," Spike stated as he came into the room. Faye wasn't sure whether it was a question. Maggie's face stiffened and her expression finally turned into something recognizable. She was livid.

"You could have been killed." Spike sounded strangely reprimanding.

"It's only a matter of time before Vicious comes after you," Faye responded. She didn't feel like contradicting or correcting him.

"How did he find you?" Spike asked. Faye half-laughed and half-cried at the memory of Vincent's ghastly face. That wasn't a memory she could handle quite yet.

"That's a good question," she said. "I suppose the undead have their powers."

"Is she delirious?" Spike turned to Maggie, for the first time acknowledging her presence in the room.

"I think she's being sarcastic." Maggie's hands turned to fists as she adjusted the bed sheets.

"Are you an idiot? You're lying half-battered to death on my fucking bed." Faye wasn't sure, but she thought he was scolding her.

"Don't worry, daddy, I can't die either." Faye heard some shuffling and saw that Spike almost lunged at her before Maggie intervened.

"Stop it, both of you. She's a probably a little bit out of it because of the pain meds." Maggie glared at Spike as though she might punch him herself.

"The point is that if he found me, then Vicious can find you too. The longer I stay here, the more in danger we are."

"You are welcome to leave," Spike said, throwing his hands up and backing awat from Maggie.

"Enough!" Maggie hissed as Faye began getting up. It hurt like hell, but she kept it in until she felt Maggie's hands pushing her back down.

"Faye, you're in no condition to go anywhere." Maggie glanced back at Spike, who shrugged angrily and walked out. Maggie pressed her forefinger and thumb against the corner of her eyes—a recognizable attempt to hold back tears.

"Maggie, I really need to get up." Faye hated herself for asking for help.

"You can't. You know that. You can feel it." She still didn't look at Faye.

"I need to go the bathroom," Faye said. Maggie pressed her lips together and nodded.

"All right, I'll get the pan."

"Pan?" Faye whimpered. She didn't remember peeing in a pan. "I prefer the bathroom, please." Faye needed to get out of the room, out of the stark whiteness of it. Maggie nodded restlessly and offered her arm. Faye took it, and held in her cries with all her might as Maggie helped pull her body up.

The limp to the bathroom took forever, but Faye tried to distract herself by examining Maggie, who somehow reminded Faye a little of Ella. She couldn't figure out why. Maggie's red hair, pale skin, soft green eyes and her round face were such a contrast to Ella's thin, tanned face. Where Ella's movements were boyish, Maggie's were pretty and delicate. Faye didn't understand anymore how she saw a resemblance. Perhaps it was just how young they both were in comparison to Faye, who was only a few years older, but miles apart from them. Or was it decades?

Maggie was a lot more help than Faye would have liked. Faye found she couldn't bend down without her legs nearly giving out. The shocker, however, came when she looked in the mirror as she turned the faucet knobs. Faye had wondered why Maggie hadn't flipped the light switch. The bathroom window barely let in any light, but Faye could see the right half of her face purple and green and still tender at the touch of her fingers grazing the skin. She began noticing the pains she had ignored before—like moving her jaw or blinking. Her mangled face explained why it had stung when she tried to open her eyes and worse when she tried to laugh or talk. Her eyes slowly moved over the rest of the body. She scanned and noticed more bruises and scrapes. Jumping out the balcony had been more reckless than she had anticipated. She must have hit her monopod pretty damn hard— all to escape from a ghost.

"How long have I been out?" Faye asked.

"You've been in and out of consciousness for the last four days. Despite what you may look like, you heal remarkably fast." Maggie answered as Faye turned away from the mirror. "The doctor said the bullet was not too deep, but taking it out yourself was rather stupid."

"It wasn't just a bullet. He would have tracked me down with it." Faye regretted saying anything the moment it left her mouth.

"Oh." Maggie seemed disoriented for a moment.

"Why—," Faye stopped, unsure of what she wanted to ask.

"When you came four nights ago, I just heard these loud knocks, and some shuffling downstairs. I got up and came down. I thought Spike had been drinking again. The … um—the door was open, and Spike—he was just standing there in shock. I have never seen his face like that. Your body lay bleeding to death on the couch." Maggie's lips remained open in silence for nearly half a minute.

"You saved me," Faye acknowledged. Maggie didn't respond. Faye took a hold of Maggie's arm to walk back to the bedroom. Maggie didn't budge.

"What do you want with Spike?" Maggie's age was heavier on her and distorted by the shadows of the dim bathroom

"Nothing. I came to him because he was closest. I wasn't exactly in the position to go to the ER." Faye let go of Maggie's shoulder.

"You're not an ex-girlfriend, are you?" For the first time since she had woken up, Maggie met Faye's eyes.

"No. That was our mutual acquaintance."

"You knew his ex?" Maggie glared at her in disbelief. "That doesn't even matter now."

"I know. I'm sorry." Faye's head was spinning. She wanted to lie down again.

"I don't mind helping you," Maggie said, grabbing Faye's arm and draping it around her neck. Maggie's face was pale and distraught, but her eyes were determined. "I'm going to be a physical therapist someday, so this is somewhat like practice. But here's the thing, after this, you leave him. You leave and never come back here again."

"Maggie, he can't stay here either." Faye pitied her. Maggie had no idea who Spike really was. Maggie acted older, but she was still young and stupid like all the rest when it came to men.

"You just leave." Maggie and Faye walked toward the room in silence.

You can't fix him, Faye wanted to say.

He's not your problem, Maggie would have answered.

When Doc left, Spike was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands and Maggie sat in the old recliner next to him. She had been holding back tears because she knew that was not the time to break down sobbing. Spike didn't know how to react when he saw a woman crying. He would shut down and step back slowly acting like tears were toxic or a disease he did not want to catch. Maggie tried to find the courage and indifference in her. She leaned towards him. Her hand reached toward his face. He pulled back instantaneously.

"Spike, you need to tell me the truth." Her voice was calm and her face as still and expressionless as she could manage

"Not now, Maggie." The urge to cry and hit him pushed harder against her chest. The pressure was nearly unbearable.

"You need to tell me because I can't help if I don't know." She spoke very slowly, so he could hear her clearly.

"I haven't asked for your help," he muttered. She stood up suddenly, her body so surprised (though her mind had predicted it) that she had no idea what to do. Her emotions usurped any control she had left.

"You didn't ask for my help? What fuck is wrong with you!" She shouted as her whole body shook with anger and fear. He stared up at her with that same face of shock she found him with next to Faye's body. "If it weren't for me, you'd still be standing there, and she'd be dead. So screw you. I've done nothing but help you and take care of her, and you—Spike Spiegel—are an asshole. The worst kind."

"Maggie, sit down. You're shaking." His composure was back, but hers kept slipping further and further. He moved to force her to sit. The lamplight made her eyes redder and ferocious.

"Don't touch me." She backed away from him, and wrapped her arms around her trembling body. "Don't you get it? I'm scared. How come we can't take her to a hospital? Why shouldn't we? She's been talking in her sleep or whatever. She keeps saying 'I've killed him.' Who the hell is she?" Maggie couldn't even muster an educated guess.

Spike glanced toward his bedroom door.

"I'm not really sure."

--

It hurt, like needles and knives all at once, like lightning of pain. That was all she could think of—the pain—and that moth. It was so dark, but she could see its golden wings fluttering the distance. The storm in her stomach was killing her. She tried moving the rest of her body but couldn't. She shut her eyes tightly as another cramp stifled her breath.

"Faye." A male voice called to her—the pain began to numb down. "Faye," it said again and the pain returned. "Did you really think you would get rid of me?"

Vincent, her thoughts whimpered and then quickly returned to the horrible ache in her abdomen.

"Ghosts are more alive than those living, and you, you're nothing but a murderer."

It's a dream. Faye pleaded with her mind. Vincent couldn't be there. He hadn't found her. She had opened her eyes, and she had escaped. She had taken out the tracer. She had made it to Spike's apartment. Wake up! she shouted.

--

"Should you be doing that already?" Spike asked though his tone showed no genuine concern. Faye continued getting dressed slowly. Her pants were almost all the way up. She had gotten some loose shorts and a shirt and sweater from Maggie. Faye was finally glad to get out of the oversized shirt and boxer shorts, which no doubt belonged to Spike.

"Why didn't you ask Maggie to help you?"

Faye didn't respond. He had no qualms about staring at her as she put her clothes on. Then again, she was the furthest from being attractive at that moment. After she was finished with her daunting task, she finally spoke.

"The longer I stay here, the worse it is. You know how it works."

"How did Vicious find you? How could you have been so careless?" He lit a cigarette, but his eyes still glared. His mind was filled with anger, screaming at her: you're Oracle for god's sake!

He was so much like Vicious sometimes. His voice, body, and eyes said nothing of his emotions. But maybe it was actually the total opposite. Maybe it was all his emotions all at once rendering them undistinguishable from each other.

"Who the hell said it was Vicious that was after me?"

Spike's façade dropped from his face. He stared at her wide-eyed. He hadn't entertained that possibility yet. Faye laughed but stopped as soon as the pain worsened.

"Let's just say we both have very angry ex-boyfriends." She stood up and looked around for her bracelet. She finally found it in the bathroom. As she exited, she felt a hand grab her by the collar of her sweatshirt and then she was up against the wall, wincing in pain.

"You almost died," Spike said. Emotions whirled around her. She looked into his eyes and noticed the golden flecks of light in his right iris in contrast with the monotone brown of his left one. She searched in his right eye for some idea of what he was thinking. She thought it ironic. He should be the one to talk—always wanting to die, always ending up in bandages. Images and sounds suddenly flooded her—an orange, an ace, soft humming—her head hurt. She groaned and brought a hand up to her forehead. She couldn't quite pull the memory out.

"Don't confuse me with you," she said impulsively. "I'm not the one with a death wish." Her eyes met his again. He had a confounded expression but released her nonetheless.

"We've got to get off Mars for a while." He shook her emotions off him.

"I know. You need to erase that you were here for Maggie's sake."

"Don't act like you know her." They broke their glares. Silence filled the hall.

"Dock 13. There's a ship called the Bebop. It sets sail tonight."

It wasn't shock that Faye felt at first. It was resentment. Faye resented the fact she knew where that phrase came from. She could see white sails bowed out on one side by the force of the wind and the open sea, blue all around, and the sun reflecting against waves pulled by the silent force of a hidden moon.

"What? Why?" she finally asked in disbelief. He was sincerely offering help. He shook his head again, visibly frustrated.

"This is why I hate kids, animals, and tomboys."

His words brought unexpected tears to her throat.

"Come or don't for all I care. The choice is yours."

"Tell Maggie, I'm sorry, and tell her goodbye for me." Faye grabbed the small bag Maggie had prepared for her with painkillers and bandages and left without telling him whether she would come. But both knew that she had nowhere else to go.

--

"You can't," she said. She sucked in some breath to keep from sobbing.

"I have to. Look at it, Mag. Look at the picture. It looks just like her." Spike handed the picture to Maggie again. Maggie refused to take it.

"But it's not her. You said so yourself. It's older than you and me combined. It's impossible." Her voice was already breaking.

"I have it for a reason." He stuffed it back into his inner jacket pocket. He had grown strangely attached to it. It had become his totem, and it would help him bring Julia back to life.

"Let her go. You don't even know her."

"That may be true, but she's right. I can't stay here. It's over. I should have never even been here."

"You're an idiot."

"I know you think that."

"I fucking hate you."

"Make sure you do what I told you." He walked out of his half-empty apartment. He had never liked it anyway. It always stunk of some kind of musty smell he could never put his finger on.

"She's not Julia," Maggie said suddenly. His instincts took over, and he whipped around and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What the hell did you say?" He shook her violently. Maggie let out some sobs.

"I didn't say anything! I don't know what you're talking about." Her eyes were swollen with tears and her lips were trembling convulsively. He let go of her. She fell to her knees sobbing. He didn't say anything. He turned around. Maggie never saw him again.

--

Jet Black ate the last of his soba noodles with contempt. He was leaving. He'd grown tired of waiting around for that freeloader because, for all he knew, Vicious had killed him and now Spike was dead. But it just pissed him off that Spike was so careless. Jet had enough. He was leaving this time for sure.

He got up from the galley and went to the common room to check on his communicator one last time. He had waited for that asshole to call for one whole week. It had become routine that he would check for messages at least five times a day. And he wasn't surprised that this last time, there was nothing still. Spike Spiegel took everything for granted. Jet grunted. Ein gave one small yelp.

"I know, Ein. It's goddamn hopeless." This kind of stress had made him crazy. He was talking to the dog for god's sakes—Spike's dog no less.

When he reached the entrance of the common room, he knew right away something was off. Ein had vanished behind him, and on the table sat a small bonsai tree. He had never seen this one before. He turned around and faced the hallway toward the hangar's direction.

"So what do you think?"

"Jesus," Jet uttered as he faced a body full of bruises and bandages. What had happened? It was just too damn awful to even contemplate. Vicious—he was the bane of everybody's existence. "You look like shit." It was all he could say.

"Well, you sure know how to compliment a girl." She came toward him with Ein trailing behind her. She sat down slowly while biting her lip to withstand the pain.

"Be thankful you don't earn your keep as a guard dog," Jet said to Ein as the dog settled next to Faye. She paid no attention to the animal.

"I saw it in the hangar, by the way." She smiled. "You found the Red Tail."

"You got expensive taste." He sat down on the chair next to her and lit a cigarette. He offered one, but she declined.

"Don't tell me you bought it," she said. Jet only grumbled.

"Just tell me how much."

"If only all of us were as rich as…" he kept grumbling under his breath. She laughed realizing how much she had missed him. She closed her eyes for a moment and let her head roll back into the seat. The sensation of relief swept her in one tingling wave.

"So what happened?" he finally asked.

"I failed." She didn't move.

"That's obvious."

"Spike got in the way." She opened her eyes and stared at the pipes on the ceiling. "Don't worry. He's fine. I'm the one who got banged up."

Jet didn't say anything for a while. Then he got up and picked up his bonsai.

"If you send me another one, I'll finally run out of room." He walked behind the couch, and bent his head down at her. She saw his worried and angry face, but she couldn't help it. She smiled at him.

"I think you'll have to make do with what you have for a while now. He's coming, Jet."

"I didn't ask. I don't care really." He was lying, and they both knew it.

"He asked me to come with him," she said. She sat up to catch Jet's reaction.

"He what?"

"Don't look at me. I'm just as confused as you are. Speaking of the devil," she said as she heard footsteps.

"I hate how you can do that," Jet said.

"You came," Spike said as soon as he saw her.

"You are both lucky that I was even around this long." Jet huffed and nearly crushed his bonsai pot. He left the room immediately. Spike stared after Jet and then turned back to Faye.

"You knew him already?" Spike said. He was indignant, and Faye loved every minute of it.

"It's how I tracked you down."

Spike picked up Jet's box of cigarettes and lit one up. He glanced at Faye from the corner of his eye, and then leaned back. His eyes focused on the ceiling. The fluorescent lights shone brighter in his left eye.

"How much does Jet know about you?" Spike asked.

"He doesn't know I'm Oracle, if that's what you're asking. He's not going to find out. He just thinks I'm an old friend of Julia's, which I am."

"So you're the bonsai freak, the one who's been sending him those trees forever." He paused and after a few drags, he said, "I don't get it. Who the hell are you?"

"If I told you, I'd ruin all the fun."

"We're leaving," Jet said as he entered the commons again on his way to the bridge. He stopped behind Faye for a moment and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Next time," he said.

"Yeah, next time," she replied and she glanced at Spike. Her eyes tried to tell him something, but he didn't understand. Jet wouldn't tell him either. Jet wouldn't talk to Spike for another week until he cooled down. But that didn't worry Spike. The main problem now was that he didn't know what kind of threat Jet had brought on his ship.

Keep your enemies close, he told himself as the Bebop set sail for Jupiter.

--

Chapter inspired by Doug and Mike Starn's artwork. Check it out at starnstudio dot com (Gravity of Light and Attraction to Light)