Chapter 2: A Night in White Satin

A "Moody Blues" reference. Although, for a moment it made me think of the seriously clichéd idea of an older man bringing in his new lover to – moonlight pouring in the window and white satin sheets. (I've read too many absolutely horrid X-Files fanfics.)

What the hell is going on here?

We're in another cab, on our way to the hotel. Jet's informed me that we're going to be staying at La Maison Vert. "The Green House". It's the only four-star hotel in this city. It's very likely the most expensive hotel in this part of the world. This is not where ex-cops and current fugitives go to shack up on bounty hunts. When I remind him of this, he shrugs it off. Yet another friend who owes him a favor. Exactly how many people were you a fall guy for, Jet?

We check into two separate rooms, but we're informed that our rooms are connected. Great. That means I can hear him snore all night. Just what I need. The buzz from the scotch is gone and I'm feeling sour. And disgusted. I can't really explain why, and that disturbs me. Maybe I'm antsy about this mission.

Maybe I'm antsy about Jet.

He's been acting funny too. Normally, he's the one who uptight. He wants a plan, a structure, something solid. Jet never plays things by ear. Now, he's perfectly fine with just coasting along.

Warning bells are going off in my head, and I don't know how to stop them. So I unpack my clothes, hanging them carelessly in the closet. Why Jet wanted me to bring along formal wear is beyond me. I'd love to ask him, but considering the current state of confusion we're in, it might be pointless.

A knock on the connecting door catches my attention. I open it, and there he is. "Spike, there's going to be an open party tonight in the casino. All hotel guests are invited. You wanna go?"

There's a casino here? This is definitely ranking in the top three of all-time 'most bizarre bounty hunts.' We're not making plans to catch this mind blending freak. We're not wondering how to avoid being slaughtered when we actually began to go after him. We're going to get dressed up to go mingle with people who wouldn't give us the time of day if they passed us on the street. And speaking of which, where did Jet get all of this money to throw around? That cabby nearly crapped his pants when he saw his tip.

I want to gamble, though. Maybe it'll get my mind off how rotten this whole thing smells. And most likely there'll be free drinks. I agree. "Wanna meet by the elevators at 10?"

I nod and shut the door. I suddenly get a whiff of myself and nearly gag. Is that what I usually smell like? I'd better shower, and fast.

The hot water plasters my hair to my scalp and sears my skin, but I don't notice. I'm still thinking about the ride here. Jet was awfully quiet the whole time. For him, anyway. He hardly had a thing to say for most of a five-hour flight. What was on his mind? And when I kissed him…why did it feel so incredibly…emotionless?

He didn't get mad, which I should be grateful for. Jet's a pretty understanding guy, but "drunkenness" isn't exactly a 'get out of jail free' card with him. But I was hoping for some reaction. Preferably hot burning lust, but failing that, I would have gladly taken a tongue-lashing in lieu of indifference.

He doesn't want you. He made that abundantly clear.

I shake my head and water goes everywhere. If that's how he feels, fine. I don't want to kiss him again. It was a mistake.

I repeat that aloud, trying to convince myself. "It was a mistake." My lips press together in a grim line, and instantly I feel the fullness of his lips against my own. The cool metal surrounding his eye, against my own hot cheek. The coarse hair of his beard against my chin and the sleek skin of his bare scalp cupped in my hand.

At least I think I can feel it.

I want to kiss him again. Who am I fooling?

I'm standing by the elevators. It's 10:25. And Spike's late.

It doesn't really matter, though. This affair's likely to go on well past one a.m. And gambling doesn't stop just because it's dark outside. I adjust my bow tie and straighten out the sleeves on my shirt. It's white satin, one of the nicest dress shirts I own. I've worn it once. With…her.

Who's 'her'? I can hardly remember her name. I seem to be forgetting a lot of things today, which is strange for me. I can't remember the name of the in-flight movie. I can't remember the name of the brandy I was drinking, which is a shame; I was looking forward to having more of it. I can't remember why I suddenly felt the urge to bring along a tuxedo, considering that I had no idea this function was going on tonight.

I do, however, remember Spike being angry with me. More than once. I'm not sure why. It bothers me, but not much.

"Jet."

He's finally here. And he looks…different. I squint a little. Is he actually wearing his Syndicate uniform? It's like his usual suit, except he's wearing a three button waistcoat, decorative fob chain and a matching floor length coat. He looks like the Spike Spiegel version of Vicious. He looks stylish. He looks sexy.

Sexy? Where did that come from?

We enter the elevator, which is mostly glass and positioned location-wise to give passengers an optimal view of the two lowest floors. It moves slowly, and Spike looks uncomfortable. I wish I knew why.

"You look good."

"So do you," I answer. He looks up at me, with a disconcerted expression on his face. I must have hit a pretty sore nerve at some point. Maybe while I was drinking on the plane. Something about Julia, maybe?

I can't remember.

The elevator stops on the fourth floor, and a very pretty lady, wearing a strapless, beaded gown, enters. I look at her for a few moments before comprehension strikes. It's the stewardess from the plane. She recognizes us immediately. "Hey, you two."

Spike smiles at her, but I can see through the mask. His grin is more false than that glass eye. "What are you doing here?"

"Layover," she replied. "All of the Silver Stream flight crews stay here in between flights. My next flight's not for a few days, so I'm going to the party." She smiles, moves in a little closer. "I suppose you guys were headed there as well?"

We nod, mutely.

"You both look very nice."

I look away at this point. Spike takes up the slack and begins a conversation with her, but I don't want to bother. I can't remember enough of anything to have much worth saying.

This should bother me a lot more than it does right now.

The lights in the grand ballroom are blazing. The machines are ringing cheerfully, as voices yell out in joy and anguish. Dealers are calling for bets, people are shouting out numbers. Human drama, shaken and stirred at the push of a button.

Spike's gone in the direction of the blackjack tables with the flight attendant tagging along behind. He's still not speaking to me, but I can't be bothered to care anymore. The one-armed bandits are calling me, and their siren song is too much to resist. I place myself in front of one and slip off the glove that covers my metal hand. I've got about fifty tokens on me right now, but I plan to increase it. And quickly. I touch the lever with a grasp that borders on reverence. It hums with a rhythm that I can only feel through this hand.

There are some benefits to losing an entire limb. Precious few, granted. But being able to tell when a slot machine's going to be a winner is an excellent trade-off.

A waiter comes by with a shoulder tray full of drinks. "Sir, would you like anything in particular tonight?"

I pause for a moment, and my arm burns. A winning pull just went by. Damn. "What would you recommend?"

"We've serving complimentary mimosa, single-liquor calls, and mixed wells all night. If you prefer our better wines, imported beer or champagne, the first one is free."

I jerk my arm, and the machine jingles out 75 wulongs worth of tokens. My timing's a little slow just now. "Do you serve peach brandy?"

"As a matter of fact, we do. Would you prefer Georgia Peach?"

I like this guy already.

A sip of brandy warms my stomach. Two more quick swallows, and the glass is completely drained. The waiter, whose name is Nikolai, is by my side, watching me play. "Man, you're amazing. I can't remember the last time I saw anyone do so well on these slot machines."

"I can't remember a lot of things right now," I reply as I hand him ten tokens. He pockets them and picks up my glass. "More Georgia Peach?"

"Please."

"I'll be right back." He turns back and says in a lower voice, "Thanks for the tips. To be such rich bitches, this bunch sure tips badly."

I chuckle to myself as he leaves. I suppose if I was eight thousand wulongs down, I wouldn't be too concerned about tipping on a free drink either. It's pretty obvious, at least to me, that this casino is rigged. No wonder they're so eager to hand out the premium liquor; they'll more than make up the loss through the back end. But fortunately, I've done a good job of beating the system without being too obvious. I've played pretty well tonight, and I'm ready to haul my buckets to the cash-in counter and collect.

I hear a grumbling sort of sigh behind me, right before I smell an unpleasant combination of alcohol and body heat. Someone plops down in front of the machine to my left, takes a few of my tokens out of the winner's tray, and feeds them into the slot. I watch as he loses four times in a row before he slumps against the display. His face is drawn and pained as our eyes meet.

Nikolai comes back by with my snifter, but Spike relieves him of it, gulping down the brandy in one go. He sets the empty glass back in the surprised man's hand. The waiter opens his mouth to speak, but I wave him away. "Friend of mine."

The explanation seems to be enough, as he nods quickly and goes off in search of other customers. Spike makes a sudden jerk and kicks one of my many pails of tokens. He looks down, eyes wide.

"How the hell did you get all this money?" he asks in a garbled voice.

"Because I wasn't playing cards drunk," I tell him. "Help me carry these."

He does, following me silently to the counter. I'm only the fourth person to come by this way tonight, I'm informed as I hand over ten buckets of winnings. Apparently 'take the money and run' isn't a terribly popular saying around these parts. The cashier hands me a thrice-counted stack of bills, and Spike whistles shrilly. "35 grand? Damn, Jet. What'd you start off with?"

"50 wulongs."

He shakes his head, morose. "I had 2500 and I was winning, but I got sloppy…"

"In more ways than one, obviously."

He doesn't answer as he follows me to the elevators. I have to help him in, seeing as how he doesn't have the balance to walk in a very straight line anymore. I take my metal arm from around his shoulders, but he's still hanging on to me. He's clutching me. As if he was drowning.

Maybe he is.

I try to get him to let go, and his grip tightens. I laugh, nervously. "Spike, we can't go to our rooms like this. Let go."

He looks at me, with that expression that makes me wonder what it is that I can't remember. It's full of ire and bitterness and deep hurt and old wounds that haven't healed. I've done something to hurt him, I know that much. So why don't I know what I did? Any other time that Spike Spiegel is angry with me, I can name the exact time, place, and tone of voice that I used on him. But this time, there's…

…nothing.

I flinch as his breath hits me in the face. It's hot and it reeks of stale smoke, sour-smelling whisky and the unmistakable putrid odor of vomit. His voice is close to pleading. "Jet, don't you remember what happened on the plane?"

I think back, desperately. There was a stewardess…and there was brandy…and there was London Broil…and Spike was mad…but why? There isn't a single cohesive thought in there. I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I don't."

He snarls, with a feral glint in his mismatched eyes. "You think that's fucking funny, Jet? I'll bet you had a good laugh about me with that bitch Elayne. Oh, wait, you don't know who she is either, do you."

That isn't a question, but I shake my head anyway.

He shoves himself away from me, throwing his unsteady self right into the glass wall. My instinct is to go to him, to ask if he's alright. But I fight it; right now it would be quite unwise to approach him. "She's the fucking stewardess, Jet. You spent a good hour looking up at her tits. You didn't see her name tag?"

I look away. I'm not going to encourage this. He goes on.

"First-class my ass. I'll bet she was your favor, wasn't she? What did the two of you do, wait until I was in the bathroom and find a way to fuck up my head?" The elevator stops at our floor and he makes a mad dash for the open doors, tripping on his way out. This time, I help him up, but he immediately pushes me away again, staggering down the hall.

I can't stand this anymore. "Spike!" I yell. "Spike, what happened on the plane?"

A shouted "Fuck you!" is the only answer I get. Cursing, I go to my room, but remember not to slam the door just in time. People are sleeping, after all.

I run in my room and stumble as quickly as I can in the direction of the bathroom. I can feel my throat contracting, warning me that I only have a few seconds left before I disgorge my stomach contents and my dignity all over the floor. Fortunately, I make it to the toilet before my body forcibly rejects all of the alcohol that I've been pouring in over the course of the day.

That moron…

He was right fucking there! He wasn't anywhere near as drunk as I was! How can he tell me 'I don't remember' with a straight face?

He doesn't want you, Spike. You should know that by now. He's trying to let you down easy.

I heave so hard that I have to clutch the toilet seat to keep from pitching forward and falling in the bowl face first. Dimly, I hear pounding on the connecting door. Jet must have opened his, but he can't get through mine unless I let him in.

"Spike!" a muffled voice calls. I can't answer immediately as my stomach lurches again. But as soon as I can catch my breath and spit out the bile in my mouth, I shout, "Leave me the hell alone, Jet!"

He won't leave me alone. I know that much about him. I clench my teeth as my body gives me yet another sharp warning. The muscle contractions are enough to make me shake.

I hear a distant sigh as I drop my face towards the bowl.

There are no more knocks on the door.

I've brushed my teeth four times, and I still can't get the taste of vomit out of my mouth. Instead, I torture myself in another way: staring in the mirror. I feel like shit, and I definitely look it. My hair, never exactly the paragon of haute couture, is limp and bedraggled with sweat. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, both from the alcohol and from my rendezvous with the porcelain throne. My sinuses are completely clogged, yet somehow my nose is running. My throat is raw from all of the acid that's been flooding through it.

I croak out a laugh. I couldn't look any more pathetic if I had been crying for an hour.

It's nearly two a.m. And there hasn't been a sound from Jet's room for a long time. He's not even snoring. I wonder vaguely whether or not he's gone out. With all of the craziness that's gone on today, it wouldn't surprise me if he had. But I'd like to know.

I walk over to the connecting door and open my own, raising my hand to knock on his. But there's no need, because he's standing right there. Silent. Solemn. Sad. I'm too stunned to put my hand down right away. So we stand there for a few moments, me with a hand frozen in mid-air, and him, stock-still.

My sniffling is the only sound.

My hand falls limply by my side, as he turns away to go sit on his bed. He hasn't invited me in just yet. But he also hasn't told me to get the hell out of his room. I suppose that's a good sign. So I take his permission for granted, and walk over to him.

He's not looking at me. He's staring down at his hands, the metal one intertwined with the fleshy one.

"Jet," I rasp out, and he looks up at me. I'm rather surprised to see that he's calm. Unhappy, but composed. I was expecting anger, disgust, or guardedness…but no, he's just looking at me. "You really don't remember the plane ride here, do you?"

He sighs, his shoulder drooping about an inch. I'm scrutinizing his face as he prepares to answer. It's got that same look he's had every time I ask him this question: sincere puzzlement. "I don't, Spike. I've got these bits and pieces, but it's like…they're jumbled. I can't recall a single event on that plane from beginning to end."

I can't comprehend this. He's not being disingenuous. It's like parts of his memory have been snatched away. I try again. "Jet, that watch in your pocket, where did you get it?"

He thinks for a moment. "She gave it to me. But…I don't know who she is. And I want to throw it away, but I said I'd keep it until it stopped or she came back. But…" He shook his head. "If she comes back, I don't think that I'll even know her."

My heart thunders. This can't be! Jet would never forget about Alisa! What the hell's happened to him? "What was your old nickname in the ISSP?"

His face looks strained, as he grasps for memories that aren't there anymore. "Red Bull…I think?"

"Shit, Jet," I murmur. This is bad. Really bad. "Why are we in this hotel?"

He looks around, as if the answer might jump out at him. "We're on a hunt, right?"

Success! "And why are we after this guy, again?"

"…it's a guy? I could have sworn it was a woman…"

I gulp. Did this guy's powers extend far enough to affect people who weren't even near him yet? But now that I think about it…Jet never told me where our quarry actually was. No physical description. No modus operandi. No location. All anyone seemed to know about this man was that he played mind games, and he killed people.

I look into his eyes again. Was his mind wiped? Or did he ever know?

He looks back at me, with a blank, vaguely disturbing stare. His eyes are…wrong, somehow. They're almost blank. There's no comprehension there. This is really scaring me. I shake him by his shoulders. "Jet. Jet."

His satin shirt slides in my grasp, and he's about to ask me a question. I let go; I want to hear this.

"What did I say on the plane to make you so mad, Spike? I would apologize…but I don't know what I did." His voice is meeker and quieter than I've ever heard it. This doesn't sound like him. This is horribly wrong.

…but don't you want him to know, anyway? Admit it, you want to kiss him again.

I'm standing near him, just a little way from his face. It's too tempting, especially when he swallows nervously. I begin to back away from him. I can let this go if I leave right now.

But he restrains me, with almost zero effort. "Spike, whatever it is, say it."

I've lost. I climb onto his lap and tilt his head upward, kissing him hard. He makes a little, surprised gasp, but this time our tongues meet.

I can feel his metal hand on the small of my back. His arms wrap around me and hold me steady as he lies down backwards, taking me with him. Our kiss is growing more frantic. I'm trying to get his shirt open; he's working our hips together.

I finally manage to get the last button open, and the white satin shirt makes its new home on the floor on the other side of the bed. Jet uses his considerable weight advantage to roll us over so that he's on top. His fingertips lightly skim the waist of my pants. But his eyes are all wrong. They're not full of lust. They don't hold any guilt or shame, either. They're not even contemptuous. They're just…staring at me. Unseeing. Unfeeling. Indifferent, even as he caresses me and makes me moan.

I hate it. I hate my treacherous body for submitting to this. I hate him for having such a strong yet unconscious grip on my emotions. I hate the look in his eyes. This will be just another event that he won't remember.

He's kissing me now, and despite what my mind has to say, my body won't listen. I hear my voice crying out for him as he pleases me without even knowing about it, and I hate myself. I don't want to be his one-night stand.

But you want to be something to him, don't you? You'd better take what you can get.

He's got my pants around my ankles at this point, and the realization of what's about to happen strikes me with bullet force. There's no way I can let this continue. If I could just say "no", he'd listen. I know he would.

He grasps me with his real hand, and to my horror, I hear myself begging, "Jet, please…do it."

We both come to a dead stop as the fire alarm suddenly goes off, shattering the sweltering silence in the room.