Chapter 4: Pirithous' Regrets

All right, folks, time to learn a little bit of humanities.

Persephone, the demi-goddess of flowers and daughter of Demeter, the goddess of the seasons, was kidnapped and forced to become the wife of Hades, the King of the Underworld. Because she ate six pomegranate seeds while below, she had to remain with her husband for six months of every year. Hence, fall and winter. Sounds great, doesn't it? Read on.

Later on, an intensely foolish young man, named Pirithous, decided that since Persephone had been kidnapped once, he was going to do it again. (Note: you can't kidnap gods and goddesses. It never turns out well.) He talked Theseus, a clever young man and the future founder of Athens, into helping him. The pair went down to the Underworld and explained to Hades that they intended to kidnap his wife. Hades smiled (when Death is smiling at you, it's time to get the car and leave) and invited them to sit in a chair that he had provided so that they could discuss the matter a little further. When the men sat down, their memories were instantly erased, and they couldn't remember how to stand back up. Hercules eventually rescued Theseus, ripping off part of his thighs in the process (don't you just love these sorts of punishments?). But Pirithous was condemned to stay put.

There you have your lesson in Classic Greek Mythology. Go impress someone.

And if you can't figure out how all of that related to the story, I'm not sure what else to tell you besides, "Read it again." And think about what Pirithous lost.

When I wake up, it's broad daylight. I look at the bedside clock blearily. 10 a.m.? Ridiculous! But I do recall being outside at 2:30 a.m. Stupid fire safety equipment.

I sit up, grumbling some more. Stupid hangover. Stupid bright sunlight increasing the stupid hangover. Stupid casino party. Stupid Jet for mentioning an event with free alcohol to me.

Stupid me for wanting to be with the bastard in the first place. Hell, we could have humped like dogs all night and he'd be none the wiser. I stand up, furious, and a gleam of plastic on the bedside table catches my red eyes.

'Free hot breakfast. Served until 11 a.m.'

Breakfast!… I'm not hungry, but a Prairie Oyster might hit the spot. And after that…I'll be hungry. I get dressed and rush out of my room.

I make it upstairs to the breakfast room twenty minutes later. Running in a building made of blindingly shiny glass while hungover is a horrible idea. But I'm here now, and I'm in front of the omelet cook with a rocks glass. He stares at me, revolted. "You want what?"

"An egg," I answer, shaking the glass at him. "Just put it in there, and a little Tabasco and cayenne too, if you don't mind."

He does, giving me one of the dirtier looks that I've gotten during this trip. Screw him. That's why he makes omelets. I take a small plate and grab some dainty-looking pastries, an apple, and three slices of ham. It's a strange combination, to be sure. I trot away from the line and make my way towards the dining area.

There are several empty tables, but I'm looking at a large, balding man sitting alone near a window. I'm torn as to whether or not I want to sit with him. Just as I decide to walk away, he looks up, eyes filled with guilt. It's decided; I sit across from him.

He's already eaten. A few assorted chunks of fruit and cheese remain, but his plate is pushed away from him. He looks deeply upset. Wisely, I choose not to say anything, and begin on my own food.

I've gulped down the Prairie Oyster and half of the ham is gone before he begins to talk. "When I woke up this morning, I made a call to the ISSP and asked to speak to Roderick about this case."

I raise an eyebrow. "And?"

Jet looks at me, worry lines visible. "Roderick's been dead for two years, Spike."

My fork falls to the table, unheeded. "He's what?"

He bows his head, looking defeated. "At this point, I don't even know whom I spoke with. Most of the officers had their memories purged concerning this bounty, because of the risk of long-term complications. There may be three people in the entire system that could give me information on this case. And even then it may not be any good. There's no guarantee that it's reliable."

"What about this case file?"

"It's documentation of what happened to the officers. There's very little about the actual suspect, because people couldn't remember things from one day to the next."

I pop a cream puff into my mouth and try to make some sense of this situation. But there's nothing to put together. We're still at square one. "Was there ever any sort of profile made on this guy?"

Jet thinks about it. "I think that all they could glean was that he had security issues. And most likely no one had ever noticed him much, hence this constant desire to meddle in others' business."

I immediately think of the man that I just barely noticed last night. Maybe?

Jet's staring out of the window at the city.

I swallow my mouthful of food and steal a few grapes from his plate. "What say I follow up on a possible lead? If it comes to nothing, we're checking out at 4 and getting off this case. Deal?"

Jet nods slowly. "I don't have any other suggestions."

"Are you beginning to remember anything?"

"Just one thing. But I don't want to say it out loud. I'm afraid to jinx it."

I snort, but shrug. Who could blame the poor man for being superstitious at this point?

After we're both done eating, I head down to the front desk to talk with the clerk on duty. I describe the man that I saw last night, but predictably enough, she doesn't know who he is. The main phone line rings, and she gives me the universal sign for 'one moment' as she answers. "Front desk, this is Graciella."

She listens, then repeats the voice on the other end. "Room 618? One moment, please."

I wrinkle my forehead. That's Jet's room…who would be calling there? When she hangs up, I ask her a question. "If you don't mind telling me, that call you placed to room 618, was it internal or external?"

"Internal," she says as she flips through a sheaf of paperwork. I thank her and leave, feeling puzzled. All I can do at this point is tell Jet what I know; maybe he knows a little more. After taking the elevator to floor six, I advance towards Jet's room and knock. There's no answer, even though I can hear him on the phone. I knock more urgently before stopping to listen through the door.

"Where are you? Why are you doing this?"

His breathing is harsh, strangled. I begin to fumble for my room keys. Maybe he's left his connecting door open.

I burst into my room and through the two doors in time to see him collapse from the bed. I snatch up the receiver as I'm feeling for his pulse. "Hello? Hello?"

"Ah, it's you. I thought that I asked Mr. Black to come alone."

"Sorry, I don't take too well to being left behind." He's got a pulse; that's good. His breathing is shallow and he's clammy. Shock? "Mind telling me what you did to him?"

"Just a little…persuasion. Psychic suggestion, if you will. He should wake up in no time."

Jet's eyes stir, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. The voice laughs. "You two are close, aren't you? Yes, indeed…too bad he doesn't remember."

"Who the hell are you?" I'm beginning to get angry. I look at the display on the phone console, hoping to see the number of an incoming extension, but it's blank.

"I'm just a voice. Just a voice on the other side of the phone. And I'm just talking to you…"

A wave of numbness begins to creep over my senses. I have to fight to pull the phone away from my ear as I feel myself fall forward.

Jet catches me, just barely. I hit his body hard, and we both grunt. The receiver is squawking at us, but I barely hear it. His dark blue eyes have that frightening, glazed look to them again. My heart sinks. "Jet?"

"Yeah?" His voice is hardly strong enough to be called quiet.

"What did he say?"

"He said that he was going to give me a dreamless sleep." He finally looks at me, and his face becomes disoriented. "And by the way, who are you?"

We've been here for twenty minutes. Both of us are anxiously looking at the phone. And while we wait for it to ring again, the man on the other end of the bed tries to explain to me that he's my partner. But it seems so…wrong.

I know who my partner is. And I know who Spike Spiegel is. What's this guy got to do with either of them?

The man stands and rakes his hands through thick, bushy green hair. Didn't my partner have short, brown hair? He's clearly exasperated. "I'm Spike, and your partner."

I shake my head. "Were you in the ISSP?"

He sighs. "No, I'm a former member of the Syndicate. The Red Dragons. A former member."

I stand up, not wanting to hear any more. "You're not my partner. And you're not Spike. I don't know who you are. Get out of my room."

The man looks aghast, but I can't help it. If he's not who he claims to be, why let him stick around? When he doesn't leave, I let a slight edge of anger creep into my voice. "If you're not out of here in ten seconds, I'll put you out."

He stands his ground, squaring his slim shoulders. "I'd like to see you try."

I can feel my eyes narrowing, even as I admire his obstinacy. Such a scrawny guy…I'll try to take it easy on him. I make a grab for his wrist, but he surprises me by sliding through my hand with a quick twist.

I never saw anyone do that besides Spike.

The calm over, the storm breaks over both of us. I grab him in a bear hug, crushing until he goes limp. Just as I'm about to toss him into the hall, the phone rings.

For a moment, I hesitate. I don't know this guy. I've got to get him out of my room…

…but he's completely still. I look back quickly to make sure that I haven't killed him, before dumping him on the floor and dashing back for the phone. I already know who it is. "Where are you?"

"The boiler room, Jet. The place where all the pressure comes together. Are you ready to see me face to face?"

"How do I get there?"

"Take the stairs down to Basement Two. The door's unlocked. You'll find me…in there."

I hang up the phone and turn to leave. The man's awake, and blocking the door. Damn it…should have kicked him out.

Spike was really good at faking faints, wasn't he?

"Where are you going?"

"Out. And so are you." I flip the light switch off, and the room instantly is shrouded in an artificial dusk. "If you don't leave now, I won't be so gentle with you this time."

"I won't leave until you tell me where the hell you're going, Jet!" He slams a fist against the wall.

Who does he think he is…? I grab him again and toss him in the closet, holding the door shut with my weight. The jar from his pounding does little to shake me. "Jet! Open the door, damn it!"

With my right leg, I finagle until I can drag a chair my way. Wedging the chair against the doorknob, I tell him to quit making so much racket. He demands to know where I'm going, but I'm not telling this guy anything. Should have kicked him out of the room.

The noise picks up again as I leave the room.

Two and a half minutes and thirty irate phone calls later, a small contingency of security guards was headed up towards the sixth floor. Apparently some nut job in 618 was screaming at the top of his lungs. They found the room, and the source of the noise, easily enough; the guy was yelling loudly enough to be heard clear down the hall.

Opening the room door, they took the chair from behind the closet door, and immediately a lanky man propelled himself right out of the closet into the startled men's faces. There was about thirty seconds of intense confusion before the guards realized that their prey was long gone.

"Where is he? Have you seen a tall, black man wearing an olive green shirt and black pants? Yes, he's got metal on his face. Did you see him? For god's sake, where is he?"

Spike was running down the stairwell, asking everyone he met about Jet. He got conflicting reports. Some thought they had seen him headed towards the bar. Others said he was in the pool area. One person had to think about it for a while, but finally said something that made Spike's blood grow ice-cold with fear.

"He was headed downstairs, towards the basement."

"Shit!" Spike hissed as he thundered down the stairs. A large, painted number 1 on the wall let him know that he was somewhat closer. "Why did he go down here?" The basement door loomed and he jerked on it frantically. Locked. He reeled back to kick the door in, when he heard faint voices somewhere beneath him.

"You're here. What are you trying to find now, your partner?"

"I don't have a partner."

"Then why do you keep looking around, as if you expected someone to come?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"You ought to know…you trained me, after all."

Spike crept down the last remaining flight of stairs, straining to hear. It was dark and mind-numbingly hot. He reached for his gun, with no success. It's in the safe deposit box at the front desk. Damn it…

The voices were more audible, but still quiet.

"I trained you? I don't even know you!"

"No one ever really did…but I didn't expect to hear that from you, 'Black Dog'. Or is it 'Red Bull' now?"

There was silence, and then that familiar, pathetic mantra.

"I…can't remember…"

Spike reached the door at last. A metal sign warned him to keep out if he was not authorized. Ignoring this, he marched straight in.

The room was dimly lit by a red safety lamp. Perfect for multiple assailants. But of course, the only person visible was Jet, who stood there, drenched with sweat and gun drawn. At the sound of Spike's approach, he wheeled around and pointed the gun Spike's way. His eyes were filled with irrational fear. "Back off!"

Spike faltered, wanting to help his friend. But at this point, could he actually be any help? "Jet, it's Spike. Your partner. Your friend."

A shot ricocheted close to his feet. Jet took a nervous step backwards. "You're not my partner! I don't know who you are!"

"Jet –" There was another shot, and he decided against going any closer. "I'm Spike. We live together on the Bebop. I fly the Swordfish, and you fly the Hammerhead."

"Anyone could have told you that."

"The shower's screwed up."

Jet wavered.

"We have a Welsh Corgie. His name is Ein. He's smart as hell."

The disembodied voice began again. "Who is this 'we'? Jet, you know who Spike is, don't you? What he looks like? Does that look like Spike?"

Spike glanced at himself. Of all the days to wear something different…he had on a black hooded sweatshirt and gray cargo pants. His hair, soaked with perspiration, lay limp and flat against his neck. Of course he looked different. He tried again. "Jet, look at my eyes."

Jet looked, suspiciously. "They're brown. Lots of people have brown eyes."

"But remember, my eyes don't match because one of them is fake." He tapped the glass eye, unflinchingly, with a fingernail.

"Oh, big deal. Lots of people can do that, too. Tell me, why are you here? Being nosy?"

"I'm here for my friend."

"Friends…how so? Spike Spiegel never once told Jet Black that he cared about him."

Jet confirmed this in a hopeless voice. "Spike…didn't care…"

"Jet, you're wrong!" the green-haired man cried. "I did care! Every time that I screwed up and you came looking for me, I was glad! Every meal you ever took time to make for me, I was grateful! Even when you yelled at me, deep down I was happy that someone out there gave a damn whether I lived or died. I just never knew how to express that."

Jet looked surprised, and doubtful. "So why can you say it so well now?"

"I tried to say it once before."

Jet blinked.

"On the plane. But then…you didn't really respond, and then you started to forget everything, and I thought, 'He doesn't care about me.'" Spike moved a little closer; Jet had forgotten to back away. "But I think that I was wrong. And if you want to try again, I want to try again."

The voice muttered in the background, but neither hunter heard. For a few brief, awe-inspiring moments, Jet's eyes seemed to see. But just as quickly, they lapsed back into gloom. "You sound like him…but you're too gentle. Spike was always…so cold…"

The voice played on this instantly. "Not even women cared about you like this. Why would a man bother? Besides, Spike was too proud to tell you that you were important to him."

Jet fought, conflicted. "But…there's something I remember…in the elevator…Spike was mad…but …"

"I was mad, Jet." A note of desperation was in Spike's voice. He could feel his own sanity beginning to crack. "I thought that you were playing games. But I wanted to be sure, and that night, you made me sure. After that night, I finally had some hope that we could understand each other, and that we could be real friends, and not be too proud to show each other that we cared. That was why I kissed you."

That light of comprehension was back. Jet shook his head, as if he were waking up from a dream. "That's right. Spike…kissed me." It wasn't a question; it was a statement. He knew. He looked at the man across from him and pointed excitedly. "You're Spike, aren't you?!"

"Yes." Spike clenched his fists, victorious at last. "I'm Spike."

The voice behind them shrieked. "No! How…!"

Jet spun around and shot into the darkness, but a scuttling shadow on the wall let the two hunters know that he had missed. A pipe groaned as thick steam billowed into the room, whistling loudly.

In the distance, the fire alarms could be heard.

Jet waved his partner away. "Let me handle this, if you don't have a gun. And Spike –"

"What?"

"Don't look into his eyes. That's the easiest way for him to get inside your head."

Spike made a quick dash beyond the cloud of steam. Even from that distance, it obscured his vision and set his skin ablaze. Damn this fool… He saw a form moving stealthily behind him, but it was Jet, who seemed equally surprised to see him. "Spike? Did he slip past?"

The sound of metal dragging the floor made them both look up. An Allen wrench was headed their way. Jet caught it easily, flinging it back. It clanged into the underside of the catwalk above them, and they both clearly heard a yelp of fright. Spike didn't wait for any further instructions, dashing away.

By the time Jet found a staircase that led to the upper part of the boiler room, his partner had cornered a wriggling form behind a tangle of pipes. The same, oily voice was speaking, but it was no longer smooth, in control. It was now frightened and babbling and incomprehensible. Jet approached with a pilfered flashlight in hand, and the man began to shake with terror. As he clicked the light on, their quarry flinched away as if the light had burned him. The bigger man squinted in the sudden flood of light, then recoiled.

"Roderick?!"