Cowboy Bebop
That's Why They Call it the "Blues"
A Miss Chang Po Production
Chapter 2 - Pretty With a Pistol
"Anything goes in this cosmic dare
Anything goes so take care
Did you hear my heartbeat to your lies?
Listen close sweet love of mine"
Faye Valentine's P.O.V -
Ever had a knack for something you weren't really proud of? For instance, being able to belch the alphabet, or maybe play Twinkle, Twinkle little Star in your armpit? On second thought, I'm sure the people who possess that 'talent' are quite proud of it, so maybe those aren't really good
examples.
Perhaps, it's just best that I get straight to the point. I have a knack for getting into trouble. First off, through no fault of my own… as far as I know anyway, I woke up in a world as an 80-something-year-old in a 20 year-old's body owing a lot of money. With really no one to depend on, I fell sucker to the first con-man to come along - a bad one at that. The end result left me even deeper in hock than I had started out in. So, what's a helpless amnesiac to do?
Living in a society to which I had knowledge of, there really wasn't anything I could do, sad to say. I didn't have a job, and I certainly didn't have any money. I couldn't take out a loan; I had no known relatives, I didn't known anyone, and I didn't have any credentials. Loan sharks were out of the question - I may have lost my memory, but I certainly wasn't stupid. So, I did something only a little less dumb - I started gambling at casinos.
'Smooth move,' you might say, but at the time, it really didn't seem that bad of an idea. It's not like I had a criminal record - that I knew of. At the time, I had only the clothes on my back - a black party dress my dearly departed Whitney Matsumoto had purchased for me. The jerk had also put that on my tab, I later found out. Nevertheless, I could certainly blend in with the crowd, and with my looks and my luck, I could certainly earn a glance or two from some bigwig with a lot of cash to burn. You see, I did learn a thing or two from my good 'lawyer' friend.
Well, everything started out fine, as they do in most cases. Being good with numbers, I had acquired quite the knack for cards, roulette, and any other game I stumbled upon. I won a lot of games, and lost a bit as well, always ending up back where I started. Knowing very well that I couldn't pay the debts I had accumulated during my escapades, I constantly traveled - casino-hopping if you will, thus
earning the title of Poker Alice.
I don't really care to retell my whole life story, simply because there really isn't that much to tell. Though I have been 'cured' of my amnesia, there are still a few gaps in my memory, for example, what accident caused me to be placed in a cryogenic sleep. But, I digress. The point of my story is this - just when I think I've managed to rid myself of my troubles, they always manage to find me again. Take for example, Spike Spiegel.
Come on now, the man was supposed to be dead. Jet had given me this whole line of bull about tiger-striped cats and falling stars and crap. We waited around for a while, hoping against hope, but nothing happened. He never turned up. I pretty much put two and two together from there.
After all, he had gone off, alone, to face his arch-rival, nemesis, whatever the hell you want to call it, Vicious. This guy, who I'm not embarrassed to confess, scared the crap out of me whenever saw, heard him, or heard anyone speak of him. I mean, come on, he was creepy! Nevertheless, Spike went off to face him, knowing full well that it was suicide. I told him so myself - at gunpoint.
That was three years ago. I hadn't heard from Spike since. Assuming that he was dead, I decided to move on with my life, which was, mind you, extremely hard. Though I will never admit it to his face, not even on pain of death or torture, I considered Spike to be a close friend. I knew he couldn't be any more than that because of her, who I won't mention for obvious reasons.
Now, just when I've pretty much managed to pick up the broken pieces and place them in some semblance of a life, guess who comes back?
Damn him. Damn him to Hades.
I wish I had shot him. I wish I had shot him that day - in the arm, leg, anywhere! Just to prevent him from going. Now he's managed to make a re-entrance back into my life, just the same as always; cocky, laid-back, annoyingly frustrating, devilishly/angelically handsome…Damn! Does he have any idea what he's doing to me?
He probably does… the jerk. It seems everything he does is to spite me. He probably staged this whole death-rebirth crap just to see how I would react. Idiot... Did he expect me to go running into his arms, crying and sobbing at how happy I was to see him?
Fat chance of that, pal. I've done enough of that in my life, and you can turn over and die before you get a single tear out of me. Though I'm Faye Valentine, I'm not the same woman you knew. I refuse to be affected by you anymore.
=====
And yet… even as I think all of this, I can't help but watch Spike. We're both in the elevator going down to the first floor of my apartment building. He stands there with that same demeanor he always did. Standing there like he doesn't have a care in the world - how does he pull it off?
He turns to me now, looking at me as if he's trying to read my thoughts. I'd try to shield them if I could, but somehow Spike always seems to know what I'm thinking about, whether he shows it or not.
He's still not talking, and it's making me nervous. "What is it?" I ask irritably. I wish he'd stop doing that - or at least show me how to do it so I could do it to him.
"Nothing," he says, glancing back at the elevator doors with a smile on his face. Seemingly interested in the lights indicating which floor we're on; it doesn't take much, does it? "I'm just glad you decided to come along."
Shrugging, I reply nonchalantly, "I need the money."
He laughs, shrugging his shoulders slightly. I resist the urge to shudder - so many times had I heard that same laugh echoing through the halls of the Bebop at night in my dreams and even when I was wide awake. "So do I." He turns his smile back towards me. "It wouldn't have been fun without you."
Before I can even think of a response, the elevator 'dings' and the metal doors slide open. I find that I'm a bit relieved - whatever I said would have come out wrong anyway. The two of us shuffle out quickly, entering the lobby.
Spike stops suddenly, scanning the street outside, a frown making its way across his features. Slowly, I reach into my jacket, my hand resting securely on my gun. "What is it?" I whisper, edging close to him so that no one can hear us.
Spike turns towards me, though his eyes are still on the street. The frown remains. It makes me a bit nervous. His arm snaking around my waist to make us less conspicuous doesn't help matters either.
"Spike?"
He focuses his eyes on me, a lazy grin forming on his face. "My cab left." he replies.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. "What?" I blink dumbly.
"I took a cab here," Spike says. "I asked the driver to wait while I went upstairs." He scratches the back of his head with his free hand. "Guess he got tired of waiting… though it's his loss; I hadn't paid him yet."
Jack ass. I shove away from him angrily. "You idiot," I mutter. "You mean to tell me you have no transportation?"
"Look, it's not look I can hop in the Swordfish and fly over," Spike says, I assume, a little put off by my attitude. Well, he's gonna have to deal with it. "Besides, even if I did have it, it only seats one."
I sigh heavily. "I see." Detaching myself from his hold, I make my way back towards the elevator.
"Where're you going?" he asks.
"To the garage." I answer simply. "Wait here while I pull around front. We can't very well walk, now can we?"
The doors close before he can respond.
=====
We're traveling down the highway now, towards the spaceport. Spike says the Bebop touched down there yesterday for supplies and will remain approximately 72 hours before heading into space again.
"Ah-huh," I say, keeping my focus on the road. It's been a while since I've been out driving like this. I'll admit having the wind blow through my hair helps relieve a bit of tension. It's second only to flying in space, though I haven't been out in space for a very long time... for reasons I care not to dwell on.
A thick silence hangs over us before Spike speaks again. "So, tell me, Faye," I glance over at him out of the corner of my eye. He's made himself quite comfortable, his seat reclined, his arms folded behind his head as he watches the red clouds roll by overhead. "How's life been treating you?"
I blink. Does he really want to know? "Fine, I guess…" I say, a bit unsure.
I can feel his gaze on me, curious. "What've you been up to?" he asks.
"Nothing really," I answer. "Just getting by."
"You have a job, right?"
"Of course I have a job," I answer as I glare over at him, obviously offended. "Did you think I was just some dumb squatter mooching off of my roommate?"
Spike raises an eyebrow at me, obviously remembering my roommate's sexual preference. Like that has something to do with it - which it doesn't. "Of course not." he answers calmly. "And keep your eyes on the road."
I turn my attention back towards the highway just in time to miss hitting a road sign. As I swerve back into my lane, he chuckles.
Jerk.
"If you really have to know," I begin.
"I do." he interrupts, amusement still in his tone.
"I work for the part-time IPPCS." I finish. "The rest of the time I hunt bounties that pop
up in my general area-"
"You work for the ISSP?" he interrupts, not really listening.
"No," I reply, slightly frustrated. "The IPPCS… the Institute for Patients with Post Cryogenic-freeze Syndrome."
Spike remains quiet for sometime. "There's a disease for that?" he asks finally.
"Not really," I answer. "The institute's main focus is reintroducing victims back into society. Whether it's been 2 years or twenty, the institute makes sure their patients are resettled with a basic understanding of what's happened to them and how they can go about living their lives." I unconsciously tighten my grip on the steering wheel. It seems I'm a little anxious to hear what he has to say. But why should it matter to me what he thinks?
"That's something you didn't get," Spike replies quietly. I only nod. "That's good of you to do that though," He replies. "Very noble."
"Yeah," I agree quietly. The rest of the ride continues in silence, the two of us occasionally sneaking glances at each other when we thought the other wasn't looking. I acted with indifference the entire ride, Spike with no care at all, trying to piss me of no doubt.
Still, in the end, I probably wouldn't have had it any other way.
End of Chapter 2
That's Why They Call it the "Blues"
A Miss Chang Po Production
Chapter 2 - Pretty With a Pistol
"Anything goes in this cosmic dare
Anything goes so take care
Did you hear my heartbeat to your lies?
Listen close sweet love of mine"
Faye Valentine's P.O.V -
Ever had a knack for something you weren't really proud of? For instance, being able to belch the alphabet, or maybe play Twinkle, Twinkle little Star in your armpit? On second thought, I'm sure the people who possess that 'talent' are quite proud of it, so maybe those aren't really good
examples.
Perhaps, it's just best that I get straight to the point. I have a knack for getting into trouble. First off, through no fault of my own… as far as I know anyway, I woke up in a world as an 80-something-year-old in a 20 year-old's body owing a lot of money. With really no one to depend on, I fell sucker to the first con-man to come along - a bad one at that. The end result left me even deeper in hock than I had started out in. So, what's a helpless amnesiac to do?
Living in a society to which I had knowledge of, there really wasn't anything I could do, sad to say. I didn't have a job, and I certainly didn't have any money. I couldn't take out a loan; I had no known relatives, I didn't known anyone, and I didn't have any credentials. Loan sharks were out of the question - I may have lost my memory, but I certainly wasn't stupid. So, I did something only a little less dumb - I started gambling at casinos.
'Smooth move,' you might say, but at the time, it really didn't seem that bad of an idea. It's not like I had a criminal record - that I knew of. At the time, I had only the clothes on my back - a black party dress my dearly departed Whitney Matsumoto had purchased for me. The jerk had also put that on my tab, I later found out. Nevertheless, I could certainly blend in with the crowd, and with my looks and my luck, I could certainly earn a glance or two from some bigwig with a lot of cash to burn. You see, I did learn a thing or two from my good 'lawyer' friend.
Well, everything started out fine, as they do in most cases. Being good with numbers, I had acquired quite the knack for cards, roulette, and any other game I stumbled upon. I won a lot of games, and lost a bit as well, always ending up back where I started. Knowing very well that I couldn't pay the debts I had accumulated during my escapades, I constantly traveled - casino-hopping if you will, thus
earning the title of Poker Alice.
I don't really care to retell my whole life story, simply because there really isn't that much to tell. Though I have been 'cured' of my amnesia, there are still a few gaps in my memory, for example, what accident caused me to be placed in a cryogenic sleep. But, I digress. The point of my story is this - just when I think I've managed to rid myself of my troubles, they always manage to find me again. Take for example, Spike Spiegel.
Come on now, the man was supposed to be dead. Jet had given me this whole line of bull about tiger-striped cats and falling stars and crap. We waited around for a while, hoping against hope, but nothing happened. He never turned up. I pretty much put two and two together from there.
After all, he had gone off, alone, to face his arch-rival, nemesis, whatever the hell you want to call it, Vicious. This guy, who I'm not embarrassed to confess, scared the crap out of me whenever saw, heard him, or heard anyone speak of him. I mean, come on, he was creepy! Nevertheless, Spike went off to face him, knowing full well that it was suicide. I told him so myself - at gunpoint.
That was three years ago. I hadn't heard from Spike since. Assuming that he was dead, I decided to move on with my life, which was, mind you, extremely hard. Though I will never admit it to his face, not even on pain of death or torture, I considered Spike to be a close friend. I knew he couldn't be any more than that because of her, who I won't mention for obvious reasons.
Now, just when I've pretty much managed to pick up the broken pieces and place them in some semblance of a life, guess who comes back?
Damn him. Damn him to Hades.
I wish I had shot him. I wish I had shot him that day - in the arm, leg, anywhere! Just to prevent him from going. Now he's managed to make a re-entrance back into my life, just the same as always; cocky, laid-back, annoyingly frustrating, devilishly/angelically handsome…Damn! Does he have any idea what he's doing to me?
He probably does… the jerk. It seems everything he does is to spite me. He probably staged this whole death-rebirth crap just to see how I would react. Idiot... Did he expect me to go running into his arms, crying and sobbing at how happy I was to see him?
Fat chance of that, pal. I've done enough of that in my life, and you can turn over and die before you get a single tear out of me. Though I'm Faye Valentine, I'm not the same woman you knew. I refuse to be affected by you anymore.
=====
And yet… even as I think all of this, I can't help but watch Spike. We're both in the elevator going down to the first floor of my apartment building. He stands there with that same demeanor he always did. Standing there like he doesn't have a care in the world - how does he pull it off?
He turns to me now, looking at me as if he's trying to read my thoughts. I'd try to shield them if I could, but somehow Spike always seems to know what I'm thinking about, whether he shows it or not.
He's still not talking, and it's making me nervous. "What is it?" I ask irritably. I wish he'd stop doing that - or at least show me how to do it so I could do it to him.
"Nothing," he says, glancing back at the elevator doors with a smile on his face. Seemingly interested in the lights indicating which floor we're on; it doesn't take much, does it? "I'm just glad you decided to come along."
Shrugging, I reply nonchalantly, "I need the money."
He laughs, shrugging his shoulders slightly. I resist the urge to shudder - so many times had I heard that same laugh echoing through the halls of the Bebop at night in my dreams and even when I was wide awake. "So do I." He turns his smile back towards me. "It wouldn't have been fun without you."
Before I can even think of a response, the elevator 'dings' and the metal doors slide open. I find that I'm a bit relieved - whatever I said would have come out wrong anyway. The two of us shuffle out quickly, entering the lobby.
Spike stops suddenly, scanning the street outside, a frown making its way across his features. Slowly, I reach into my jacket, my hand resting securely on my gun. "What is it?" I whisper, edging close to him so that no one can hear us.
Spike turns towards me, though his eyes are still on the street. The frown remains. It makes me a bit nervous. His arm snaking around my waist to make us less conspicuous doesn't help matters either.
"Spike?"
He focuses his eyes on me, a lazy grin forming on his face. "My cab left." he replies.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. "What?" I blink dumbly.
"I took a cab here," Spike says. "I asked the driver to wait while I went upstairs." He scratches the back of his head with his free hand. "Guess he got tired of waiting… though it's his loss; I hadn't paid him yet."
Jack ass. I shove away from him angrily. "You idiot," I mutter. "You mean to tell me you have no transportation?"
"Look, it's not look I can hop in the Swordfish and fly over," Spike says, I assume, a little put off by my attitude. Well, he's gonna have to deal with it. "Besides, even if I did have it, it only seats one."
I sigh heavily. "I see." Detaching myself from his hold, I make my way back towards the elevator.
"Where're you going?" he asks.
"To the garage." I answer simply. "Wait here while I pull around front. We can't very well walk, now can we?"
The doors close before he can respond.
=====
We're traveling down the highway now, towards the spaceport. Spike says the Bebop touched down there yesterday for supplies and will remain approximately 72 hours before heading into space again.
"Ah-huh," I say, keeping my focus on the road. It's been a while since I've been out driving like this. I'll admit having the wind blow through my hair helps relieve a bit of tension. It's second only to flying in space, though I haven't been out in space for a very long time... for reasons I care not to dwell on.
A thick silence hangs over us before Spike speaks again. "So, tell me, Faye," I glance over at him out of the corner of my eye. He's made himself quite comfortable, his seat reclined, his arms folded behind his head as he watches the red clouds roll by overhead. "How's life been treating you?"
I blink. Does he really want to know? "Fine, I guess…" I say, a bit unsure.
I can feel his gaze on me, curious. "What've you been up to?" he asks.
"Nothing really," I answer. "Just getting by."
"You have a job, right?"
"Of course I have a job," I answer as I glare over at him, obviously offended. "Did you think I was just some dumb squatter mooching off of my roommate?"
Spike raises an eyebrow at me, obviously remembering my roommate's sexual preference. Like that has something to do with it - which it doesn't. "Of course not." he answers calmly. "And keep your eyes on the road."
I turn my attention back towards the highway just in time to miss hitting a road sign. As I swerve back into my lane, he chuckles.
Jerk.
"If you really have to know," I begin.
"I do." he interrupts, amusement still in his tone.
"I work for the part-time IPPCS." I finish. "The rest of the time I hunt bounties that pop
up in my general area-"
"You work for the ISSP?" he interrupts, not really listening.
"No," I reply, slightly frustrated. "The IPPCS… the Institute for Patients with Post Cryogenic-freeze Syndrome."
Spike remains quiet for sometime. "There's a disease for that?" he asks finally.
"Not really," I answer. "The institute's main focus is reintroducing victims back into society. Whether it's been 2 years or twenty, the institute makes sure their patients are resettled with a basic understanding of what's happened to them and how they can go about living their lives." I unconsciously tighten my grip on the steering wheel. It seems I'm a little anxious to hear what he has to say. But why should it matter to me what he thinks?
"That's something you didn't get," Spike replies quietly. I only nod. "That's good of you to do that though," He replies. "Very noble."
"Yeah," I agree quietly. The rest of the ride continues in silence, the two of us occasionally sneaking glances at each other when we thought the other wasn't looking. I acted with indifference the entire ride, Spike with no care at all, trying to piss me of no doubt.
Still, in the end, I probably wouldn't have had it any other way.
End of Chapter 2