The music haunted Vicious, as no other music ever would. Gren somehow woke the soul of the tune from its sleep beneath the harmony; that damned saxophone of his singing answers to the piano's siren call.
It was Julia's Song. But it wasn't. Gren filled the melody with more longing than he'd ever heard in the tinkling music box.
Vicious leaned against rough-hewn brickwork in a dismal alley across from the bar. His eyes closed, and again, the remnants of memorized tune filtered through his head. The music box was broken. He'd never hear the sounds of Julia's Song again.
As if conjured by his own fevered brain, the object of the syndicate agent's thoughts appeared in the doorway, and cast his gaze up and down the street, blue gaze searching the pools of lamplight.
He was gone again in a matter of moments, decidedly crestfallen and shivering in the bitter wind. Mars was a much colder planet than Earth or Venus, despite the solar-paneled satellites that kept the Red Planet from freezing over. Vicious spared him a moment of pity, to be living on this godforsaken rock.
Would have spared him more, had Spike not chosen then to return. Vicious shifted uneasily, and as the sheath of his katana brushed against his hip, icy, pale fingers wrapped around the hilt. Squeezed. He could challenge the man now…right here.
No. Old friends deserved better deaths than that. The Red Dragon Syndicate building was the only place to say an appropriate farewell—it was, after all, the place where Vicious was born, risen from the ashes of his previous life and practically delivered into the Cowboy's hands. Spike wasn't a bounty hunter then…but a ruthless, efficient machine. A perfect mentor for Mau Yen Rai's protégée.
Perhaps one could say his birthmother, then, was Julia. After all, hadn't she been the one who lured him into contacting the Syndicate? Convinced him to abandon the life of a drifter…the wandering war hero?
I trusted her too damn much for my own good. All she wanted was my loyalty to the Syndicate…and then she left me to them.
He was already a killer and a traitor…they stripped him of compassion…froze him into a state of apathy, with a casual disregard for human life.
Oh, it wasn't Spike's fault. He was one and the same, but at least he had a lifeline to keep his heart from completely icing over.
Julia.
Vicious had come within breaths of shooting her.
Pity. He should have finished the job.
The same bitch that murdered me gave him life. No wonder I've never stopped hating him.
The Cowboy leaned against the wall outside the tavern door for some minutes, slowly sucking a cigarette to the butt, and lighting another one.
You lucky bastard…
Vicious continued to toy with the thought of skewering the man's heart, right through that blue flannel suit jacket. The way the fabric would give under the tip of his sword…the fear that he'd never been able to conjure in Spike's eyes…
The hand on the katana hilt squeezed fiercely, a trickle of blood drawn as an imperceptible burr left in the production of the sword pierced his palm.
Wait…is that…?
He blinked, and shook his head fiercely. Gren reappeared, and from his demeanor and the saxophone case swinging gently from one fist, he was going home. Spike intercepted him, and from the familiar—if somewhat reserved—exchange, he could safely assume that they knew one another.
Gren smiled at the thinly-drawn bounty hunter, and it was as if a switch had been flipped off in Vicious' mind.
The musician trusted Spike. Very well. If indeed his need for revenge drove him to kill the man eventually, he would do it with honor, and not happenstance.
Damn. This is the same reason I couldn't pull the trigger on Julia.
Vicious turned and stalked deeper into the alley's throat, ignoring puddles of skinned-over rain. The dark consumed what little could be seen of him, and in a breath, nothing remained but a single, pinprick bloodstain blossoming on the dingy pavement.