Author's Note: "Words That We Couldn't Say," and "Road to the West" actually suit this particular chapter quite well.
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Spike prowled the Martian colony like a stray cat, avoiding the main thoroughfares in favor of familiar alleys and sidestreets. Much-abused hands were tucked deep into the pockets of his beloved blue suit, lips clenched around the remains of his sixth cigarette this morning.
Now the kid and that damn dog were missing, and Faye was back. He liked the dog a whole hell of a lot better than the woman.
And with her, Faye brought a message.
From Julia.
"Damn."
Can things get any more complicated? Spike almost swore again, but checked himself as the aching pull at his soul refused to be denied.
And yet...yet he could never be sure if he really, truly loved the woman, so much as needed her.
But then, Faye had loved Whitney, who needed her more than she needed him, and Jet had loved Elysia, who didn't need him at all, or at least pretended quite well to that effect.
And Ein loved them all…but only when he needed a can opened.
I'm gonna miss that dog…
Maybe Faye would stay with Jet. He hoped so. That old man needed somebody to keep him irritated. Might as well be the walking pair of hips and breasts that squeezed into a lemon-yellow plastic halter and called herself a bounty hunter. She excelled at irritation, with a talent that far exceeded any ancient master of torture.
She'd keep Jet amused, at any rate.
And Spike had an appointment to keep.
-
Vicious knew the moment that Julia had dropped her sensible heels onto Mars' bloodred earth. After all, he still had a few loyal pairs of eyes in the rotting, corrupted remains of the Red Dragon.
Every dragon must one day die...no matter how immortal they seem. Vicious had overthrown the corpses; had taken their place as heir of the Syndicate. Here, in the cool center throne—it was obvious that time ran short. But he had known that, even before sweeping the blade of his katana across the last, dried-up reptilian husk.
Let them bleed unburied,like prisoners in the Chamber.
One could even say that he reveled in it. Because he knew that Julia would come, and that Julia would know—even before she beguiled it out of some poor soul—that Vicious was behind everything. That he and his few last supporters had seized control of the Red Dragon.
That her hand-chosen machine was capable of its own thought. And that it wanted...no...intended to self-destruct. To dismantle the very thing that she had blackened its soul to protect.
To slay the Dragon. To slay both dragons. And with any luck, the one he killed last would in turn do the same service for him.
Preferably in front of Julia. But if not, it would only be one minor disappointment in a lifetime of them. In that case, just knowing that she would live on with the pain of losing Spike would be enough.
It was time she felt what losing her soul was like. How it burned to watch a piece of herself die. In the dark, Vicious' smile became calculating, stretching across the too-wide mouth wtih the fascinating horror of the Cheshire Cat.
Julia was here, as he'd known she would be. Had expected her to come. After all...didn't the hunted always circle back in the end? And Spike was here too...no doubt a meeting had been arranged. The woman dragged that man's heart through shards of glass, and yet despite her betrayal and sudden disappearance all those years ago, he still carried a torch for her. The dim starlight of early, early morning shivered across his silvered hair as Vicious shook his head with a humorless chuckle. It would be interesting to see Spike's reaction when Julia finally discovered enough conscience or courage to explain that she'd only been using him, all along. Had betrayed him to save her own life. In retrospect, Vicious realized that he had to give her some credit. A lesser woman would have simply insisted that she be shot, blindly believing that her life was what he wanted...as if the momentary flash of pain before death was punishment enough for all the torture suffered at her perfectly manicured hands. A lesser woman would have run. A lesser woman may even have killed Spike.
Oh, very clever, Julia.
Let it be the writ on her tombstone that she was a woman among women. That she was real. That she, of all the women of the universe—that she had lived.
And yet, Spike's naive worship had been the saving of him. Perhaps he had loved too deeply, and too blindly, but Spike had loved.
A quiet sliding hiss of cloth as Vicious shifted positions, resting his chin on his knuckles to stare at the weak light filling the cathedral-style window to his left.
Vicious awakened from the endless dream that still enraptured the Agent-turned-Cowboy...many years ago. Only to fall into a nightmare.
And after that...dreamless sleep. Allowing his heart and mind to frost, simply because it was easier than waking up screaming, night after night. The nightmares from the Syndicate were far worse than his war dreams from Titan. When he'd proved his alliance with that goddamned false testimony, the Syndicate accepted him. After all, hadn't he saved one of their own from the fate that befell Grencia Eckener? Hadn't he saved Julia from prison? Prisons weren't kind to women...especially not the pretty ones. And she, unlike Eckener, had value to the Syndicate. The musician was just an unfortunate scapegoat.
He hadn't cared at first. Sure, he felt a little sorry for the poor kid, but he was the target, and Vicious hadn't been given a choice in the matter. After all, he hadn't expected to end up trusting the man! Hadn't expected to end up wanting to protect him...
Vicious blinked, realizing that he was unconsciously stroking the fabric of the cloak as it draped across his upper arm. His fingers froze.
...Maybe Spike wasn't the only one who had loved. But had Gren been using him too? With an imperceptible shudder that bestirred only a single downy feather from his lost peacock, Vicious recalled the chill expression on the other man's face. Those elegant, artists' fingers wrapped around the butt of a pistol; the eyes behind the rock-steady aim only betraying a cold need for revenge. I'm talking myself in circles, the Syndicate leader realized with a twinge of guilt, the only reason he turned that gun on me is because I was the bastard that put him in prison in the first place. His frown deepened as he remembered the bomb in the bag of Red Eye. Upon closer inspection of the remnant, he'd recognized the bits of a key-wound music box. The cartridge was too damaged to salvage, but when his thumbnail dragged across the long repeating line of sliding, melancholy D nubs, he knew. Julia's song.
How appropriate. Using the same melody that drew the musician to Vicious' side. To satisfy revenge on the person who'd first betrayed him.
So you aren't a goddamned saint, after all, Eckener. Sad, ironic smile. Such cold eyes...
Cold eyes had never been a part of the Gren he once knew. The Gren who had refused to let him dash off into certain death. Had proven his loyalty and trust in the protection of Vicious' flank as they fought beside one another. The Gren who hadn't recoiled when his fingers brushed the other's lips.
The Gren who held him, giving and receiving comfort in the starless, moonless dark of the trenches, as the rest of the platoon cowered around them from the enemy's midnight raids. Never a doubt.
He'd betrayed the one person who never expected anything from him in return. Small wonder Gren nearly lost his mind when someone casually explained that it was Vicious who had testified against him.
The velvet void of silence seemed to nod in stoic agreement. And as always, the stars beyond chided him for his cowardice. The chin supported on his hand slipped down a little further, as the fingertips crept up to cover his eyes. He was alone. And by his own actions, damned.
In the velvet void of silence, one man broke completely, face collapsing gently into folded arms on the edge of the cold, doomed throne.
"Gren." He wept quietly into the midnight wool sleeves, as the single utterance of the musician's name became a feral moan. This long. It had taken him this long to finally realize...
...only to die?
"Gren..." The name echoed from ceiling to floor, filling the room with an empty presence.
What was the good of Spike's death? Julia didn't mean a goddamned thing to the cloaked Titan warrior, swathed in his own grief and the ever-present darkness. Julia meant everything to Spike, who'd put the bitch on a pedestal ever since she vanished. Did Spike deserve to die because he worshipped her?
No. But she's the reason Gren hates me. And she's the reason Spike's been half dead with longing. And she's the reason I've become such a vindictive son of a bitch.
Heh. Son of a bitch. How appropriate. Maybe Spike will appr-"Vicious."
His head shot up.