The Three Fates
All disclaimers apply.
Author's Note: The hoped-for reviews have come in, few but poignant and very flattering, and so I'm continuing with chapter 2. To my readers, merci beaucoup! That's 'thanks' to those of you who are French-challenged. At least, I think it is . . . ^_^. As one reviewer pointed out, I kind of roped myself into a trilogy with the title alone--maybe I should have just called it 'Fate' and saved myself the brain freeze from typing all night long . . . nah. Besides, what's a Bebop story without a heads-up from Spike Spiegel?
Read on, enjoy, and, of course, review!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Purgatory: Spike
~Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.~
Sometimes I wonder where that rhyme came from. It seems innocent enough, something children sing, something you whistle absently when you can't think of anything else to whistle. Harmless. But no one can remember who made it, or why. Things that have no past or history, things so deeply embedded in culture or in life or in the soul that it's hard to tell from where it originated in the first place . . . those things are dangerous. The most dangerous of all, because if you don't know how something started, it's all that much harder to make it stop.
Do you remember how, as a kid, you'd play "Ring Around The Rosey"? Clasp hands with your friends and spin in a circle, singing, "Ring around the rosey/Pocket full of posies/Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!" Then you'd all hit the ground, laughing. It was such a simple game, fun and silly and harmless.
And then you'd get to junior high or high school and learn about the Black Death, the bubonic plague that slaughtered millions of people in only a few years. You'd learn that the simple game you'd played when you were little was actually a mantra sung by children to keep away sickness and death, that the last line--ashes, ashes, we all fall down--didn't mean what you thought it meant. And you'd wonder why so many people forgot, and let their children sing about suffering and laugh.
Maybe "Row Your Boat" is just like that. A song once sung in all seriousness to chase away demons reduced to a little tune everyone sings without knowing why. Maybe to row your boat down the stream means that life will carry you forward towards death no matter what you do, and you might as well go along with it and take your time, because living is brief, anyway, so we should enjoy it while we can.
Or maybe it means that nothing in life is real, just some complex illusion conjured up from thwarted dreams and desires, like looking at your fluid and distorted reflection in rushing water that never stays still enough for you to see yourself clearly. It's you, but it isn't you. It's real, but it isn't real. Like that.
I don't know. I've been thinking strange and pointless thoughts like that for three years now. Trying to find the meaning of it all, wondering if there even is a meaning. Wondering if any of it really happened. And if it did, where am I going now? Why am I here?
Things were so simple back then. There were the Dragons, and missions, and zipcraft, and guns, and cigarettes, and me, and Vicious. Nothing too complex. I lived with the philosophy that things are meant to be pondered, not necessarily understood. It made it easier to go day to day with a limited amount of hardships.
But then there was . . . Julia.
Women. Women are nothing but trouble. I knew it, Vicious knew it, but people take clichés for granted, forgetting why they became so common in the first place.
She seemed like a cliché, at first. You know, the blonde femme fatale, with an eager trigger finger, long legs, and a killer smile like an angel but the skills of a devil. Hell in high heels. But she was good at what she did and the Syndicate took her on. Really good, because they put her with us. Me and Vicious. The best of the best, the resident golden boys, reckless, deathless, and practically unfailing in every mission we had.
I met her before I knew she was even in the Syndicate. In a smoky bar with blues wailing in the background and the sounds of soft conversation and pool being played. She didn't look like a cliché then. In the frail lighting and cool atmosphere, dressed in black leather that hugged every considerable curve, soft waves of hair the color of old gold falling over her shoulders, her slim hip cocked and a pool stick in one hand, she turned, noticed me with those midnight blue eyes, smiled . . . and it was over. I was smitten.
Then I found out she was going to join our team, and it was like someone snuffed out a candle. Poof. Hiss. I was against it from the start, mostly because I knew why the Elders were putting her with Vicious and I. See, despite our skill, we had a habit of--shall we say, overdoing things? Vicious would leave behind unnecessary trails of bodies, and me . . . well, whole buildings tended to fall apart in my wake, despite my best efforts. Julia was supposed to be the leash on a pair of useful but unruly mutts, and I didn't appreciate it at all.
It wasn't that I didn't like her--I did, a lot. And it sure as hell wasn't that she wasn't good enough. She was that, and more.
But my partner and I had a unique way of doing things. A technique we had perfected through time, trial and error. Reading each other, knowing each other, better than we knew ourselves. The two of us were the best because we weren't just two; in the heat of battle, we were one, with two sets of arms and legs, two sets of senses, infallible instincts and a shared death wish to outside observers.
Add a third to that kind of dynamic, and it would just throw everything off.
The scary thing was . . . she didn't. Julia just added to the rhythm, filled out the sound. Like adding drums to the saxophone and piano of a good jazz song. If I was the crazy brass and Vicious the cool ivory, she was the thrumming skins.
We sounded good together. We sounded great.
And it was fun for awhile, it really was. Wild, dangerous, ridiculous at times but altogether cool, life just the way I liked it. Just me, Vicious, and Julia. Even when the two of them got together, everything was still cool. Fun and simple.
It didn't stay that way. Like a nursery rhyme with a dark past, or a fairy tale that originally didn't end with a happily ever after.
I said that Julia seemed like a cliché. But I knew from the start that she wasn't. She was everything original about life, about women, and anything extra was just a well-cultivated outer image. A person I could talk to, be with, and every second was a new discovery, and a new mystery. It was like there were things about her that I valued in myself, things about her that I wanted for myself, and things about her that were so new that I couldn't resist learning all I could about her. I wanted to know what made her laugh, what made her cry, why she hid the truth so much and why she was so cynical, so sad.
I fell for her, and I fell hard, fast, and deep. So deep I think I broke some bones on the way down. To this day, I don't know how it happened or why I could never stop falling. If was as if I stipped my soul down to its barest componants, gave her the key to putting it back together, and forgot to make myself a copy.
Sorry. I'm not explaining this very well. But I don't think it's something I can explain. I'm not great with words, even worse with expressing my emotions and all that shit, and like I said, my philosophy is to wonder, not to understand. Long story short? I was in love with my best friend's girlfriend. It's easier to just say it like it was.
It wasn't until I realized just how far gone I was that it occurred to me how utterly dangerous my feelings were. The two of them weren't serious, not at all, what they had was barely more than a fling. But even if they'd broken up on good terms, I still shouldn't have done what I did. It's uncomfortable, it's awkward, and it's just plain wrong, being with a woman who was also with your best friend. I don't do drama, and that just had soap opera written all over it.
But that didn't matter. Not at all. I could think about it until my head exploded, play the scenes out like an ongoing horror movie in my head, and the sad thing is, even looking back on it now, I would do it again. I would tell her I love her, hold her in my arms, spend the night with her, knowing that I was cleanly putting to death a friendship that had been worth more than anything else in my shitty, pointless life.
And you know what the worst part of it is? The punchline to a really bad joke? I never really found out if she felt the same about me. She never said the words, and when I did, her eyes would just fill with pain and she would hold me tighter.
I suppose . . . she felt the same, if she gave up everything on that night three years ago. I suppose . . . since she didn't kill me. If she had, she would have been free. If she had . . .
Hah. I gave up everything for 'suppose.' But that's all right.
And Vicious? Well, Vicious . . . I don't want to talk about him. It doesn't matter, anymore. I don't know him like I used to; maybe I never did. I chose who I wanted. I knew I couldn't have both. And so he is no longer a factor. He wants me dead, tried to kill me, and that's fine. Death, I understand. Anything else, and I would have a real problem coping.
Like I'm doing so well as it is.
I'm a dead man, now. Well, not literally, I guess. It feels like it, but no. The Syndicate thinks I'm dead, and that's why I'm still breathing. But I'm not dead. I can't say I'm alive, either. I'm starting to wonder if I ever really was. Things I did and people I knew and emotions I felt feel faded and translucent, now, as if it all happened to someone else, and at the same time, more real than anything I'm living now.
That's funny. I'm between my death and my life, trying to decide which one is reality.
They used to call me Purgatory. The name fits now more than ever.
Maybe that's what the song means. You think?
I'll wake up, eventually. You can't stay in limbo forever. Maybe dead people dream forever, but I'm not dead. Not yet. I just have to find out if what life I had was even a life. If there was anything beyond the gray, beyond the patchwork quilt I see that is one big sorry remnant of my sorry existance.
Even dreams die, just like people. Eventually.
~Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily . . . life is but a dream.~
~end~
Author's Note: Spike was more difficult than Julia, being that he's more complex as the main character of the series, and I hope my version of his thoughts was accurate. However, Spike and Julia are nothing compared to the hell writing Vicious is going to put me through. Oh, well. No going back now. All reviews would be welcome.
All disclaimers apply.
Author's Note: The hoped-for reviews have come in, few but poignant and very flattering, and so I'm continuing with chapter 2. To my readers, merci beaucoup! That's 'thanks' to those of you who are French-challenged. At least, I think it is . . . ^_^. As one reviewer pointed out, I kind of roped myself into a trilogy with the title alone--maybe I should have just called it 'Fate' and saved myself the brain freeze from typing all night long . . . nah. Besides, what's a Bebop story without a heads-up from Spike Spiegel?
Read on, enjoy, and, of course, review!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Purgatory: Spike
~Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.~
Sometimes I wonder where that rhyme came from. It seems innocent enough, something children sing, something you whistle absently when you can't think of anything else to whistle. Harmless. But no one can remember who made it, or why. Things that have no past or history, things so deeply embedded in culture or in life or in the soul that it's hard to tell from where it originated in the first place . . . those things are dangerous. The most dangerous of all, because if you don't know how something started, it's all that much harder to make it stop.
Do you remember how, as a kid, you'd play "Ring Around The Rosey"? Clasp hands with your friends and spin in a circle, singing, "Ring around the rosey/Pocket full of posies/Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!" Then you'd all hit the ground, laughing. It was such a simple game, fun and silly and harmless.
And then you'd get to junior high or high school and learn about the Black Death, the bubonic plague that slaughtered millions of people in only a few years. You'd learn that the simple game you'd played when you were little was actually a mantra sung by children to keep away sickness and death, that the last line--ashes, ashes, we all fall down--didn't mean what you thought it meant. And you'd wonder why so many people forgot, and let their children sing about suffering and laugh.
Maybe "Row Your Boat" is just like that. A song once sung in all seriousness to chase away demons reduced to a little tune everyone sings without knowing why. Maybe to row your boat down the stream means that life will carry you forward towards death no matter what you do, and you might as well go along with it and take your time, because living is brief, anyway, so we should enjoy it while we can.
Or maybe it means that nothing in life is real, just some complex illusion conjured up from thwarted dreams and desires, like looking at your fluid and distorted reflection in rushing water that never stays still enough for you to see yourself clearly. It's you, but it isn't you. It's real, but it isn't real. Like that.
I don't know. I've been thinking strange and pointless thoughts like that for three years now. Trying to find the meaning of it all, wondering if there even is a meaning. Wondering if any of it really happened. And if it did, where am I going now? Why am I here?
Things were so simple back then. There were the Dragons, and missions, and zipcraft, and guns, and cigarettes, and me, and Vicious. Nothing too complex. I lived with the philosophy that things are meant to be pondered, not necessarily understood. It made it easier to go day to day with a limited amount of hardships.
But then there was . . . Julia.
Women. Women are nothing but trouble. I knew it, Vicious knew it, but people take clichés for granted, forgetting why they became so common in the first place.
She seemed like a cliché, at first. You know, the blonde femme fatale, with an eager trigger finger, long legs, and a killer smile like an angel but the skills of a devil. Hell in high heels. But she was good at what she did and the Syndicate took her on. Really good, because they put her with us. Me and Vicious. The best of the best, the resident golden boys, reckless, deathless, and practically unfailing in every mission we had.
I met her before I knew she was even in the Syndicate. In a smoky bar with blues wailing in the background and the sounds of soft conversation and pool being played. She didn't look like a cliché then. In the frail lighting and cool atmosphere, dressed in black leather that hugged every considerable curve, soft waves of hair the color of old gold falling over her shoulders, her slim hip cocked and a pool stick in one hand, she turned, noticed me with those midnight blue eyes, smiled . . . and it was over. I was smitten.
Then I found out she was going to join our team, and it was like someone snuffed out a candle. Poof. Hiss. I was against it from the start, mostly because I knew why the Elders were putting her with Vicious and I. See, despite our skill, we had a habit of--shall we say, overdoing things? Vicious would leave behind unnecessary trails of bodies, and me . . . well, whole buildings tended to fall apart in my wake, despite my best efforts. Julia was supposed to be the leash on a pair of useful but unruly mutts, and I didn't appreciate it at all.
It wasn't that I didn't like her--I did, a lot. And it sure as hell wasn't that she wasn't good enough. She was that, and more.
But my partner and I had a unique way of doing things. A technique we had perfected through time, trial and error. Reading each other, knowing each other, better than we knew ourselves. The two of us were the best because we weren't just two; in the heat of battle, we were one, with two sets of arms and legs, two sets of senses, infallible instincts and a shared death wish to outside observers.
Add a third to that kind of dynamic, and it would just throw everything off.
The scary thing was . . . she didn't. Julia just added to the rhythm, filled out the sound. Like adding drums to the saxophone and piano of a good jazz song. If I was the crazy brass and Vicious the cool ivory, she was the thrumming skins.
We sounded good together. We sounded great.
And it was fun for awhile, it really was. Wild, dangerous, ridiculous at times but altogether cool, life just the way I liked it. Just me, Vicious, and Julia. Even when the two of them got together, everything was still cool. Fun and simple.
It didn't stay that way. Like a nursery rhyme with a dark past, or a fairy tale that originally didn't end with a happily ever after.
I said that Julia seemed like a cliché. But I knew from the start that she wasn't. She was everything original about life, about women, and anything extra was just a well-cultivated outer image. A person I could talk to, be with, and every second was a new discovery, and a new mystery. It was like there were things about her that I valued in myself, things about her that I wanted for myself, and things about her that were so new that I couldn't resist learning all I could about her. I wanted to know what made her laugh, what made her cry, why she hid the truth so much and why she was so cynical, so sad.
I fell for her, and I fell hard, fast, and deep. So deep I think I broke some bones on the way down. To this day, I don't know how it happened or why I could never stop falling. If was as if I stipped my soul down to its barest componants, gave her the key to putting it back together, and forgot to make myself a copy.
Sorry. I'm not explaining this very well. But I don't think it's something I can explain. I'm not great with words, even worse with expressing my emotions and all that shit, and like I said, my philosophy is to wonder, not to understand. Long story short? I was in love with my best friend's girlfriend. It's easier to just say it like it was.
It wasn't until I realized just how far gone I was that it occurred to me how utterly dangerous my feelings were. The two of them weren't serious, not at all, what they had was barely more than a fling. But even if they'd broken up on good terms, I still shouldn't have done what I did. It's uncomfortable, it's awkward, and it's just plain wrong, being with a woman who was also with your best friend. I don't do drama, and that just had soap opera written all over it.
But that didn't matter. Not at all. I could think about it until my head exploded, play the scenes out like an ongoing horror movie in my head, and the sad thing is, even looking back on it now, I would do it again. I would tell her I love her, hold her in my arms, spend the night with her, knowing that I was cleanly putting to death a friendship that had been worth more than anything else in my shitty, pointless life.
And you know what the worst part of it is? The punchline to a really bad joke? I never really found out if she felt the same about me. She never said the words, and when I did, her eyes would just fill with pain and she would hold me tighter.
I suppose . . . she felt the same, if she gave up everything on that night three years ago. I suppose . . . since she didn't kill me. If she had, she would have been free. If she had . . .
Hah. I gave up everything for 'suppose.' But that's all right.
And Vicious? Well, Vicious . . . I don't want to talk about him. It doesn't matter, anymore. I don't know him like I used to; maybe I never did. I chose who I wanted. I knew I couldn't have both. And so he is no longer a factor. He wants me dead, tried to kill me, and that's fine. Death, I understand. Anything else, and I would have a real problem coping.
Like I'm doing so well as it is.
I'm a dead man, now. Well, not literally, I guess. It feels like it, but no. The Syndicate thinks I'm dead, and that's why I'm still breathing. But I'm not dead. I can't say I'm alive, either. I'm starting to wonder if I ever really was. Things I did and people I knew and emotions I felt feel faded and translucent, now, as if it all happened to someone else, and at the same time, more real than anything I'm living now.
That's funny. I'm between my death and my life, trying to decide which one is reality.
They used to call me Purgatory. The name fits now more than ever.
Maybe that's what the song means. You think?
I'll wake up, eventually. You can't stay in limbo forever. Maybe dead people dream forever, but I'm not dead. Not yet. I just have to find out if what life I had was even a life. If there was anything beyond the gray, beyond the patchwork quilt I see that is one big sorry remnant of my sorry existance.
Even dreams die, just like people. Eventually.
~Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily . . . life is but a dream.~
~end~
Author's Note: Spike was more difficult than Julia, being that he's more complex as the main character of the series, and I hope my version of his thoughts was accurate. However, Spike and Julia are nothing compared to the hell writing Vicious is going to put me through. Oh, well. No going back now. All reviews would be welcome.
