Disclaimer: If I owned Cowboy Bebop, I'd be a middle-aged Japanese male with a ton of money and my name would be Mr. Watanabe. Contrary to what you may be thinking, I'm a teenaged ethnic mutt female with chump change and lint in my wallet, and my name is none of your damn business. ^^ This is rated for strong language, adult themes and violence, so if you're thirteen or younger, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THIS FANFIC!!!!
Chapter One: All That Jazz
Julia. One average name, three simple syllables, one tragic woman.
She was nothing terribly special to look at, when you first glanced at her. But of course, you couldn't only glance once. She drew your eyes back without thought, as though she had some unique, magnetic quality about her. Perhaps she did. It might explain a few things. But once you looked again, you started to notice things.
At first, she looked to be a normal, average woman with an average shade of blonde hair, average fair skin, average smile and blue eyes. But as you looked more closely, you realized you'd never seen a woman with quite that rich a shade of honey gold hair, or seen such silky-looking, perfect ivory skin. Her smile was suddenly something of beauty and sweet sadness, something that ought to be caught on canvas and called a work of art. And her eyes were what caught you most, what got you hooked. They weren't an ordinary blue, and they weren't the eyes of an ordinary woman. They were the deep, engulfing azure of the sky when the last light of the sun was fading away, and it seemed as though they were the part of her that emitted that alluring magnetic pull that gripped your very soul. Her eyes held the fading light of hope and the possibility of a love never imagined and the promise of pain unprecedented.
Women like Julia started wars and ended them, simply by existing. Men lusted for her and begged for her love, throwing all they had to the four winds for just a taste of what she was. Women yearned to be like her, admiring her or hating her for being Julia. She was a present-day Helen of Troy, an earth-bound Aphrodite.
She was his fallen angel.
Before her untimely demise, Julia had managed to take two best friends, one Vicious and one Spike Spiegel, and sow discord between them, turning them against each other to the point of hatred simply because she could, because it was what she did, because it was what she was. She turned one, Vicious, into a monster, icing over what last of his heart had not been stone and twisting his fragile mind until it broke and drove him insane, making him empty and dead inside, as his eyes so openly reflected. The other, Spike, she transformed into a desperate Romeo, pining away for his lost Juliet, his lost Julia, living life like a dream that would never end and touching people as if they were mere products of the dream, inconsequential and insubstantial. All that had mattered to him was Julia; she had been his sun, his moon, his world. He needed her like he needed blood, craved her like he craved oxygen. And then the dream was over, and it wasn't really a dream at all.
Yes, in the midst of it all, Julia had finally been revealed for what she truly was. She wasn't an angel cast from heaven, or a goddess who had wandered too far from Olympus. She wasn't a force of Nature that moved like the wind and struck like lightning. No, that was not Julia. She was really very little more than what she first appeared.
She was just a tragic woman.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Smoke drifted like an acrid-sweet fog through the bar, carrying on its waves the strong odors of depression and liquor, mixing with the bitter tang of nicotine, shrouding the occupants in a comforting haze of oblivion and anonymity. Deliberately dimmed halogen lights set at wide intervals around the room did little to penetrate the cigarette-induced gloom that clung to everything, merely illuminating the dull-edged silhouettes and figures effectively enough so that the inebriated patrons wouldn't kill themselves trying to walk. The soft, bemused strummings of an acoustic guitar pervaded everything, adding quality to the quantity of melancholy in the atmosphere.
Here at the Black Chapel, people came to forget who they were and drown their sorrows in booze. The infamous bar was the heart of the satellite-city known as Avalon, also called the Celestial City, a place of magic women, where everything was built of precious stone, the streets were paved with gold and the rivers ran with alcohol. Long ago, when the colony satellite was still new and filled with prosperous, hopeful people, it had been called Shangri-La, a refuge for world-weary travelers and those who sought a life of contentment and simplicity. The idyllic and wistful beginnings of the satellite-city had been all but forgotten as, worn down by time and reality, it had become a place that sanctified all manners of sin and self-indulgence. It was a modern Sodom and Gomorrah neatly wrapped in one package, a haven and sanctuary for the illegally inclined or the occasional luckless bastard who ended up with nowhere else to go. The common person living in the present-day city called Avalon tended to be shifty and lost, an outlaw, a criminal, those who wished to disappear, the bounty hunters and the bounty hunted.
As she sat alone at the bar counter, hunched over her dwindling cigarette and nursing a third glass of scotch, Faye Valentine distantly noted how she managed to fit all of those descriptions rather nicely and allowed a faintly amused smirk to pull up at one corner of her scarlet-painted mouth. Some odd months ago, she had gotten rid of that tasteless, grungy yellow vinyl outfit she had sported for so long in trade of a more reserved, though equally seductive ensemble, doing away with the old trashy getup and ridiculous headband and boots. So she sat on her more or less stable corner stool, shapely pale legs crossed and elbows leaned on the well-kept wooden counter, dressed in a pair of black shorts that clung to every curve and hugged her hips lowly, the smooth, soft material reaching just to the tops of her thighs. Midriff bare, her chest was clad in a strapless red halter of the same cloth as the shorts, revealing a respectable amount of cleavage while harping on the sleek slope of her bared shoulders. Three or four plain, thin silver chokers adorned her neck, matching the several small bangles adorning the same wrist on which her "magic bracelet", as she sarcastically dubbed it, also fit snugly. Her hair had grown about an inch in the year since she'd deserted the Bebop and the feathery violet tresses shaped to her neck and face neatly, bangs framing her emerald eyes, accented by her sooty lashes and crimson dusted eyelids. Faye used her looks as what she knew them to be, a weapon, an art form, as a way of getting done what she needed or wanted. And in that light, she had never been in better form than she was now.
Pausing to brush a few errant purple strands from her forehead, she took her diminishing cancer stick in two long, slender fingers and blew a stream of smoke from between her lips, haunted green eyes watching with disinterest from beneath half-lowered lids as she slowly contributed to the permanent smog that obscured her surroundings. She lifted her cigarette back to her mouth, took a last long drag and stubbed out the glowing butt in the nearby ashtray before downing the rest of her scotch in one big gulp. She had come to this bar on this particular evening for a reason, and she wanted to be well on her way to getting drunk before she proceeded with her plan.
It was Open Mic night at the Black Chapel, and Faye wanted to work off some steam. Sure, violence was a great stress reliever and so was sex, but she didn't feel like getting in a brawl right now, nor did she particularly fancy sharing a bed with some random drunkard off the streets. Much as she used her beauty and body as a tool, Faye Valentine was no whore and had no inclinations of becoming such. So she was resorting to kareoke, something she had done regularly and often when she was younger, especially during high school and college. Of course, that had been over fifty years ago and she was less confident about her singing abilities than she had been, so Faye had no desire or intention of approaching this course of action completely sober. Not that she wanted to get drunk off her ass and make a fool of herself, but she would prefer to have a healthy dose of spirits flowing through her veins to lower her inhibitions a little and help her loosen up.
Eyeing the stage reluctantly, Faye frowned, wondering why the microphone was utterly desolate. The only person on stage was the guy playing guitar, longish hair hiding his face as he bent over his instrument. This was a bar on Open Mic night, so why weren't the ridiculously drunk getting up there and crooning their intoxicated asses off?
The answer came quickly enough: just like her, all the others who might want a shot at the mic were too chickenshit to get up and go first, so they were waiting on somebody else to lead off. Snorting, Faye shook her head and rolled her eyes. She had never been one to flow with the masses, so she figured she might as well show some guts and make the first move.
Gathering her courage and confidence about her like a cloak, she slid off the cracked vinyl seat of the stool and stood, picking up her black leather jacket from the bar counter beside her and slipping it on. Not that the bar was cold or anything, but she'd prefer people to be paying more attention to her voice than her breasts when she went up there. Besides, the room was crowded with mainly men, the only women she could really identify being the bored-looking, scantily clad waitresses behind the bar.
Hands placed innocently in her jacket pockets, Faye smiled a little as she strode slowly up towards the stage, knowing that she had already garnered the attention of nearly every man in the place. Really, could it seriously be considered her fault if she just naturally happened to sway her hips just so when she walked? So far as she knew, the only male's attention she didn't have, besides the burly bartender, seemed to be the guy playing his guitar, head still bowed as his lean hands and strong fingers lovingly danced over the strings. She stopped just short of the stairs to the stage, lids half-lowered as she cleared her throat for his attention.
After a moment, the man turned his head slightly in her direction to indicate he was listening, but he still didn't deign to look up. Smirking, Faye supposed he was one of those stoic musician types who cared for nothing but his instrument and his music. She'd certainly seen plenty of that type roaming around, busking for pocket change in the streets of Avalon. "I'd like to do a song. It's sort of old, so if you don't know it, just feel free to adlib."
"What's the song?" His voice surprised her a little, such a clear tenor that easily carried a strong sense of personality in the amused tones.
Smiling a little, she nodded, not expecting him to know the song when she told him; it had been "sort of old" before she was even frozen. "Makes You Happy. By a woman called Sheryl Crow. Again, you can wing it if you don't know it."
The guy's only answer was a short nod, and whatever exactly he meant by that, Faye took it to say he'd do just so and moved up to the microphone. She tapped it once to ensure that it was on and then, satisfied with its volume, waited for the guitar-man to lead her in. Her eyes widened in surprise when he started off with the exact notes she remembered, but regained her composure in time for the first verse. Leaning in to the mike, she closed her eyes and began in a lilting, husky voice, "I belong a long way from here. Put on a poncho, paid for mosquitoes and drank till I was thirsty again. We've been searching through thrift store jungles. Found Geronimo's rifle, Marilyn's shampoo, and anything that's closer to them. Well okay, I made this up. I promised you I'd never give up."
As she launched into the chorus, she opened her eyes wide and gained volume, tossing her head a little to get her hair out of her face. "If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad! If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad? We've been down, real low down. Listen to gold trend, derail your own train, well who hasn't been there before? I come around, around the hard way. Bring you comics in bed, scrape the mold off the bread, and serve you French toast again. Well okay, I still get stoned. I'm not the kinda girl you take home. If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad! If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad? If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad! If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"
During the guitar solo, she took a moment to brush her hair behind her ears and detached the mic from the stand, backing away a little so she could watch the other patrons without the stage lights blinding her completely. "We've been far, far away from here. Put on a poncho, paid for mosquitoes and everyone in between. Well okay, we get along. So what if right now everything's wrong? If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad! If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad? If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad. If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad…"
There was some scattered applause and a few annoying catcalls when Faye replaced the mic and stepped off the stage, but she ignored it all. Trying to keep the satisfied smile from her lips, she sat down at her same stool and called for another scotch. It didn't matter; she was riding a giddy high like no alcohol or drug could give her, and she nostalgically recalled having the same feeling before she had ever been Faye Valentine, before she'd so desperately needed such a release.
The barkeep set her refilled glass down in front of her, nodded gruffly, and moved back to the shot rack, where he began repolishing each and every glass for the umpteen-millionth time that evening.
Faye smirked a little, glad he wasn't the type who incessantly pestered his patrons with that classic "you wanna talk about it?" line, out for their story, and the fact that the more a person talked, the drunker they tended to get. She hated that type. People who wanted to know your story never really gave a damn; they were just looking for a way to be less bored, or to use you. She was sick of being used.
Reclining her head a little to stare at the hazy ceiling, she was reminded how Jet Black was much the same way. He was perfectly alright with you if you didn't feel the need to spill your guts to him. Of course, he would call you a lazy, freeloading shrew afterwards, but if you needed your peace, he usually tended to let you have it. That had always been something she had appreciated about him, because it had been nice to just be left alone. Although… sometimes, to be left alone was the last thing she needed. Like the day she had regained her memories… She'd shut him up with a glance when he started to ask where she'd gone, but if he'd only pursued the subject… god, how she could've used that release. Maybe then she wouldn't have emotionally exploded on Spike before he left like some kind of human geyser.
Heh, yeah right. Like talking to someone about your past would have kept you from practically going Fatal Attraction on him. I mean, gee, he was only going off to get himself killed, no biggie.
Hoping to drown out her cynically veracious inner voice, Faye snatched her glass off the bar counter and brought it to her lips, tilting her head back until she felt her hair brush the spot between her shoulder blades. When the scotch had been emptied down her throat and the comforting burning began to subside, leaving behind a friendly buzz, she slammed the empty glass back down on the counter, licking her lips to catch any stray droplets of the intoxicating booze.
The bartender returned to fill her glass again but she held up her hand, indicating for him to hold off. "I think I'm done for tonight. Thanks anyways." Tossing the correct amount of change on the glossy wooden counter, she stood and headed towards the door, eyes on the toes of her black zip-up ankle boots and bangs conveniently concealing her emerald hues.
She stopped at the door and turned back, ears catching the beginning tunes of another old song, one she knew from her past, interest piquing as to who would request such an out-of-date tune. Her eyes widened slightly as she recognized guitar-man, who had pulled a tall stool up to the mic and was simultaneously strumming the cords of the melody and singing the lyrics. His hair still mainly obscured his face, particularly his eyes, but from what she could see, he was younger than she would have imagined and better looking as well. And if she had thought his speaking voice had been pleasant, she could drown in the tones of his singing.
"Past the road to your house. That you never called home. Where they turned out your lights. But we say you'll never know. I remember running through the wet grass, falling a step behind. Both of us never tiring, desperately wanting." She stood entranced at the song, feeling oddly as though it were directed to her. "When they pumped out your guts. Filled you full of those pills. You would never cry out, deserving all the truths. Say the worst is over. Kick it over again. Then they ask what went wrong. When they turn you on again. When they turn you on again. I remember running through the wet grass, falling a step behind. Both of us never tiring, desperately wanting. I remember running through the wet grass, falling a step behind. Both of us never tiring, desperately wanting. Kick em right in the face. Make them wish they weren't born! And if they bring up your name. You'll say, 'You want more?'. Pity bursting their worlds. Never give it a chance. Then they ask what went wrong. When you never had it right. No, you never had it right. I remember running through the wet grass, falling a step behind. Both of us never tiring, desperately wanting. Oh, the letters I've dropped off, though they say you got them all. Finally figured out some things you'll never know. No, oh… Take back your life. Let me inside. We'll find a cure. If you care… If you care to have it more! I remember running through the wet grass, falling a step behind. Both of us never tiring, desperately wanting…"
As the song ended, Faye felt an irrational panic fill her breast, setting her heart to beat at her chest like a captive raging to be set free. Breathing heavily, she whirled around and stumbled outside and into the wet, dimly illuminated evening, taking deep, desperate gulps of the temperature-controlled Avalon night air. Hair falling as a curtain around her face, she bent at the waist, taking a moment to catch her bearings and regain her balance. As the swell of illogical fear subsided, she shook her head, scolding herself for acting so ridiculously over nothing. "Get a grip, Valentine. It was just a song."
Sighing, she straightened back up and shook her hair from her face, smoothing it back with both hands. Things were so crazy normally, she really didn't need to start going insane at the moment. Heh, I've got too much on my mind as it is. No room for split personalities or voices.
Tossing her hair blithely, Faye shoved her hands deep into he pockets, deciding to take a bit of a walk around the town before heading back to her rented out hotel room, where she would predictably reminisce on many things, from her time on the Bebop to her past, until she finally passed out from sheer exhaustion in the wee hours of the morning. That wasn't exactly what she was looking forward to at the moment, ruefully wishing she had something to do rather than somewhere to go and be unceasingly alone with her memoirs.
It wasn't long until Faye was walking alongside groups of strangers, mixing with the faceless revelers of the night on the main streets of Avalon. Bright neon lights splashed colors like spilled, vibrant paints on the artificial rain-slicked streets, coloring the laughing, anonymous faces that swirled like riptides in a chaotic sea of merriment around her. Raucous laughter and the boisterous sounds of drunkards, gamblers and prostitutes erupted in all directions, spilling from doorways and balconies into the avenues below, tinkling like musical chimes in the ears of the Celestial City's reproachable population.
In Faye's ears, the music of the place rang a hollow note, tinny and empty as though it was a recording playing through bad speakers. Sighing, she squinted at the blindingly bright floodlights playing back and forth at the entrances to the large, extravagant buildings in the casino district and pulled a slim pair of small, ovalframe sunglasses and fixed them to her face, sliding them down the bridge of her nose to peer over the sleek rims at the crowd. People-watching was something she hadn't done in a long while.
For a moment, she paused on the sidewalk, ignoring the people who bumped and grumbled past her. She stared almost longingly at the Treasure Island casino and hotel, lower lip sticking out as she contemplated blowing a few woolongs at poker tables. Sighing, she shook her head and turned away, walking on and past , ignoring the itchy-fingers sensation she felt when presented with the opportunity to gamble herself into oblivion. Gambling was as good as any liquor, without the headache and vomiting in the morning. But no, Poker Alice would have to rest tonight.
As she came upon the Golden Chip and the Silver Deck sister casinos, Faye took a right turn, divulging herself from the meandering crowd of miscreant society, ensconcing herself in the confines of a narrow, dark and dingy alleyway. The garbage-lined, dimmed, less engaging walls of the two associate casinos reaching high and imposing to her left and right, she strode at a leisurely gait, booted feet picking a careful path through the questionable articles of litter that strove to impede every step. The little byway was less an alley and more a shortcut to reach her final destination, her hotel. Though a bit long and gloomy, the filthy side street would get her to her place of residence more quickly and with less hassle than if she were to go by any of the main ways. After all, it wasn't as if her lodging was in a particularly inconspicuous or secluded location.
Sniffing a little to herself, Faye frowned, wondering, Why exactly did I pick the street chock-full of whorehouses to make my semi-permanent residence? Snorting, she answered her own rhetorical question, eyes always ahead and senses constantly alert. In Avalon, everywhere was a bad part of town, and it wouldn't do to let her guard down. Because the pimp next door was easy to charm into a nice price, with promises not to even publicly recognize you, let alone touch you.
Faye's head came up again and she smiled a smile that was more akin to a grimace as her peridot eyes graced the aptly named Strip. Arranged in no particular order along the attenuated boulevard were a collection of tawdry and meretricious establishments catering to the licentious-natured and libidinous patrons who populated the many bordellos, brothels, strip joints, whorehouses and exotic dancing clubs. Nestled ironically among these was her "hotel", if it could be so loosely termed that.
The Emerald Salamander was a small, ill illuminated building standing a miniscule three stories beside its co-owned, less reputable five story brothel sister, both buildings signed to the name of one Elizar Amarand, forty-eight year old pimp and business owner. The little inn being his secondhand business venture, Elizar was more a man who knew beauty and grace, and how to twist, prolong, and sell it. When Faye had shown up four months ago, pissed off, tired and hungry in her yellow vinyl getup, she had been instructed by a man in a minor restaurant when asking for a place to board to locate the Vanity Fair and a Mr. Elizar Amarand. Faye, travel-weary and disgruntled, had thoughtlessly taken the man at his word and located the whorehouse christened Vanity Fair, having no idea or notion that she was walking into a prostitute house.
Of course, that hadn't stopped her from being offended when Elizar had looked at her appraisingly with just the slightest leer to his eyes as they roamed over her slim, tight figure and ample bust, nor had it deterred her from shoving her pistol under his stubbly chin when he had told her that he could wrangle her a deal of charging one thousand woolongs a night, with him receiving ten percent of the cut. When the aging pimp had laughingly informed her that he owned both an inn called the Emerald Salamander as well as the infamous bordello, Vanity Fair, he explained that he had friends all over the opprobrious satellite-city keeping an eye out for women looking to be demimondaines and that his man at the restaurant had probably only told her the wrong establishment, she had grudgingly put away her gun. Of course, when he had asked where on earth she managed to conceal her weapon in such a revealing outfit, she had only dignified him with a vulpine smirk, saying that a woman should never reveal her secrets.
After that initial meeting, she had seen Elizar blessedly few times, once to mete out her rent rates and once again to deal with a few necessary repairs to the "apartment". Other than that, she might only catch sight of the man in passing, and neither ever acknowledged the other.
It wasn't grand or luxurious, or even very respectable, but it was, for the moment, home.
Heaving a little sigh, Faye traveled the last distance to solitude, ignoring the crowds of lusty men and women roving the sidewalks alongside her.
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Faye lay on her bed, a thin sheet covering her naked form. She didn't normally sleep in the buff, but her air conditioner had broken again, and she'd be damned if she woke up feeling like an over-greased fried chicken leg and smelling like a filthy man.
Growling softly beneath her breath, Faye squeezed her eyes tightly shut, throwing an arm over her face in hopes that her hyperactive brain would get the message and shut down. She'd been tossing and turning all night, words from days gone by rolling unspoken on her tongue, the visions to match scrolling across the backs of her eyelids.
…Cold metal floors, moving corridors, red hair, annoying mutt, a black void dotted with white, bionic arm, little trees, cigarettes, a ratty yellow couch, mop of green curls, blood, sweat, gunsmoke…
…I resigned from myself
Took a break as someone else
It's like I've come undone
And I've only just become
Inflatable for you
You're so pretty in white
Pretty when you're faithful
So pretty in white
Pretty when you're faithful
So pretty in white
Pretty when you're faithful
When you're faithful
I don't mind most of the time
But you pushed me so far inside
You're so pretty in white
Pretty when you're faithful
So pretty in white
Pretty when you're faithful
So pretty in white
Pretty when you're faithful
So pretty in white
Pretty when you're faithful
When you're faithful
When you're… faithful [1]
Sighing, she lay on her stomach, clutching the white sheet in loose fists. At last, her green eyes alighted on the cracking light-blue paint of the wall, a dim, sad wistfulness glazing over the emerald hues. Releasing the rough-thread sheets, she slid her hands beneath herself and shoved the weight of her body upwards, stilling as she was propped up by thin arms, slender shoulders drooping beneath the bedclothes.
I'm always alone. I want to wake up and hate the world, with someone who hates it the same as me. Why am I still alone? Why did he go? Why did he leave me again?… Damn you, Sp-
Faye's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap upon the apartment door. Her head snapped to attention, eyes narrowing suspiciously upon the thin piece of wood, and she slowly, silently eased her lithe, alert form from the mattress, cautious of the squeaky old springs. As her feet touched the barren, cold floor, she shoved aside a wave of nostalgia, remembering how the Bebop's floors always froze the soles of her feet, and donned her bathrobe, belting it loosely at her waist.
Reaching for the rickety little nightstand by the bed, her small hand deftly slipped into the half-open drawer and withdrew her firearm. It was savagely comforting how the butt of her trusty Glock fit to her palm, how her petite finger curled so perfectly around the cold, deadly smoothness of the trigger, as if it had been made just for her. She was Faye Valentine; nothing fazed her; she became someone else in order to survive. Familiarity with one's weapon was a must in this antiseptically indifferent future she had been thrust into, and Faye had an affiliation with her gun as if it were a natural extension of herself.
And right now, she needed it. She'd given no one notice of where she'd been staying, hadn't even made so much as an acquaintance who might feel the urge to look her up, and Elizar knew better than to come around so late; besides, he used the phone. Whomever stood behind Door Number One, was not a welcome guest.
Breathing shallowly through her nose, she crept silently forward as the loud knocking came another time, sidling up beside the door with the safety off and hammer cocked, clip full. A moment later, nearly soundless, footsteps began to carry her mystery caller away from her door, taking him or her down the hall until the soft footfalls disappeared.
Faye was no fool. Free hand sliding across the wall, it came to rest on the smooth, cool roundness of the doorknob. Her pulse beat a mad drum in her ears, the quiet in, out whispering of her breath through her lungs keeping her focused. Slowly, carefully, she began to turn the knob. When the audible snick of the single-chamber tumbler falling back sounded like an explosion in the silence, Faye jerked open the door and threw herself into the empty frame, feet skidding softly on the bare floor, legs twisting to correct her thrown balance, robe fluttering with her own momentum, arms coming down and locking before her, on hand curled around the Glock, trigger finger ready and waiting, the other steadying her wrist for the recoil and jade eyes searching the hallway in front of her frantically for a target.
The corridor was empty, darkened and silent as the dead, a muffled stillness settling in the air through the sleep of the few other tenants. However, Faye did not relax her stance, muscles coiled and ready, perspiration beading on her forehead, until she had stepped out into the passage and thoroughly inspected the shadows reaching down either side of her little suite.
When at last she was satisfied that she was alone, she allowed her body to lax, sinking heavily against the wall beside her open door, a loud burst of carbon dioxide rushing from her lungs. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath. A breathless, short burst of bitter laughter expulsed from her lips, a satirical smirk curving her unpainted mouth. Paranoia had become second nature in the past months; after all, it was healthier to be crazy than careless.
She started to draw in a breath, then. Froze. A cold wave ran down Faye's spine as her eyes widened, showing white all around. Almost instantly, they snapped shut, and she closed her mouth, inhaling deeply of the hall air through her nose. Faint but oh so familiar, the air was tainted with redolence that haunted some of her nightmares and old dreams. Even after she exhaled, the scent lingered in her nostrils, the well-known musky tang of gunpowder and sweet fragrance of that particular brand of cigarettes.
Her eyelashes were rich black crescents upon the ivory of her cheekbones, shining with a wetness concealed behind. Etched upon the backs of her eyelids like a priceless painting, she saw a lopsided grin and two distinctive, mismatched eyes.
Look at me, my depth perception must be off again
Cuz this hurts deeper than I thought it did
It has not healed with time
It just shot down my spine
You look so beautiful tonight
Reminds how you'd lay us down and gently smile
Before you destroyed my life
Would you find it in your heart
To make this go away
And let me rest in pieces
Let me rest in pieces
Would you find it in your heart
To make this go away
And let me rest in pieces
Let me rest in pieces
Pieces
Look at me, my depth perception must be off again
You got much closer than I thought you did
I'm in your reach, you held me in your hand
Would you find it in your heart
To make this go away
And let me rest in pieces
Let me rest in pieces
Would you find it in your heart
To make this go away
And let me rest in pieces
Let me rest in pieces…[2]
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Finis (until next time)
*[1] Inflatable – Bush
**[2] Rest in Pieces – Saliva
Author's Note: Yeah, gonna warn ya right off the bat. These little Author's Note things? I like them. Very much. So does my Beta Reader. In fact, perhaps a little too much. So much so that I believe she has invented the Beta Reader Note. So beware. Okay? Kay. Well, hm… if you didn't notice, I like to put music into my fics. A whole hell of a lot. I suppose it's my way of making up for the lack of background music. *shrugs* Whatever. Anyways. I really hope you like this. Little short, but chapters get longer as the storyline picks up. By the time chapter one goes up, I'll already have chapter two ready and waiting to go online in the wings. It all depends on reviews as to whether or not I continue to update this. I hope so far that everybody's in character, not that there's a lot of 'everybody' to be in character yet. I know this chapter's slow, but it picks up right after this, I promise. Gets veeery interesting. *grins* Heheh. Review and see, eh? Oh, and there's a few things in this chapter kinda foreshadowing events to come. Think you can pick up my subliminal messages? Nehehehe… I hope not. It ruins the punch of the surprise. And whatcha think about my little Julia theory, mm? Let me know, if you would. Tanks. *waves* Latazz.