Disclaimer: Ditto on chapter one, chapter two, chapter three and chapter
four.
A/N: . . . y'know what, I shouldn't even say it anymore. This is ridiculous. If you haven't got the message yet, there is no hope. Just read.
Silk on Steel
Five: Ballad of Two Angels
The rain fell in torrents all around him. The street below was completely deserted. He peered down from the roof of the building, but he was unsure. Vision compromised; not a good sign. Mars was notorious for its rains. It wasn't like he wasn't used to it. He'd lived on Mars all of his boyhood. That was, before Vicious and the syndicate.
He was around here, right around here somewhere, lurking in the shadows. Nobody in sight, but he was here, alright. His scent, his signature aura was here; on the pavement, the air, these buildings, all here. God, he was probably looking at him right now, and here he was, completely unaware. Vicious had a way of hiding himself that Spike had never been able to learn; a way of being discreet and at the same time cut a definite figure wherever he was. That was one of the first things he'd noticed about Vicious, back when they met the first time.
Back when they were just a couple of rebellious sixteen-year-olds, not caring about anything but sex, rock and roll, and maybe the secrets of the universe. Spike could almost remember all those nights and days, fighting on Atari to best each others' scores and shoplifting Playboys from the newspaper stands, playing guitar way too loud in the garage and watching the stars way late into the night philosophizing without any cares.
Those were the days . . . but those days led to other ones. Darker days; days of crime, drugs, violence in the Syndicate. Perfect picture of living hedonism; that's what he'd been. Organized crime . . . what a deal. He had to admit it; back then, they made a lot of money. Bounty hunting didn't even compare. To be really honest, he probably would have stayed with it.
That is, if it hadn't been for one woman . . .
He'd known him for so long now, known him in so many lights, he could sense his presence. Vicious was here, alright. Just biding his time, waiting for a moment to fall down on him in a lightfast hammer of death.
"But I'm not going out that way," Spike whispered under his breath.
With a roving eye, he mapped the street below. Still no sign, and yet he was here. He was not wrong. Somewhere . . . somewhere in the shadows . . . waiting for his kill . . .
"Coward," he called into the night.
The image came just a millisecond before it happened. A view . . . looking down at himself, a view, almost right behind, but higher up . . . a white haired man with silver eyes, dressed in black, a katana in hand . . . too late. Soundless as a feather, he fell like a crash, right square on top of him . . . he'd jumped. A pain so incredible, it filled all his being. Spike looked down to see his blood pouring out of him, ebbing like a wave from his side, mixing with the rain.
"Is that a fact, Spiegel?" A voice whispered in his ear. With a zap of surprise, he was jolted back to reality. Still on his back . . . mustering all the strength he could manage, he threw him off. With the balance of a dark cat, Vicious bounced back to his feet, the soles of his shoes dancing across the surface of the roof, stopping just a foot short of the edge.
"Thought I'd slip, did you?" the voice came again, taking a few safety steps backwards. "Clever idea, I must admit it. But not clever enough."
Spike couldn't answer; he was clutching his side, trying to slow the bleeding. This was it. He'd only get one chance at it. While his back was still turned . . . BANG! He fired. BANG! Another, and still he stood, still as a stone, as if he hadn't even heard them at all.
"You won't be able to shoot straight with that arm anymore. Try the other. If I remember correctly, you're ambidextrous, am I right?"
A low, involuntary growl emanated from the depths of his diaphragm. He was teasing now, heckling him, making the most of his first advantage and then this fake sympathy. It was sick; sadistic, even. It was only meant to make him lose hope. These were not his terms. Not by a long shot. With a flick of his finger, he switched hands and hammered off another round, now aiming at his feet. Let's see how witty he is when he can't jump.
The grace of a bird . . . a dragon, in fact. Skipped less than a centimeter out of the way, but missed all the same. Fuck. Three left, one in the shaft, he told himself. I've done it with that before. After that, ten seconds to bang in a new one, at least . . .
"Just like old times, eh, Spiegel?" the hissing voice interrupted his thoughts. He was facing Spike now. "You always were a sneak."
"Shut the fuck up," Spike managed to wheeze. "Quit jumpin' an' fight like a man."
"Chivalry?" With a sudden burst of speed, somehow taking two shots squarely and not a single hesitation, the katana blade bit into his flesh again; this time, the solar plexus, with Vicious looming over him, the eyes Death himself. "I'm touched."
Pain, unimaginable pain, pain that couldn't be real, even in a nightmare. For a second, he fell over backwards in shock and then tried to right himself, but Vicious took advantage of the momentary lapse of balance, bearing down even further, until his knees gave away under the stroke.
It wasn't like he'd felt pain like this before. This sort of pain . . . it was not solely physical. This friend, this enemy, this one who had brought him more grief than even the bloody blade of Fate . . . it couldn't happen this way.
"Hurts? I can only imagine, Spiegel." He jarred the katana's blade in his flesh, cruelty without a single tear from his great apathetic, silver eyes. For just a second or so, as he aimed, this one his very last chance, he thought that from this angle, they almost looked white; eerily white, the clear, clear pupils isolated on the pure snowy glass.
One last chance . . . one last chance . . . for Faye . . .
BANG! How could it be possible? How could he miss POINTE BLANK? And then he realized . . . the katana . . . it was so thin, he hadn't even seen it . . . it broke on the katana. Such irony . . . everybody knew that guns were better than swords anyway . . . and yet this. The last chance, and now he'd lost it.
But it wasn't all for loss.
He hadn't even heard him scream. That is, if he had screamed at all. His right eye, shut closed as closed, coating in rich blackness . . . shrapnel. Irony . . . his pale face contorted in lividness, the thin, colorless lips pressed tight against his clenched teeth.
"Fine," a low, inhuman growl emitted from his throat, still bearing down with all his strength. "You wanna be cute? I can do that too. Watch me milk your life, Spiegel."
Had he said unimaginable pain before? He'd been wrong. That was cheesecake compared to this. Vicious was leaning far down now, his wild, livid eye not a foot from his own, the sickly white skin tightened in fury. The fierce metal mutilated the skin as to cause the most amount of pain possible. In that one wild gleaming eye, he saw Dante's Hell, saw all the way to the lowest level, Judecca . . . the ever-freezing . . .
This was the end. Faye . . . he'd lied to her. He'd promised he'd come back. He'd promised he'd go out his way. But this wasn't his way. His way was man to man, not drooling to death on a rainy rooftop. He'd promised himself he'd let Julia die in peace and move on with life, a life with Faye . . . all daydreams, forgotten musings gone with the warm air. And here he was, roundless, all six of them gone, all chambers empty . . . a sudden alarm went off in his head. Six . . . and one in the shaft! . . .
His head splitting with pain, being careful not to bring attention to the newfound discovery, he slowly crept his hand to where his gun was lying beside him. His shot was perfect now, no stupid katana in the way, so easy . . . he couldn't mess this up. If he was gonna die on this stupid rooftop in the rain, god dammit, he'd be taking him with him!
Somehow, besides having only one eye and being blinded by boundless rage, Vicious caught sight of this last endeavor.
"Ahh," again, that inhuman hiss. "The final delusion, my friend . . . hope. Hope, even where there is none. Despite all reality, your foolish, unending desire to leave differently, to go out with a-"
BANG!
The silver eye screamed, the tiny pupil only a small, faded memory of its former brimstone self. The roaming white spaces were no longer plated with hellfire. Now they were wide gaping holes, holes that had been to insanity and back. Trembling, the tiny pupil reached across his body, passed over him completely, and looked at the blood soaked black, a small patch of red seeping through the chest, small as a dime. Vicious had never looked so frightening and yet so pitiful in all of his life. The right eye was shut closed, still vomiting fresh, sticky flesh every second or so. The other was wide with awe and disbelief and absolute insanity. His whole body was shaking now.
"But . . . but . . ." a hiss still, but a diminished one. One that was uttered in desperation. "But . . . how can it be? It . . . it can't be . . . six . . . SIX . . ."
"Six," Spike finished for him, a last smug wheeze, ". . . and one in the shaft!"
For a second, there was silence. A second that took hours on end.
Then a peculiar sound fell upon his dying ears. Spike's ears perked. Was he hearing things? No . . . there it was again. Something between a short cough and a song. He'd never heard anything like it. And he suddenly noticed . . .
It wasn't a song or a cough. It was Vicious . . . laughing. A weak little laugh, but shrill, whispery. And there was a certain quality to the way his one eye shined as the rapidity increased, that made everything . . . terrifying.
"What's so funny?" Spike asked in half-frightened amazement.
With that, it grew slowly louder . . . louder, louder until it rebounded across the entire street.
"WHAT IS IT?" he yelled.
"Aheh . . . heh . . ." it at last grew to a stop. The bright silver eye refocused, its black pupil on him like crosshairs. At last, after what seemed like forever, he began to speak in a way Spike he had never heard before.
"'Per me si va na la citta dolente, per me si va ne l'etterno doloro, per me si va tra la perduta gente . . . Lasciate ogne speransa voi ch'intrate'. . ." (1)
"Dante," Spike muttered quietly. "Canto three."
"Yessss . . ." the hiss waned out his throat. The silver eye rolled in its socket, showing the milky underside. Spike watched as the great black body, washed with bits of pallid skins, weakened, slacked and slid to the ground. Spike listened as the breath cut off dramatically. Vicious Reddragon would breathe no more.
And very soon, neither would he . . .
"Lo duca e io per quel cammino ascoso . . . ," he muttered to himself, laughing under his breath. ". . . intrammo a ritornar nel chiaro mondo; e sanza cura aver d'alcun riposo . . . E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle." (2)
Nothing more to say. It was complete. . . all getting very dark and warm . . . peaceful . . . he closed his eyes. After all that, he deserved a rest. . .
A long, long, rest . . .
It didn't hurt when it happened. But it was cold, and at the very same, time comfortably warm. In that last second of consciousness, Spike made a decision.
"Goodbye," he said to a dead Julia. But his speech wasn't finished
"Goodnight, Faye," he blew her a kiss. So tired. . .
And all was quiet.
The rain fell and fell. Two puddles of red water joined around the two bodies, lying side by side. Those puddles slowly began to join into one. One womb, one bloody cradle, two brothers, two twins, two that shared this same lasting destiny. Two that whose love would break into hatred, and in the end, all salvation would be achieved.
And from above, the rain fell and fell. The night sang its quiet song of late-passing cars, night owls. From somewhere in that metal jungle, there came the sound of a baby crying for his mother's milk. Everything normal, average beauty; all at peace. All over, Mars slept . . . unaware that two of her ill-fated sons lay in endless sleep. . .
~~~~~
Dante Alighieri "Inferno" Canto III, lines 1-3 and 9
Translated approx. (from Latin): "'Through me the way to the city of
desolation, Through me the way to everlasting pain, Through me the way to
souls in abomination. . . . All who enter, let no hope survive.'"
Dante Alighieri "Inferno" Canto XXXIV, lines 133-135 and 139 (the last line in the work)
Translated approx. (from Latin): "We entered on that hidden road to find
our way once more into the world of light. My leader walked ahead and I
behind, . . . From there we came outside and saw the stars."
Translation by Michael Palma
~~~~~
P.S. Elflord: This fic ain't over til I say it's over, and it AIN'T
over!!!
A/N: . . . y'know what, I shouldn't even say it anymore. This is ridiculous. If you haven't got the message yet, there is no hope. Just read.
Silk on Steel
Five: Ballad of Two Angels
The rain fell in torrents all around him. The street below was completely deserted. He peered down from the roof of the building, but he was unsure. Vision compromised; not a good sign. Mars was notorious for its rains. It wasn't like he wasn't used to it. He'd lived on Mars all of his boyhood. That was, before Vicious and the syndicate.
He was around here, right around here somewhere, lurking in the shadows. Nobody in sight, but he was here, alright. His scent, his signature aura was here; on the pavement, the air, these buildings, all here. God, he was probably looking at him right now, and here he was, completely unaware. Vicious had a way of hiding himself that Spike had never been able to learn; a way of being discreet and at the same time cut a definite figure wherever he was. That was one of the first things he'd noticed about Vicious, back when they met the first time.
Back when they were just a couple of rebellious sixteen-year-olds, not caring about anything but sex, rock and roll, and maybe the secrets of the universe. Spike could almost remember all those nights and days, fighting on Atari to best each others' scores and shoplifting Playboys from the newspaper stands, playing guitar way too loud in the garage and watching the stars way late into the night philosophizing without any cares.
Those were the days . . . but those days led to other ones. Darker days; days of crime, drugs, violence in the Syndicate. Perfect picture of living hedonism; that's what he'd been. Organized crime . . . what a deal. He had to admit it; back then, they made a lot of money. Bounty hunting didn't even compare. To be really honest, he probably would have stayed with it.
That is, if it hadn't been for one woman . . .
He'd known him for so long now, known him in so many lights, he could sense his presence. Vicious was here, alright. Just biding his time, waiting for a moment to fall down on him in a lightfast hammer of death.
"But I'm not going out that way," Spike whispered under his breath.
With a roving eye, he mapped the street below. Still no sign, and yet he was here. He was not wrong. Somewhere . . . somewhere in the shadows . . . waiting for his kill . . .
"Coward," he called into the night.
The image came just a millisecond before it happened. A view . . . looking down at himself, a view, almost right behind, but higher up . . . a white haired man with silver eyes, dressed in black, a katana in hand . . . too late. Soundless as a feather, he fell like a crash, right square on top of him . . . he'd jumped. A pain so incredible, it filled all his being. Spike looked down to see his blood pouring out of him, ebbing like a wave from his side, mixing with the rain.
"Is that a fact, Spiegel?" A voice whispered in his ear. With a zap of surprise, he was jolted back to reality. Still on his back . . . mustering all the strength he could manage, he threw him off. With the balance of a dark cat, Vicious bounced back to his feet, the soles of his shoes dancing across the surface of the roof, stopping just a foot short of the edge.
"Thought I'd slip, did you?" the voice came again, taking a few safety steps backwards. "Clever idea, I must admit it. But not clever enough."
Spike couldn't answer; he was clutching his side, trying to slow the bleeding. This was it. He'd only get one chance at it. While his back was still turned . . . BANG! He fired. BANG! Another, and still he stood, still as a stone, as if he hadn't even heard them at all.
"You won't be able to shoot straight with that arm anymore. Try the other. If I remember correctly, you're ambidextrous, am I right?"
A low, involuntary growl emanated from the depths of his diaphragm. He was teasing now, heckling him, making the most of his first advantage and then this fake sympathy. It was sick; sadistic, even. It was only meant to make him lose hope. These were not his terms. Not by a long shot. With a flick of his finger, he switched hands and hammered off another round, now aiming at his feet. Let's see how witty he is when he can't jump.
The grace of a bird . . . a dragon, in fact. Skipped less than a centimeter out of the way, but missed all the same. Fuck. Three left, one in the shaft, he told himself. I've done it with that before. After that, ten seconds to bang in a new one, at least . . .
"Just like old times, eh, Spiegel?" the hissing voice interrupted his thoughts. He was facing Spike now. "You always were a sneak."
"Shut the fuck up," Spike managed to wheeze. "Quit jumpin' an' fight like a man."
"Chivalry?" With a sudden burst of speed, somehow taking two shots squarely and not a single hesitation, the katana blade bit into his flesh again; this time, the solar plexus, with Vicious looming over him, the eyes Death himself. "I'm touched."
Pain, unimaginable pain, pain that couldn't be real, even in a nightmare. For a second, he fell over backwards in shock and then tried to right himself, but Vicious took advantage of the momentary lapse of balance, bearing down even further, until his knees gave away under the stroke.
It wasn't like he'd felt pain like this before. This sort of pain . . . it was not solely physical. This friend, this enemy, this one who had brought him more grief than even the bloody blade of Fate . . . it couldn't happen this way.
"Hurts? I can only imagine, Spiegel." He jarred the katana's blade in his flesh, cruelty without a single tear from his great apathetic, silver eyes. For just a second or so, as he aimed, this one his very last chance, he thought that from this angle, they almost looked white; eerily white, the clear, clear pupils isolated on the pure snowy glass.
One last chance . . . one last chance . . . for Faye . . .
BANG! How could it be possible? How could he miss POINTE BLANK? And then he realized . . . the katana . . . it was so thin, he hadn't even seen it . . . it broke on the katana. Such irony . . . everybody knew that guns were better than swords anyway . . . and yet this. The last chance, and now he'd lost it.
But it wasn't all for loss.
He hadn't even heard him scream. That is, if he had screamed at all. His right eye, shut closed as closed, coating in rich blackness . . . shrapnel. Irony . . . his pale face contorted in lividness, the thin, colorless lips pressed tight against his clenched teeth.
"Fine," a low, inhuman growl emitted from his throat, still bearing down with all his strength. "You wanna be cute? I can do that too. Watch me milk your life, Spiegel."
Had he said unimaginable pain before? He'd been wrong. That was cheesecake compared to this. Vicious was leaning far down now, his wild, livid eye not a foot from his own, the sickly white skin tightened in fury. The fierce metal mutilated the skin as to cause the most amount of pain possible. In that one wild gleaming eye, he saw Dante's Hell, saw all the way to the lowest level, Judecca . . . the ever-freezing . . .
This was the end. Faye . . . he'd lied to her. He'd promised he'd come back. He'd promised he'd go out his way. But this wasn't his way. His way was man to man, not drooling to death on a rainy rooftop. He'd promised himself he'd let Julia die in peace and move on with life, a life with Faye . . . all daydreams, forgotten musings gone with the warm air. And here he was, roundless, all six of them gone, all chambers empty . . . a sudden alarm went off in his head. Six . . . and one in the shaft! . . .
His head splitting with pain, being careful not to bring attention to the newfound discovery, he slowly crept his hand to where his gun was lying beside him. His shot was perfect now, no stupid katana in the way, so easy . . . he couldn't mess this up. If he was gonna die on this stupid rooftop in the rain, god dammit, he'd be taking him with him!
Somehow, besides having only one eye and being blinded by boundless rage, Vicious caught sight of this last endeavor.
"Ahh," again, that inhuman hiss. "The final delusion, my friend . . . hope. Hope, even where there is none. Despite all reality, your foolish, unending desire to leave differently, to go out with a-"
BANG!
The silver eye screamed, the tiny pupil only a small, faded memory of its former brimstone self. The roaming white spaces were no longer plated with hellfire. Now they were wide gaping holes, holes that had been to insanity and back. Trembling, the tiny pupil reached across his body, passed over him completely, and looked at the blood soaked black, a small patch of red seeping through the chest, small as a dime. Vicious had never looked so frightening and yet so pitiful in all of his life. The right eye was shut closed, still vomiting fresh, sticky flesh every second or so. The other was wide with awe and disbelief and absolute insanity. His whole body was shaking now.
"But . . . but . . ." a hiss still, but a diminished one. One that was uttered in desperation. "But . . . how can it be? It . . . it can't be . . . six . . . SIX . . ."
"Six," Spike finished for him, a last smug wheeze, ". . . and one in the shaft!"
For a second, there was silence. A second that took hours on end.
Then a peculiar sound fell upon his dying ears. Spike's ears perked. Was he hearing things? No . . . there it was again. Something between a short cough and a song. He'd never heard anything like it. And he suddenly noticed . . .
It wasn't a song or a cough. It was Vicious . . . laughing. A weak little laugh, but shrill, whispery. And there was a certain quality to the way his one eye shined as the rapidity increased, that made everything . . . terrifying.
"What's so funny?" Spike asked in half-frightened amazement.
With that, it grew slowly louder . . . louder, louder until it rebounded across the entire street.
"WHAT IS IT?" he yelled.
"Aheh . . . heh . . ." it at last grew to a stop. The bright silver eye refocused, its black pupil on him like crosshairs. At last, after what seemed like forever, he began to speak in a way Spike he had never heard before.
"'Per me si va na la citta dolente, per me si va ne l'etterno doloro, per me si va tra la perduta gente . . . Lasciate ogne speransa voi ch'intrate'. . ." (1)
"Dante," Spike muttered quietly. "Canto three."
"Yessss . . ." the hiss waned out his throat. The silver eye rolled in its socket, showing the milky underside. Spike watched as the great black body, washed with bits of pallid skins, weakened, slacked and slid to the ground. Spike listened as the breath cut off dramatically. Vicious Reddragon would breathe no more.
And very soon, neither would he . . .
"Lo duca e io per quel cammino ascoso . . . ," he muttered to himself, laughing under his breath. ". . . intrammo a ritornar nel chiaro mondo; e sanza cura aver d'alcun riposo . . . E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle." (2)
Nothing more to say. It was complete. . . all getting very dark and warm . . . peaceful . . . he closed his eyes. After all that, he deserved a rest. . .
A long, long, rest . . .
It didn't hurt when it happened. But it was cold, and at the very same, time comfortably warm. In that last second of consciousness, Spike made a decision.
"Goodbye," he said to a dead Julia. But his speech wasn't finished
"Goodnight, Faye," he blew her a kiss. So tired. . .
And all was quiet.
The rain fell and fell. Two puddles of red water joined around the two bodies, lying side by side. Those puddles slowly began to join into one. One womb, one bloody cradle, two brothers, two twins, two that shared this same lasting destiny. Two that whose love would break into hatred, and in the end, all salvation would be achieved.
And from above, the rain fell and fell. The night sang its quiet song of late-passing cars, night owls. From somewhere in that metal jungle, there came the sound of a baby crying for his mother's milk. Everything normal, average beauty; all at peace. All over, Mars slept . . . unaware that two of her ill-fated sons lay in endless sleep. . .
~~~~~
Dante Alighieri "Inferno" Canto III, lines 1-3 and 9
Translated approx. (from Latin): "'Through me the way to the city of
desolation, Through me the way to everlasting pain, Through me the way to
souls in abomination. . . . All who enter, let no hope survive.'"
Dante Alighieri "Inferno" Canto XXXIV, lines 133-135 and 139 (the last line in the work)
Translated approx. (from Latin): "We entered on that hidden road to find
our way once more into the world of light. My leader walked ahead and I
behind, . . . From there we came outside and saw the stars."
Translation by Michael Palma
~~~~~
P.S. Elflord: This fic ain't over til I say it's over, and it AIN'T
over!!!