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Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; I promise.
That Day as Well
by jadelitfirefles
One. (Russet.)
No matter how hard he tried to stop them, the memories flitted across the back of his mind. He found himself trapped in places he could not get out of - lost on a plain, without any way home - walking up an endless flight of stairs, or simply falling down them, holding in his guts as his surroundings plummeted beneath his feet. But mostly, he dreamt of sitting silently in a dark, damp-smelling church, feeling as if he was the only one alive in the face of the two coffins near the altar. The figures in the stained glass windows mocked him; without words, they shamed him into submission. The martyrs had died without any resistance - they had not struggled against their bonds - and so he had no right to self-pity. He wouldn't have cried, anyway. That was his father over there. The strongest member, in his opinion, of the syndicate. Bruce Lee in actual flesh and blood, not just a pile of dust and bones on a planet half-destroyed by the stupidity of the human race.
And so it was almost unbelievable that his dad had been killed by a taxi cab. Ironic. It made him feel vulnerable, but he didn't like that feeling, so he replaced it immediately with a sort of nihilism. And nothing was important anymore. He was calm now, he was sarcastic and sly - until he fell asleep, and everything flooded back unwelcome like a flash of cold, bitter air.
Of course, it didn't help when he woke up to a new room in a new house. It smelled different. He ate different food. And no one spoke of his mother or father; not Mao, not Annie, not anyone. Even in Spike's dreams he was no longer living. Well, that's what happened when a member of the Red Dragons died. No one had ever known them.
He was young, then, too. For all of his apathy he heard what those around him were saying without seeming to listen. Secretly, he looked up to Mao and his Anastasia - without ever needing to tell them, he had decided: if there was anyone worth dying for, they were the ones. They had, anyway, let him live in their house. And he'd always remember that day, as well.
"Spike? Do you want me to call you Spike?"
Raising his russet-colored eyes beneath a shock of neat green hair, he gave a shrug.
"Would you like to come live with us?" The lady, his father's sister, was large but sounded nice. He stared at her and then at Mao before studying his shoes.
"Spike." The man's voice was drenched in pity as he bent down to grasp his shoulders. Spike wrenched away.
"Come on, let's go," Annie smiled. No anger. No disappointment. And just like that he had been given a new identity. He had been reinstated into existence.
The nightmare ended abruptly. He stared at the ceiling, placing two fingers on his neck, counting the beats of his heart to the ticking of a clock on the wall. Distracted, he quit half-way. What was that noise?
Partially dressed, he bounded downstairs while slipping a shirt over his head. The kitchen came into view. Some woman was crying hysterically, with Annie trying to comfort her - who was that?
"Just - just take care of him! I can't take..."
The lady sobbed, and when Annie reached out to her, she backed out the door. He heard footsteps retreating in the rain. It was always raining on Mars.
"Hold on a minute - "
"Let her go." Mao was standing by the far wall, massaging his temples. It was only then, really, that Spike saw the figure sitting at the table. Cautiously, the green-haired boy moved closer as Mao continued: "We knew this would happen, just not this soon. And especially after - "
"Stop it." Annie had noticed him. "Why, good afternoon, Spike. Glad you could join - "
"Who's that?" he grunted, sitting across from the stranger. There was silence.
And slowly, methodically, the person began to raise their head. An odd shock of grayish-white hair. This was an old man?
Spike gasped, quietly. Those eyes...
Cold, snake-like. The other boy smirked at him with... what was that? Anger? A threat? Hate? Familiarity...
He identified himself.
"...Vicious."
He knew.
