Author's Note: This chapter starts off Vicious' point of view. It's pretty brief, since it's just an introduction, but I decided it was necessary once the war on Titan began. A big thank-you to all of my lovely reviewers, who I've neglected mentioning so far (sorry!): Rachel2, Lady Razorsharp, I Smite Thee, Moonwhisper, and i won't tell. Your feedback is oh so loved. And thank you to everyone who reads this and doesn't review. ^_^
Disclaimer: As always, I do not and have never owned Cowboy Bebop or its characters. And again, constructive criticism is appreciated.
That Day as Well
by jadelitfireflies
Three. (Worthless.)
He woke to the sound of thunder.
On Mars, it always rained but never thundered. His mother had told him it rained because Heaven was crying, but if it was crying, it certainly wasn't for him. All the same, the water ran down the outside of his small window, projecting a pattern on the far wall, shadows dancing in close proximity to the Bruce Lee poster and a small, white-framed clock.
When they'd gotten back from church he'd stayed in his room, using the sink to try to scrub the bloodstains out of his shirt. Vicious' sword had drawn some blood after all; a few spots by his left shoulder (in addition to the splotch near the middle of the shirt) made him ask the more disturbing set of questions: What had his brother been doing before he showed up? Why had he taken the sword to begin with? At least the second was half-way rhetorical.
"Damned rats! Get out of here, you filthy things! Go on!"
Groaning, he sat up. Annie's voice echoed throughout the house, and there was no way he could sleep through that. It took a few moments to will himself to rise, carefully opening and then closing his door, avoiding Vicious' room as his bare feet found a way down the staircase. Evidently, a few rats had been driven in by the rain, as Annie was attempting to shoo them out the open door with a broom.
"You know, Annie, it might be good to keep up the house," he smirked. "You've got a business, and customers -"
"Oh shut up, will ya? And put a shirt on, for God's sake. You'll catch something. Get out, you little devils!"
"Well, if you want me to leave..."
"Not you, you lunkhead. Oh, the hell with it." She slammed the door.
"There was some thunder."
She grimaced, running a hand through her damp hair. "I hope Mao gets home alright."
"Where'd he go, anyway?" While he spoke, he ran his finger along the scarred edge of the table. "Annie?"
"You know I can't tell you."
"Well, I thought I'd try."
There was silence for a moment, punctuated by a high-pitched shriek from somewhere in the house and the increasing patter of rain on their roof. The chandelier swung back and forth for no reason.
"Well, when is he coming home?" he yawned.
"I'll make dinner."
He raised
an eyebrow.
"Don't you have somewhere
to go, Spike? Shouldn't you be doing something?"
"I know when I'm not wanted." Grinning at her, he sauntered into the living room and threw himself into one of their old, orange chairs.
As Annie clattered around in the kitchen, he focused his attention on their small TV. It was stuck on one channel, and through the static from a few other stations the picture was relatively clear even if the only show on right then was Big Shot. He'd always wondered about the bounty hunters... For the most part, his father had made it clear they were enemies of the syndicate because they were mercenaries. Mercenaries didn't have any honor, like a syndicate did, and when it came down to it, they were more of a threat than a police. As if anyone could threaten the Red Dragons.
The peeled leather and stuffing was oddly comforting to his back. He leaned into the corner, placing his feet on the nearby table for support. Something dripped onto his face, but he didn't really care - look, he wanted to get back to sleep. When it dripped again, he turned away from it, and after a while he was asleep once more -
He'd heard him sneak past the door. It was ajar, of course, because it didn't close. He didn't trust them anyway. Sitting cross-legged in the far corner of his bed, he held the sword across his lap, staring at its sheath.
He hated this place.
The room, in itself, was wholly gray. The paint was cracked and peeling in places, exposing bits of the studs in the wall. One high window was covered mostly by metallic-colored blinds. Every so often the fan, which was off for the moment, would creak and then the blinds would rattle. Only a fraction of light showed in the place, causing everything to be bathed in a strangely preternatural blue glow.
That woman was still yelling. So the rats had come in, had they? It didn't matter. He gripped the sheath a bit harder, tips of his fingers slowly turning white... He had been abandoned, dammit. The syndicate, he wanted. His father, he wanted. But his father was dead, damn him, and he had to share his... his life, everything important to him, with Spike.
Vicious was too angry to laugh. It was a cold anger, a vile anger - he wanted his half-brother dead. He'd studied the operation for years. It wasn't an accident, his showing up when they were sixteen. Spike knew it, he was sure; at sixteen, all potential members of the Red Dragons were given a test, an essentially pass or fail event. Failing meant everything to him. Failing meant death. The blinds rattled, and a bit of thunder echoed in the distance. Yes, he knew how to do this. He would wait.
When he heard the soft sounds drawing nearer, he knelt forward a bit. Silent. In a short burst the footsteps would proceed, then stopping - it was listening, too. In the faintly luminescent darkness he watched it enter his room, pausing in the thin column of light where its eyes reflected green. Slowly, he unsheathed the sword a bit at a time. The rat made a squeaking noise, backing to the wall - did it sense him? He was fascinated, completely fascinated. And leaning over the side of his bed, lying on his stomach, he drove the tip of the sword straight down through the creature's neck. It didn't move after that.
He bit his lip, grayish-white hair falling into his eyes. Tentatively, he reached for it... grasped it by the tail... and without a head, the body bled freely, drops of blood falling onto the weathered wood of his room floor and then disappearing. Was the wood absorbing it? It wasn't important. The body was, though, and resting his sword on the wall he grasped both legs and pulled at them, tugging violently until the skin began to rip away -
"Mao! Oh, thank God. What happened to you?!"
"Nothing, Anna, I'm fine..."
Spike opened an eye. He wondered vaguely how much time had passed before deciding he didn't care. Listening, though - that was more interesting.
"Did they sign it, Mao? No one shot at you, did they?" The sound of a chair scraping on tile. "Here, I made dinner. Spike! Food!"
"Now Anastasia, you're not supposed to know about that," Mao chided. "No, they didn't sign it. I was shot at, of course, but no one hit me."
Spike walked into the kitchen, taking Mao's appearance in calmly. At least the lasagna smelled good.
"What happened to you?" he smirked. Plopping into another chair, he only generated odd looks. "What? Is there something on my face?"
"Is that blood?!"
Mao glanced at him sternly. "What have you been doing? And get Vicious down here; he has to eat, you know."
"Can't Annie just yell at him?"
"Vicious! Get your lazy butt down here!"
"Anna, my head..."
Spike couldn't take his eyes off the staircase. No one descended it, though... the ghost of his brother, still shut in his room, did not come down to meet them. Everyone waited. He began to grow nervous, swinging one leg back and forth, the chandelier light boring into his eyes, the lasagna still steaming in its tin foil palace -
"Spike, go get him."
"I don't -"
"Our food is getting cold," Annie huffed.
He swallowed, and obeyed. Somewhere along the way he'd grown angry - Vicious had no right to make him afraid. He had no right to, at all. And so, while his heart pounded in his ears, he tried to deny the feeling, playing the situation over in his mind... He would knock, no, kick open the door. No, he'd knock. And he'd say...
He froze, standing before the door. It was foreboding... ajar just a little, and there was no light coming from inside...
"V..." He stopped and then paused to listen. He coughed. "...Vicious." No answer.
Spike pushed open the door, stepping forward - what was that? He'd stepped in blood. His eyes widened.
"What is it?" Vicious growled. He couldn't see him yet.
"Spike, Vicious, hurry up!"
The sound startled him, and he accidentally hit the door open further with his shoulder. The head of a rat rested by his foot.
"What the hell did you do?!"
"I skinned it." His... his brother wiped the blood from his hands onto the sheets, tossing the rat's body to the far wall. It slid to the ground. "It's a worthless creature."
Spike stared at him in disbelief.
"Your face is covered in blood, Spike."
He felt nauseous, reaching up with one hand to touch his cheek. That meant... and the living room was right below Vicious'... He backed from the room.
"D...dinner..."
When the other boy used his sheathed sword as a support for standing up, he turned and walked to the stairs. It was an act of escape; he was fleeing, but he did it carefully, calmly. In the kitchen, the lasagna had already been eaten (His eyebrow quirked at that. He would have eaten that lasagna.) - a rat skittered to the door, where it remained - and the sound of thunder echoed again. Annie started on the dishes, and Vicious came down the stairs without washing his hands.
No one said anything about it.
