Hey!  Thanks to Moonwhisper for e-mailing me on how to solve the italics problem…  The thing is, I've already written a lot of the story on a regular blank Word document, I've just been copying and pasting onto the web page.  I've always done that, and it never gave me any problems before.  Well, enough of my blabbering…  On with the fic!

You make me mute
Hiding the truth
Revealing a farce
Created by your mind

What do you expect
Exposing your lies
Printed in your eyes
There's no alibi

To cooperate and not be allowed
They're killing my name

 sewing my mouth

Prospect in life
Lost in the line
To cooperate
And just be alive

You gonna fall hiding the truth
You gonna crawl finding the truth
To blame myself it's my disgrace
To blame the world by my mistakes

Turn around and turning around
And turning around and inside out
Turn around and turning around
And turning around and inside out

Do not disturb !
Leave me alone
The fear within inside and beyond
The fear within inside and beyond

You make me mute
Hiding the truth
Revealing a farce
Created by your mind

What do you expect
Exposing your lies
Printed in your eyes
There's no alibi

You gonna fall hiding the truth
You gonna crawl finding the truth
To blame myself it's my disgrace
To blame the world by my mistakes

Spike picked his way through the garbage in the narrow alley, going over his mental checklist:

Faye's Truth: past problems with the White Tiger Syndicate prevented her from cashing in Vicious' body for the bounty money.

Actual Truth: Faye is on excellent terms with the White Tiger Syndicate.

Conclusion: Faye didn't need Spike to turn in Vicious' body; she could've done it herself.

Theory: Faye did NOT kill Vicious for the money.  Perhaps instead for revenge (rape)?       

Spike stopped in front of a faded green door, a plump rat scurrying over his shoe.  He glanced down at the address scrawled on the scrap of paper he held, comparing it to the set of gold numbers on the door before him.  The numbers were almost impossible to read underneath a thick coat of dirt and grime, but Spike shrugged and knocked loudly.

"Hey!  Anybody home?"  Spike waited, listening.  There was no answer.  "Mr. Shlage…  You in there?"  Nothing.  Spike took a deep breath.  "Shota Schlage!" he bellowed.  "I know you're in – " Spike cut off abruptly as the door was flung open and a hand dragged him inside. 

"Are you crazy?  Do you want them all to know where I am?"  A short, wiry man with unkempt hair and a week's worth of stubble glared at him furiously.

"Shota?" Spike asked.  "Shota Schlage?"  The man hissed at him, putting a finger to his lips. 

"Shh, jeez, not so loud!  They're listening, I tell you!"

"Who?"

"Who?  Are you kidding me?  Everyone!  The last of the Red Dragon fanatics, bounty hunters, rival syndicates…  Doesn't matter that I was just a simple henchman, everyone wants me dead!"  Schlage leaned forward, peering at Spike blindly in the dim light.  "Say, aren't you Spike Spiegel?"  Spike nodded and Schlage snorted.  "Well, then, you ought to be ten times as careful as me.  It's a wonder you're not already dead!"

"Yeah," Spike said bitterly.  "Listen, Roberto Almez of the White Tiger Syndicate said you could give me some information."  Schlage licked his lips and rubbed his hands together eagerly. 

"What kind of information?" he asked slyly. 

"I understand you were present when Vicious kidnapped that Valentine chic," Spike said casually, shoving his hands into his pockets.  Schlage blanched.

"No, no.  I already told Mr. Almez everything I know about that affair," he protested, shaking his head.  Spike jiggled his right hand, causing the coins in his pocket to jingle enticingly.  Schlage licked his lips again, eyes darting around.

"What exactly interests you about that particular topic?" he asked lowly.  "If I remember correctly, you were there."

"Not for all of it," Spike responded.  "I wasn't there when Vicious told his men to leave the room and he and Faye were left alone.  But you were."  Schlage groaned.               

"How could I be there?  He told everyone to leave – " Spike leapt forward swiftly, towering over Schlage.

"But you're a spy," Spike said firmly.  "It's your business to know things and your nature to want to know things."  It was a long shot.  Spike didn't know for certain that he was a spy.  Schlage claimed he was a simple henchman.  But it made sense if, in fact, there were as many people after him as he claimed.  Spies hoard secrets like others hoard gold, and there's nothing more dangerous than secrets.  Those who know the secret want to kill you, and those who don't know, want to find it out and then kill you.  As far as Spike was concerned, it was a lose-lose situation.  

"I didn't want to know this!" Schlage cried, covering his face with his hands.  "I'm not even sure what I found out, but I've been tracked relentlessly by red dragons ever since that day…"

"What?" Spike demanded breathlessly.

"If I'd known the trouble this was going to cost me…" Schlage muttered in agony, tearing at his hair. 

"What?" Spike repeated through clenched teeth.  Schlage focused his attention back on Spike.

"I dare not say anything," he whispered, wide-eyed.  "He could be listening."

"He?  He who?"

"V-v-v-vi-vi-" Schlage stuttered uncontrollably.  Spike felt the pit of his stomach turn to ice.

"Vicious."

"Yes!"

"Vicious is dead," Spike told him fiercely.  Schlage gaped.

"Maybe…" he murmured.  Spike waited expectantly.  "Would you like a cigarette?" Schlage inquired abruptly.  Spike's eyes lit up and he reached for the pack Schlage offered him.  Just as he was about to open the carton, Schlage said, "You can't smoke in here."  Spike stared at him.

"Then why the hell did you offer them to me?" he exploded.  Schlage gestured impatiently.

"Just…  Keep them to smoke later."  Spike shrugged irritably and shoved the pack into his pocket.  After all, he was out of smokes.

"So what's this damn secret, anyway?" Spike demanded sulkily, turning as Schlage scooted past him and sat down at his desk.  He grabbed a pen and began to scribble furiously.  "Almez seems to think that Vicious raped Faye," Spike went on, trying to sound casual.  Schlage jumped to his feet nimbly and opened his mouth to speak.  Nothing came out.  His eyes rolled wildly and he crashed forward, landing directly at Spike's feet. 

"Shit!" Spike cursed, leaping behind a plush chair and whipping out his gun. A small, silver dart gleamed wickedly, sticking out of Schlage's back.  No windows or openings of any kind, so how were they able to…  Ah, surveillance camera.  The camera was rather cleverly concealed as the center of an ornate flower carving on the desk Schlage had been sitting at.  Next to the camera, Spike surmised, would be a tiny opening to let a poisoned dart pass after being triggered by a remote control mechanism.  Spike took careful aim and shot the camera, incase there were more darts.  He crawled over to Schlage and flipped him over. 

"Too bad," Spike commented.  "And I was just about to find out…  Hello, what's this?"  Spike noticed a bit of paper crumpled in the ex-spy's hand and proceeded to pry it loose.  "37 Albatross Street?  Great, another address.  And it's not even on this planet."  Spike gazed woefully at Schlage's scrawled handwriting: Mars.

"Dusted" lyrics by Sepultura. 

Next chapter you'll  see a little more of Faye…  REVIEW!!!