Faye marched into the living room area of the Bebop, where the couch and television were located, and placed her hands on her hips, scowling.  Spike still wasn't back, and it infuriated her.  At first it was nice, not having to tiptoe down the hallways, peering around every corner.  But after the first few hours, she began to get nervous, paranoid even, expecting the volatile, poofy-haired man to materialize at any moment and catch her off guard.  Then she grew angry, convinced that the wretch was doing this to purposefully torment her.  And Faye Valentine was not one to be toyed with. 

            She stomped back to her room and slammed the door, hunkering down on her mattress sullenly.  She was still wrapped in her white, terrycloth robe, sickened at the thought of redressing in her old tight, yellow outfit.  It lay harmlessly on the floor of her room, and Faye stared at it accusingly.  She couldn't explain her revulsion, but she knew she couldn't wear it again.  Her eyes traveled from the floor to the small, wobbly table next to her bed.  300 million woolongs were stacked neatly.  Well, 299 million to be exact.  She'd found the shredded remains of the woolong she'd presented to Spike on the coffee table.  Faye glanced from the money to her clothes, and back to the money.  She smiled slowly.  She could stand to wear that despicable outfit one last time.

I've been thinkin' about my situation
Nothin' too intriguin', maybe time to change up
Throw a curve ball, try a different route
Work some new things in, work some old things out

Sorta feels like I'm goin' nowhere fast
Judgin' from the scenery could it be I'm there at last
Send a postcard, tell you all about
How I worked some new things in and worked some old things out

The audience last night was dancin'
I knew right then I had 'em hooked
Liked the way I did the cover
Hoped that they might read the book
Took on that identity like it was comin' from my heart
And they made such a big deal of it:
Starin' at the smallest part

When I finished with the number I stumbled over what was next
I can make it simple for ya, I've developed quite a complex
Sometimes I look at the set list and in my mind I have my doubts
Time to work some new things in and work some old things out

The audience last night was dancin'
I knew right then I had 'em hooked
Liked the way I did the cover
Hoped that they might read the book
Took on that identity like it was comin' from my heart
And they made such a big deal of it:
Starin' at the smallest part
So I've been thinkin' about my situation
Nothin' to intriguin', maybe time to change up
Throw a curve ball, try a different route
Work some new things in, work some old things out

            Spike stopped in front of 37 Albatross Street and scratched his head bewilderedly.  Before him stood a large, prestigious looking bank.  He ambled up the white marble stairs, stepping lightly.  Inside, the bank was bustling with activity – beepers going off, cell phones ringing.  Spike spotted an open teller and started over determinedly, callously shoving aside a suit who got in his way.

            "Uh, do you have an account for a Mr. Shota Schlage?" Spike asked the teller, feeling foolish.  The teller raised an eyebrow at him, fingers flying over his keyboard.

            "Yes, there is a Shota Schlage listed here.  He's currently renting a safety deposit box with us."  Spike's eyes widened hopefully. 

            "Oh really?"

            "Yes.  And he hasn't made a payment on it in eight months!" the teller snapped, eying Spike disdainfully.

"Oh.  I don't suppose I could…see what's in it?" Spike asked.

"Certainly not.  Unless you were an approved individual, such as Mr. Schlage's lawyer."

            "Oh, I am," Spike said quickly.  "I'm Sch – Mr. Schlage's lawyer."  The teller gazed at him doubtfully.

            "And what did you say your name was sir?"  Spike paused, thinking rapidly.

            "Uh – "

            "Thomas!  Get yer ass over here!" bellowed a large, rotund man puffing on a cigar.  He waited by his office door impatiently.  The teller – Thomas – jumped nervously.

            "Excuse me sir," he flung at Spike, hurrying away.  Spike waited until they were both out of sight before leaning over the counter and tilting the monitor towards him.

            "Come on, come on," he murmured, scanning the screen.  "Aha!  Lawyer, Fritz Anderson."  Spike pushed the monitor back in place and stepped away, just as Thomas came huffing back.

            "Sorry about that sir.  You were about to tell me your name?"

            "Fritz Anderson," Spike responded smugly, inclining his head genially.  Thomas stared.

            "Yeah…could I see some I.D., Mr. Anderson?"  Spike gave him a long, hard stare.  "Ah, very good Mr. Anderson.  But I'm afraid I can't let you in to see Mr. Schlage's safety deposit box until he catches up on his payments.  Bank policy."  Spike sighed.

            "Alright, how much does he owe?"

            "500,000 woolongs."

            "What?!"  Thomas shrugged, looking rather pleased.  Spike glared at him, eyes narrowed.  When he was snooping on the computer, he clearly remembered seeing the amount due for the safety deposit box.  It read 5,000 woolongs, not 500,000.  However, he couldn't reveal that without admitting he'd been looking at the computer screen, and thus probably blowing his cover as Schlage's lawyer.  Or at the very least, arousing suspicion.  "Just what in the hell is going on here?" Spike muttered under his breath.  Suddenly a familiar noise caught Spike's attention.  It was coming from the small television in the bank lounge.

            "Boy howdy, folks, have we got a bounty for y'all!"  Spike started.

            "Hey!  I thought they canceled Big Shot."

            "They did," the teller responded interestedly.  "But they brought it back a few days ago, due to popular demand.  I hear the girl dumped her agent and married her co-worker."

            "Armand Salamando…wanted for larceny, grand theft auto, and murder!"

            "Oh no!"

            "But he's worth a whopping…"

            "500,000 woolongs!" the girl squealed, wriggling and clapping her hands excitedly.  Then she stopped suddenly and glared at her co-worker.  "Huh?  Only a measly 500,000?"  He shrugged.

            "That's right Judy.  Hey, it's a slow week.  But we can give all you bounty hunters a good lead.  Armand's headed down Albatross Street on Mars at this very moment!  But you'd better hurry up…  The police are hot on his trail!"  Everyone in the bank froze at the sound of screeching tires, followed by police sirens. 

            "This must be my lucky day after all!" Spike said with a grin, sprinting for the door.

Action scene next chapter!  Yay!  And more Faye!  Double yay!  Uh,  the song is "Work Some Old Things Out" and I think it's by New Clothes?  I'm not sure tho…  I just liked the lyrics b/c I think Faye developed her whole bad-ass persona to survive, and now she's going to try to change some things about herself…  REVIEW!