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Chapter 2
In time, it would be daylight. She thought about it constantly, lying submerged under the scattered newspaper she'd found in the street, inside of a deserted bus station. Had she not been fortunate enough to find this settlement, she very well might have died. Callisto was a cold planet, a very cold planet. Running through the forest at night, trying to attain the nearest highway in her light clothing had numbed down her legs and arms. Nevertheless, at the time she was so obsessed with her survival that she did not notice the cold. She ran without stopping, ran like the wind, ran like she'd never run before. Only when she reached town, when she breathed smoothly for some minutes, did she begin to notice the white steam coming from her mouth, her body trembling. Only now did she feel her soul drifting out of her out of her own body. It should not have been this way. She shivered and panted, she felt the cold pavement against her legs, she leaned her head on a wall, closing her eyes. She was afraid to fall asleep. It was not a good idea to fall asleep in the cold. But she wanted to sleep. It had been a long time since she'd done that, since she hadn't woken up from terrible nightmares.
And suddenly, she was on the Bebop again, lying on the couch, her legs up, resting her head. Suddenly, she was driving her spaceship. Suddenly, she was running with a gun. Suddenly, he was by her side.
And then she was transmitted to another place, a cold place, standing with her gun stretched out, shivering, crying. She did not know what it meant, or how it would all end up for her, but another's fate she knew for certain. She could have rescued him; she could have rescued them all. All the men in her life whom she loved on some level. But she was not strong enough to rescue them; she no longer had the strength, or could handle the heartbreak. She learned to hate those men, to hate them for loving them so much and not being able to help them. Stanley, Jet---She closed her eyes, trying to prevent from crying.
"Where are you going?" she said briskly, holding her gun to his head, "Why are you going?"
He stared back at her; Spike studied her and even now his multicolored eyes paralyzed her from the waist down. She hated that he had such a strong effect on her, she hated that while she saw him as her greatest friend, he saw her as nothing more than an overbearing little woman.
"You told me once," she continued, "that the past did not matter."
She paused, looking at him, drinking in her last sight, trying to understand it but being unable. And that angered her.
"You're the one who's tied to their past!" She screamed at the top of her lungs.
Without thought, he leaned into her. She instinctively thrust her armed hand down. This was the closest proximity their faces had ever been in and she could feel his hot breath upon her skin. She inhaled his scent, a mix of cigarettes, and brandy, and tragedy. Nothing better than that bittersweet remorse of a man who'd fallen in battle, but never died. He was like a deteriorating moth, like a mere shadow of a man. He was missing a part of himself, just as a man would be missing an arm or a leg; he was missing his heart, a heart that disappeared when he saw the death of the only woman he ever loved. Spike had nothing to live for anymore, and that was why he was choosing not to. But Faye could not witness the death of the only man she'd ever cared for. He was her greatest companion; the Bebop was her only home. Already Ed and Ein were gone. She could not handle it; she could not let him, too get away. Her family was falling apart, and the only things he could say were pointless riddles. She hated him for that.
"Look into my eyes," he said. They were two different colors. She always wondered why.
She gasped, afraid to really look and see the horrid truth stare back at her. But she had no choice.
"One of them is a fake," he continued, "because I lost it in an accident. Since then, I had been seeing the past in one eye and the present in another. I had believed that what I saw was not all of reality---"
"Don't tell me things like that!" she interrupted him, anger growing, anger and despair, "you never told me anything about yourself, don't tell me stuff like that now!"
"I thought I was watching a dream that I could never awaken from," he said morosely, "before I knew it, the dream was all over."
He began to walk away, not looking back, not caring. He began to desert everything he had ever known, everything that had ever been important to him, everything for a foolish idea. She had to stop him; she had to make him understand that misery was paramount, that you had to learn to live with it. It would be brave to live with it. It would be cowardly to run away, or try to end it, ending yourself in the process.
"My---memory came back," she said slowly and he stopped. Maybe he did care, just a little. Faye faced a wall, she began to tremble, locking her hands in knuckles, "But---nothing good came of it. There was no place for me to return to. This was the only place I could go back to!" She paused, tears began streaming from her eyes, "But now you're leaving---where are you going? Why do you have to go?"
She paused, remembering all the olden times, when this didn't have to bother her, when she was just a child running through a green field. She remembered all her friends, she remembered making that videotape, she remembered all the imaginations she had about growing up. She dreamed that she would be a beautiful, happy woman with a family and a lot of friends. And she dreamed that she would always have food in her stomach, that she would always feel loved. But most of all she dreamed that she would rarely cry, and whenever tears would escape her eyes would only be moments when she was struck by an element of a movie or soap opera. She wanted her life to be like one big fairy tale. Now, it had become a nightmare.
And she stared at him, and she held back her sobs, and all that she could do was scream, "Are you telling me you're just going to throw your life away?"
"I'm not going there to die," he said, as if he didn't notice her dilemma, "I'm going there to see if I really am alive."
He walked away now and she began to hate him. She wanted to scream that he was alive. That his heart was beating, that he was breathing. He had people that loved him, a chance to make something of himself. He had everything. He was alive! He did not need to get killed in order to prove that. She wanted to tell him that, but she didn't.
Instead, she aimed her gun at him. She wanted to shoot him; the temptation was great. She wanted him to die, she didn't want to have to live with the fact that he was leaving her and she could do nothing about it. She was angry, she hated him. She wanted to shoot. She wanted to, but couldn't. She fired her gun up at the ceiling, one after another, as he swiftly moved out of her sight. After he was gone, she plopped herself against a wall and broke into tears. She knew this was the last time she would ever see him again. It was.
"What's your name?" the beautiful woman said, as her unrestrained blonde hair whipped in the wind.
"Faye," she said and leaned on the window pavement of the red convertible.
"Faye?" the woman asked, almost surprised.
"Faye Valentine, a common name. What's yours?"
"Julia," the beautiful woman replied.
"Julia?" Faye exclaimed, staring with alarm at her, she was the one, she was certain of it.
"It's a common name," Julia said.
"Are you in some kind of trouble, Faye?" Jet asked her.
"No, Jet," she replied coldly.
"Are you sure? There were some people through here, wondering about you."
She sprang up, "What did you tell them?"
"Nothing. Told them it's been a while since I've seen you around. It's true."
She leaned back on the couch, "so here's not safe anymore."
"What's going on, Faye?" he repeated.
"Nothing," she said, "I have to go now."
"I'm worried about you. You haven't been the same since---since then."
"I am the same, Jet," she smiled, "you've just forgotten how I am."
"Maybe," he paused, "you must come back and visit the old man occasionally."
"Why am I here, do you think?"
"Visit me, huh?" he smiled.
"Yes." She returned.
"Then how about a cup of tea? I've been getting it for free, me being a retired senior citizen and all."
"I would," she sighed, "but I have to go."
She was on the way out the door when he stopped her, "Hey Faye," he said, "if you ever are in trouble, visit my old friend Jeff. He lives on Callisto, he might have something for you."
She smiled at the old man's kindness, he, too, had changed after Spike's death.
"Thank you," Faye said, "I will."
She turned to walk and he stopped her again.
"Another thing, Faye."
"Yes?" she turned.
"Take care of yourself, huh? And if you ever get a chance, seek out the kid. Maybe she wants to---you know---go back, like old times?"
Faye realized that Jet was lonely, that was why he had been so kind. She suddenly felt bad for him, she wanted to soothe him, hug him, never leave him. But she couldn't. Staying would mean putting his life, as well, into danger. She could never stop. She always had to run.
"I will, Jet," she smiled, "I will."
"Thank you, Faye," Jet said, "take care of yourself. There's not enough good women in this world. You're a good woman."
She did not answer. She turned and began to walk towards her spaceship, not turning back. She did not know it at the time, but this was the last thing she'd ever heard Jet tell her.
Faye walked into the store. It was seemingly innocent. The doors were automatic, and the interior was quite modern. Not many businesses on Callisto were like that. This was an exception. Faye supposed all of Jet's friends were just like him. Although it had been a year since Jet's death, although she had spent the night on the floor of a cold, deserted bus station after almost being shot in a seedy hotel, she could not stop. She remembered Jeff. She had found out his whereabouts months ago, but never felt a true surge of desperation until now.
She walked in; a bell rang. In a few seconds, an old, short man walked out. He was wrinkled and old, sweat dripped from his nose. Faye looked at him with disgust.
"What do you want, what do you want?" He exclaimed like an angry Italian woman.
"I'm here to talk to---Jeff."
"Jeff?" He screamed in rage, "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No," she said, "I need to talk to Jeff."
"Little Missy, how about you leave now. No need for your pranks."
"But---" she tried to protest.
"Leave, or I'll call the---"
Suddenly, a young, built man came out. He had dark eyes and shiny black hair. He was almost handsome, and Faye admitted it. This must have been the first time she'd seen a handsome man in a while.
"Jeff is my father," the young man said, "he died a month ago."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't know."
"Who are you?" the young man asked.
The old man walked from behind the counter and out of the store.
"I'm Rose Shields," she said, "Jet sent me."
"Jet, huh?" the young man said, "How do you know him?"
"I used to travel with him. I was part of his crew."
"Why aren't you still with him?"
"I---" she paused, "I'm not with him, that's all that matters."
"Alright, then, Rose," he said, "what are you looking for?"
Faye leaned on the counter, "I need a spaceship," she said, "and some ammunition. Do you have paper?"
He gave her an old notebook and she scribbled objects onto it, pushing it back. He studied the list.
"Well, little lady, you sure know your weaponry," he smiled, "it will take me a bundle to get these for you, and a spaceship too, when do you need it by?"
"As early as you can get it. And I need a gun right away."
"I'll get it soon, but it's going to cost you."
"How much?" she asked.
"Fifty million wulongs. Spaceship not included."
"What?" she instinctively ejaculated.
"Well, weapons don't come cheap, you know."
She breathed calmly, "well," she said, slightly unbuttoning her shirt, "I'm sure we can make other arrangements."
"If by that you mean what I think you mean, I'm not interested in women."
Faye looked at him angrily, "I'll get you the money!" she exclaimed, "You just get me the weapons."
"Deal," he said, tucking the list away.
Faye began walking quickly to the door; suddenly she stopped, remembering something.
"Oh and by the way," She said, "this conversation never happened."
"Of course not," he smiled.
She walked out of the store.
Chapter 2
In time, it would be daylight. She thought about it constantly, lying submerged under the scattered newspaper she'd found in the street, inside of a deserted bus station. Had she not been fortunate enough to find this settlement, she very well might have died. Callisto was a cold planet, a very cold planet. Running through the forest at night, trying to attain the nearest highway in her light clothing had numbed down her legs and arms. Nevertheless, at the time she was so obsessed with her survival that she did not notice the cold. She ran without stopping, ran like the wind, ran like she'd never run before. Only when she reached town, when she breathed smoothly for some minutes, did she begin to notice the white steam coming from her mouth, her body trembling. Only now did she feel her soul drifting out of her out of her own body. It should not have been this way. She shivered and panted, she felt the cold pavement against her legs, she leaned her head on a wall, closing her eyes. She was afraid to fall asleep. It was not a good idea to fall asleep in the cold. But she wanted to sleep. It had been a long time since she'd done that, since she hadn't woken up from terrible nightmares.
And suddenly, she was on the Bebop again, lying on the couch, her legs up, resting her head. Suddenly, she was driving her spaceship. Suddenly, she was running with a gun. Suddenly, he was by her side.
And then she was transmitted to another place, a cold place, standing with her gun stretched out, shivering, crying. She did not know what it meant, or how it would all end up for her, but another's fate she knew for certain. She could have rescued him; she could have rescued them all. All the men in her life whom she loved on some level. But she was not strong enough to rescue them; she no longer had the strength, or could handle the heartbreak. She learned to hate those men, to hate them for loving them so much and not being able to help them. Stanley, Jet---She closed her eyes, trying to prevent from crying.
"Where are you going?" she said briskly, holding her gun to his head, "Why are you going?"
He stared back at her; Spike studied her and even now his multicolored eyes paralyzed her from the waist down. She hated that he had such a strong effect on her, she hated that while she saw him as her greatest friend, he saw her as nothing more than an overbearing little woman.
"You told me once," she continued, "that the past did not matter."
She paused, looking at him, drinking in her last sight, trying to understand it but being unable. And that angered her.
"You're the one who's tied to their past!" She screamed at the top of her lungs.
Without thought, he leaned into her. She instinctively thrust her armed hand down. This was the closest proximity their faces had ever been in and she could feel his hot breath upon her skin. She inhaled his scent, a mix of cigarettes, and brandy, and tragedy. Nothing better than that bittersweet remorse of a man who'd fallen in battle, but never died. He was like a deteriorating moth, like a mere shadow of a man. He was missing a part of himself, just as a man would be missing an arm or a leg; he was missing his heart, a heart that disappeared when he saw the death of the only woman he ever loved. Spike had nothing to live for anymore, and that was why he was choosing not to. But Faye could not witness the death of the only man she'd ever cared for. He was her greatest companion; the Bebop was her only home. Already Ed and Ein were gone. She could not handle it; she could not let him, too get away. Her family was falling apart, and the only things he could say were pointless riddles. She hated him for that.
"Look into my eyes," he said. They were two different colors. She always wondered why.
She gasped, afraid to really look and see the horrid truth stare back at her. But she had no choice.
"One of them is a fake," he continued, "because I lost it in an accident. Since then, I had been seeing the past in one eye and the present in another. I had believed that what I saw was not all of reality---"
"Don't tell me things like that!" she interrupted him, anger growing, anger and despair, "you never told me anything about yourself, don't tell me stuff like that now!"
"I thought I was watching a dream that I could never awaken from," he said morosely, "before I knew it, the dream was all over."
He began to walk away, not looking back, not caring. He began to desert everything he had ever known, everything that had ever been important to him, everything for a foolish idea. She had to stop him; she had to make him understand that misery was paramount, that you had to learn to live with it. It would be brave to live with it. It would be cowardly to run away, or try to end it, ending yourself in the process.
"My---memory came back," she said slowly and he stopped. Maybe he did care, just a little. Faye faced a wall, she began to tremble, locking her hands in knuckles, "But---nothing good came of it. There was no place for me to return to. This was the only place I could go back to!" She paused, tears began streaming from her eyes, "But now you're leaving---where are you going? Why do you have to go?"
She paused, remembering all the olden times, when this didn't have to bother her, when she was just a child running through a green field. She remembered all her friends, she remembered making that videotape, she remembered all the imaginations she had about growing up. She dreamed that she would be a beautiful, happy woman with a family and a lot of friends. And she dreamed that she would always have food in her stomach, that she would always feel loved. But most of all she dreamed that she would rarely cry, and whenever tears would escape her eyes would only be moments when she was struck by an element of a movie or soap opera. She wanted her life to be like one big fairy tale. Now, it had become a nightmare.
And she stared at him, and she held back her sobs, and all that she could do was scream, "Are you telling me you're just going to throw your life away?"
"I'm not going there to die," he said, as if he didn't notice her dilemma, "I'm going there to see if I really am alive."
He walked away now and she began to hate him. She wanted to scream that he was alive. That his heart was beating, that he was breathing. He had people that loved him, a chance to make something of himself. He had everything. He was alive! He did not need to get killed in order to prove that. She wanted to tell him that, but she didn't.
Instead, she aimed her gun at him. She wanted to shoot him; the temptation was great. She wanted him to die, she didn't want to have to live with the fact that he was leaving her and she could do nothing about it. She was angry, she hated him. She wanted to shoot. She wanted to, but couldn't. She fired her gun up at the ceiling, one after another, as he swiftly moved out of her sight. After he was gone, she plopped herself against a wall and broke into tears. She knew this was the last time she would ever see him again. It was.
"What's your name?" the beautiful woman said, as her unrestrained blonde hair whipped in the wind.
"Faye," she said and leaned on the window pavement of the red convertible.
"Faye?" the woman asked, almost surprised.
"Faye Valentine, a common name. What's yours?"
"Julia," the beautiful woman replied.
"Julia?" Faye exclaimed, staring with alarm at her, she was the one, she was certain of it.
"It's a common name," Julia said.
"Are you in some kind of trouble, Faye?" Jet asked her.
"No, Jet," she replied coldly.
"Are you sure? There were some people through here, wondering about you."
She sprang up, "What did you tell them?"
"Nothing. Told them it's been a while since I've seen you around. It's true."
She leaned back on the couch, "so here's not safe anymore."
"What's going on, Faye?" he repeated.
"Nothing," she said, "I have to go now."
"I'm worried about you. You haven't been the same since---since then."
"I am the same, Jet," she smiled, "you've just forgotten how I am."
"Maybe," he paused, "you must come back and visit the old man occasionally."
"Why am I here, do you think?"
"Visit me, huh?" he smiled.
"Yes." She returned.
"Then how about a cup of tea? I've been getting it for free, me being a retired senior citizen and all."
"I would," she sighed, "but I have to go."
She was on the way out the door when he stopped her, "Hey Faye," he said, "if you ever are in trouble, visit my old friend Jeff. He lives on Callisto, he might have something for you."
She smiled at the old man's kindness, he, too, had changed after Spike's death.
"Thank you," Faye said, "I will."
She turned to walk and he stopped her again.
"Another thing, Faye."
"Yes?" she turned.
"Take care of yourself, huh? And if you ever get a chance, seek out the kid. Maybe she wants to---you know---go back, like old times?"
Faye realized that Jet was lonely, that was why he had been so kind. She suddenly felt bad for him, she wanted to soothe him, hug him, never leave him. But she couldn't. Staying would mean putting his life, as well, into danger. She could never stop. She always had to run.
"I will, Jet," she smiled, "I will."
"Thank you, Faye," Jet said, "take care of yourself. There's not enough good women in this world. You're a good woman."
She did not answer. She turned and began to walk towards her spaceship, not turning back. She did not know it at the time, but this was the last thing she'd ever heard Jet tell her.
Faye walked into the store. It was seemingly innocent. The doors were automatic, and the interior was quite modern. Not many businesses on Callisto were like that. This was an exception. Faye supposed all of Jet's friends were just like him. Although it had been a year since Jet's death, although she had spent the night on the floor of a cold, deserted bus station after almost being shot in a seedy hotel, she could not stop. She remembered Jeff. She had found out his whereabouts months ago, but never felt a true surge of desperation until now.
She walked in; a bell rang. In a few seconds, an old, short man walked out. He was wrinkled and old, sweat dripped from his nose. Faye looked at him with disgust.
"What do you want, what do you want?" He exclaimed like an angry Italian woman.
"I'm here to talk to---Jeff."
"Jeff?" He screamed in rage, "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No," she said, "I need to talk to Jeff."
"Little Missy, how about you leave now. No need for your pranks."
"But---" she tried to protest.
"Leave, or I'll call the---"
Suddenly, a young, built man came out. He had dark eyes and shiny black hair. He was almost handsome, and Faye admitted it. This must have been the first time she'd seen a handsome man in a while.
"Jeff is my father," the young man said, "he died a month ago."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't know."
"Who are you?" the young man asked.
The old man walked from behind the counter and out of the store.
"I'm Rose Shields," she said, "Jet sent me."
"Jet, huh?" the young man said, "How do you know him?"
"I used to travel with him. I was part of his crew."
"Why aren't you still with him?"
"I---" she paused, "I'm not with him, that's all that matters."
"Alright, then, Rose," he said, "what are you looking for?"
Faye leaned on the counter, "I need a spaceship," she said, "and some ammunition. Do you have paper?"
He gave her an old notebook and she scribbled objects onto it, pushing it back. He studied the list.
"Well, little lady, you sure know your weaponry," he smiled, "it will take me a bundle to get these for you, and a spaceship too, when do you need it by?"
"As early as you can get it. And I need a gun right away."
"I'll get it soon, but it's going to cost you."
"How much?" she asked.
"Fifty million wulongs. Spaceship not included."
"What?" she instinctively ejaculated.
"Well, weapons don't come cheap, you know."
She breathed calmly, "well," she said, slightly unbuttoning her shirt, "I'm sure we can make other arrangements."
"If by that you mean what I think you mean, I'm not interested in women."
Faye looked at him angrily, "I'll get you the money!" she exclaimed, "You just get me the weapons."
"Deal," he said, tucking the list away.
Faye began walking quickly to the door; suddenly she stopped, remembering something.
"Oh and by the way," She said, "this conversation never happened."
"Of course not," he smiled.
She walked out of the store.