~Fallen Seraphim~
~Angel Eyes~
Faye's eyes snapped open, her vision once again coming to rest upon the steadily rotating blades a few feet above her. Slowly, and carefully, she hoisted herself to a sitting position on the couch. Taking a deep breath, she tried to move her left arm. A fresh wave of pain shot through her side, but she forced herself to keep it moving. The pain dulled slightly, but remained until she lowered the stiff limb back to its resting place.
"You know, if you keep doing that, you'll rip your stitches."
Faye turned to see Jet standing in the doorway. Glancing back at her arm, she clenched her hand into a fist, then slowly released it, making sure all her motor functions still worked. "How long have I been out?"
"'Bout two days, off and on. Hungry?" Jet asked in a slightly amused tone.
Faye opened her mouth to respond, but her stomach beat it off the starting line. Jet grinned slightly and made his way to the kitchen.
Faye leaned back against the couch, ignoring the pain that came with the movement, then she noticed the table. Turning her attention towards it, she saw the remains of a half-played game of solitaire. Standing up slowly, she made her way to the opposite side of the table. She stared absent-mindedly at the seven rows…he must've gotten really bored…then she noticed something amiss. The eight of clubs was on the nine of spades. He must have left in a hurry. A glint of light caught the corner of her eye; glancing down at the floor, she saw his lighter.
What the hell happened?
- - - - -
Damn it, I need a cigarette…Spike's eyes gazed out across the dark and dreary sky. The dark gray clouds threatening to release deluge. The streets were empty; anyone with half a brain wouldn't be outside at this time. Half a brain or a good excuse.
The reports of the shootout were never confirmed. Not too surprising, all things considered. The Dragons probably had every ISSP cop that was at the scene on their payroll. Plus the Dragons had a way of getting people to do what they wanted. Their philosophy was let the Red Dragons deal with Red Dragon problems. The actions taken against those who had threatened this code of conduct caused those unfortunate souls to meet a rather untimely and unmerciful demise. Needless to say, that incentive for the ISSP agents managed to keep them from turning over any new leads; and without any new information, the story had slipped from barely worthy front-page to an afterthought on the seventh.
Not surprising also, people are still afraid to step onto the streets.
Spike leaned back against the red brick building. Why the hell am I even here? Spike's mind asked for the umpteenth time. But he knew. He knew why he was here. Why he was standing at the corner of two deserted streets. Why he had grabbed his jacket and gun and ran for the Swordfish without a second thought. It was all because of two things.
An address.
And a name.
A name that had haunted him for three years. Three years…God, three years of waiting, hoping, wishing, and…waiting. Three years of not knowing if I'll see her again. Three long years of not knowing…
"Spike Spiegel?" a voice asked casually from behind.
Spike turned slowly, his left hand concealed within his pocket, his right on his gun. Spike eyed the man cautiously. Barely a man, he can't be more than eighteen…he's a lackey…Spike observed as he took note of the Syndicate uniform. "Yeah, what is it?"
The kid's hand went inside his jacket, and Spike reacted instantly. His left hand snapped out, grabbing him by his collar and slamming him against the wall. His right hand jammed his pistol against the kid's temple. The kid's eyes shone with complete confusion, he was utterly at a loss as to what just occurred. Then slowly he realized that he was held against a brick wall by a man whom was one of the few men feared by the Syndicate. And that man's 9mm was pointed directly at his skull. "I was only sent to give you something!"
"Give me what?" Spike demanded sharply. The kid slowly removed a blank white envelope from within his jacket. Spike looked at the envelope briefly then turned his impassive stare back at the kid. "Who's it from? Who sent you?"
"I don't know," he replied weakly. Spike pushed the barrel deeper into his skin. "I swear it, I don't know! All I know is to give it to you and it came from the top!"
Spike released his grip on the kid's collar, grabbed the envelope and holstered his gun. "Here's some free advice, get out of the Syndicate. There are plenty of people who don't ask questions at all and just let their gun do the talking." The kid's eyes widened, he stared at Spike for a few moments before deciding to remove himself from the area. Spike had forgotten the kid before he had even left his sight. His mind was focused on the small envelope in his hand. It came straight from the top? What does the Van have to do with me? Wait…
"There have been reports of a shootout between rival members of the Red Dragon Syndicate. We are unsure of the severity of these actions, but there have been unconfirmed reports of there being more than twenty fatalities. The ISSP…"
The coup…the coup actually happened! Vicious is in control! Spike looked back down at the envelope. Quickly tearing off one end, he dumped the contents into his empty hand. A ring fell into his hand. A simple gold band with no design, no insignia, just a gold band. No…no it can't be…it just can't…
He slowly tilted the ring, silently wishing that it wouldn't be there. But in his mind, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew it would be there. There was no reason to give him this ring if it wasn't. No…God damn it…it is there…just like it was three years ago…just one word: Dreamer.
Spike slammed his fist into the brick wall; he winced briefly as a fresh wave of pain shot through his arm. Pulling his hand away, he paid no mind to the bloody and torn flesh. He turned his attention back to the envelope; there was still something in it. Reaching into the envelope, he withdrew the rest of its contents; and nearly gagged. He turned his eyes away; his mouth was quickly covered by his hand. Slowly, he looked back, the image never actually leaving his mind. He once again had to force himself not to gag.
Spike's grip loosened, the picture fluttered to the ground, finally coming to rest facing the now ominous sky. Spike staggered away, wishing he had never received that phone call, wishing she had come with him, wishing many things but none of which had come true. And as Spike slowly walked away, the soft sound of rain striking the ground gradually reaching his ears, drowning out his unasked and unanswered question…Why?
Behind him, the rain pelted an image lying on the ground. An image of a girl. An image of what had been an angel…my angel…once. Not anymore, the angel had become what all dread most. A lifeless shell, something that everyone would become, in one way or another.
But she took the most gruesome way.
The image of a bruised, beaten, and bloody body. Her face was barely recognizable, covered in blood, bruises and slices. Her mouth hung open in an eternal and silent scream. Her hair, the hair that had once been a golden blond, was now nearly a dark crimson save for a few specks of its former brilliance. Her arms had been bound behind her back, hidden from view; but what could been seen, slashes had destroyed. There were multiple knife wounds in her chest, but it was probably the slit across her neck that caused her death.
But her eyes, her eyes were the worst. They remained open, ever watchful even in her endless slumber. But they screamed of agony. An agony one could only know once, but one that should never be known to anyone.
An image of his love. An image of his angel.
And over that image was one word:
Vicious.