Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, originally, I had planned on ending this fic pretty much where it is now (just with a short epilogue) but after rereading the story, the overall plot development doesn't coincide with that ending and I feel that it would make it seem incomplete. So I've been working on blocking out what would have been the next story so I can add it on to this. Anywho, here's more of Fallen Seraphim.
Sorry about the wait.
~Fallen Seraphim~
~Connections~
Funny…I didn't think he'd win…Seraph's finger loosened on the trigger of the Remington rifle placed against his shoulder; his right eye remained fastened to the scope however. The image before him was astounding. A man that no one had ever really heard of, just single-handedly decimated the most powerful Syndicate known in existence…and he's still standing.
Seraph watched from his vantage on the opposite side of the roof. His body was concealed amidst the rubble, his rifle aimed at the duel that had just occurred. He still couldn't believe it. A gun versus a sword…who fucking uses a sword nowadays?
He almost felt sorry for leaving his sister with the likes of those two…technically I'm still here though…but in order to keep the cash, he needed to leave. Since Spike won, it's not that bad. He and Faye managed to live on a ship together without killing each other and they obviously have some feelings for each other so he's not going to kill her. Vicious on the other hand…well, that's why I stuck around.
That's when he saw it; Spike raised his arm, a gun in hand. Seraph's finger tightened on the trigger, the hammer just millimeters from falling when he saw the weapon…it was just his hand. Somewhat confused, Seraph released the trigger as he saw Spike make a mock firing then collapse on the ground…maybe he gotta bit more beat up than I thought… Through the scope, Seraph watched as Faye ran towards the wounded man, dropping to her knees and calling his name. She grabbed him by the shoulders and Seraph could almost see his mouth move…man's got nine lives…
The sound of footsteps came to his ears, and that could only mean one thing. Quickly getting to his feet, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and made his way to the stairs near the edge of what had been the roof. Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a small cylindrical device with a series of buttons on the grip with a single trigger located on the top. Flicking one the buttons, a green light flickered to life at the base and a soft beep emanated from the device…
…The steps led to the room below…well, It was hardly a room anymore…but amidst the rubble were twenty or thirty armed Syndicate goons. Each had their weapon out. Each had their weapon trained on the hunched female form. They were obviously unsure of what to do, their entire leadership had been wiped out first by Vicious, then by Spike, who was currently laying in a pool of his own blood. They didn't know who to follow and that made this a much more dangerous situation…and I'm gonna make it worse…
Letting out a soft whistle, the guards turned toward the newcomer. After a few tense seconds of jaws clenching and knuckles turning white, one of the group appointed himself the leader…and spoke with a real diplomatic flair too…Seraph smirked.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the guy who's gonna tell you what do," he answered sharply.
"What makes you think we're gonna listen to you?" the man shot back, obviously becoming accustomed to the sound of his own voice…accustomed, but not too bright…
"Because I'm the one with the bomb dumbass."
The leader's façade faltered and he took a slight step back, accompanied by the rest of his entourage, "You're bluffing."
"Oh really?" Seraph slowly pulled the metal cylinder from behind his back. In their eyes, he watched each guard tense as he lifted his arm. "At the base of this building, are four vans. Each van is carrying roughly two hundred pounds of high explosives. Each one is parked at a corner of this building. Each is tied to this detonator, once I flcik this switch," he flicked the red piece covering the switch, "they go active and they cannot be deactivated from anyway except my ship and with my password. Oh, and did I mention, that the timer is only set for ten minutes?"
"What…what do you want?" the "leader" stuttered, his fear taking hold.
"Them," Seraph answered, gesturing towards Faye and the unconscious Spike. "Those are the terms…take 'em," in one smooth motion, he brought his thumb over the switch, and ten minutes was running, "or leave 'em."
The self-proclaimed leader glanced towards the rest of the group. Each returned and unsteady gaze before the leader turned back to Seraph. Without a word, he waved him off with his gun.
Silently, he turned towards Faye; he body still crouched over Spike who, to Seraph's amazement, was still breathing. "Grab him, we've got fifteen minutes to get outta here." Her head lifted slightly, her gaze rising from her fallen comrade to meet her former captor.
"You said ten."
"They move faster with less time," his face softened, almost imperceptibly, but still she noticed it. "Come on sis, let's get out of here."
- - - - -
The sound of rotating fan blades slowly brought Spike back from the abyss. The black mist that had obscured his view for so long was being pulled away from his eyes. The world came to him in a dimly lit haze devoid of any detail; then it began to take shape. His eyes began to readjust after the long period of disuse and he saw something familiar amidst the haze…the ceiling fan. But before he could comprehend the ultimate meaning of the sight, a soft voice brought him out of his forced contemplation.
"So you finally woke up," it almost sounded like there was a small sense of…happiness?…no, probably just relief that the cash flow is still alive…His eyes slid over toward the direction of the voice and there she was, just as before, sitting across from him with a deck of cards.
"We were starting to wonder about you…you've been out for four weeks…Jet thought you might end up a vegetable," her voice was soft, almost compassionate…it's almost like it's not even her…
Slowly and painfully, he brought his arm up and made a gesture for her to come closer. Her eyes locked on his hand, almost as if she couldn't believe what she saw. She hesitated first, then cautiously made her way towards him. Once she reached his side, she carefully leaned of his body, tilting her head slightly; her right ear just inches away from his bandaged body. She heard a muffled intake of air before he spoke.
"Sing for me."
His words came out in a labored tone, his voice filled with the gravely tone of neglect. But despite all this, she still heard his words and her head snapped towards his face, emerald eyes meeting mismatched amber. The soft features of her face hardened and she pulled away.
"Why the hell should I? You'll probably call me tone deaf or-" she never finished her sentence, her words were halted as she felt something brush her hand. She glanced downward to see a bandaged hand lightly gripping hers. Her eyes turned back to him, almost not believing what had just occurred, let alone trying to comprehend it.
"Please…"
His voice echoed within the silent room…and gradually the word began to reverberate within his own mind. His vision blurred slightly, his view of her dazed expression beginning to darken. As the haze drifted over his mind once again, he heard something before his senses failed him…
…It was a voice…her voice…singing a slightly haunting melody…and she's in key…
- - - - -
Time…time is a unique commodity. You can have too much or never enough. It goes by at a snail's pace or in the blink of an eye. It can pass you by or pull you in…it all depends on your mind. But when you spend your time wrapped and bleeding, lying on a couch in a rusted fishing ship that's floating through space on a course to God knows where…time just sits there and laughs at you…but in my case, I can laugh back at it.
When you go up against your ex-best friend, get sliced open, and see your deceased love sitting next to you…you kinda get this feeling that this is it, the last hurrah, my Alamo. But when you come to with your bandaged ass lying on a dilapidated yellow sofa and enter into a staring contest with a ceiling fan…you realize that your dramatic death scene was wasted and you really pissed time off.
I can see it, sitting next to me…off to my left…you may think I'm insane but it doesn't really matter…I can see Death. Amazingly enough, it isn't Faye. But the truth is, I can see my own death…it just waits for me, waits for the right moment to tap my shoulder and take me out…may not be today, may not be tomorrow…but it will come.
People think I can do what I do because I'm some bad ass, because I had a rough childhood and I don't know any better. Because I ended up in the Red Dragons and I was good at what I did…people think that that's the reason why I do this. It isn't that…it isn't because it's fun. It isn't because of 'the thrill of the chase,' that's utter bullshit. Sure, flying my Swordfish at a couple hundred miles an hour and dodging bullets, missiles, ships and buildings is entertaining, and it sure as hell ain't boring, but it isn't why I do it.
I do what I do because of Death.
I do what I do because I see Death everyday…it might not be mine, but it's a constant reminder. What's the point of going through life if you see what's going to pull you out of it everyday? When you see a pale shadow moving along with you every where…you kinda lose a reason to do something with your life.
Then I met Julia…and she gave me a reason…and you all know where that ended. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it whatever the hell you want, but this whole damn Romeo and Juliet bit sucks. Sure all the great love stories end in tragedy…and I was pretty damn sure that mine wasn't gonna be all hunky dory…but the hope was there. Well, it sure isn't anymore. The hope is gone…along with my enemy, my nemesis, my Moriarty, if you will. All that there is left is Death. Death and Time, my eternal companions.
Death with that stupid smirk and Time with a pissed off glare…and all I wanted to do was go out with a fucking bang…
~Three Weeks Later~
Focus…water flows…no resistance…his right hand shot outward, his hand left open, palm exposed, and it slammed into the nose of the man before him. His head snapped backward, a loud crunch resounded throughout the room as his nose shattered. Without so much as a second thought, Spike spun to his right, bringing his leg out and fully extended it just before it made contact. Just as his leg made contact, a wave of pain shot through his abdomen. Dropping his foot back to the ground, he stumbled slightly to try and regain his balance. His left arm reached out and grabbed a hold of a bulkhead as he waited for the pain to subside. His enemy faded from view and he was once again standing in the rec room on the Bebop.
"You know that if you push it too far you'll end up on the couch again," Jet remarked from his perch at the doorway.
"If I don't push it, I'll never get off the couch," Spike muttered, pushing himself away the wall, his arm still holding his stomach. In a slow and painful motion, he straightened his back; his breath coming in ragged gasps as he did so. With his back still to Jet, he winced slightly once he was upright. Forcing his impassive façade to return, he slowly turned to see Jet standing in the doorway…with that damn apron… "Got any food?"
"Do you think I like the way I look in this thing?' Jet asked sarcastically.
"Ahh…come on, I think you look cute…you know like-"
"Yeah, I know, 'like a little Susie Homemaker'," Jet replied with a pretty good imitation of Spike's voice.
The two stood in silence for a few moments, each locking their gaze on the other. They didn't have a clue as to what the other was thinking, but it didn't matter. To Jet, it was slipping back into a mold…something that existed before the Spike's suicide-like run into the Red Dragon headquarters. To Spike, it was more of the same…it was his life, what he thought was a dream, but he found it to actually be reality. For that moment, things were the same as they were before…but of course, things like that don't last.
"I don't trust him," Spike said rapidly, breaking the silence. Jet knew immediately whom he was speaking of.
"Faye does…and he did save your ass," Jet answered, although probably not as forcefully as he should have.
"I just don't like it…something doesn't feel right about him. She told me what he did…but it doesn't make any sense," Spike turned his head slightly, his eyes turning towards the windows. "He was trained to think that way…he's ex something, Army, BSSI, ISSP, he's something. Normal people don't have the foresight to have that extensive a back-up plan…and if they did, they don't have the know how to do it." Jet remained silent for a few moments, while his partner reached down to a nearby chair and grabbed a cigarette and his lighter. Lighting up, Spike turned his gaze from the window and back to his friend, "You ever hear of a guy named James Simmons?"
Jet's eyes turned to Spike; a confused look had covered the man's gaze. "Did you say James Simmons?"
"Yeah."
"He was the first ISSP Director, he was killed in a shuttle accident over fifty years ago," Jet's voice wavered slightly, unsure of exactly where Spike was going with this line of questioning.
"A shuttle accident?" Spike asked, clarifying.
"Yeah…Spike, what the hell is going on?"
"It wasn't an accident."