~Fallen Seraphim~
~Unseen Truth~
Footsteps resounded through the hallway as Spike made his way towards the yellow sofa. Dropping onto the couch, Spike deviated from his standard procedure and instead of converting the dilapidated sofa into a bed, he grabbed the screen that sat atop the table and began typing rapidly into the keyboard. Images and text flashed across the screen as he hurriedly entered the commands, his eyes scanning each display and dismissing it almost as quickly as it appeared.
Jet stumbled through the hallway, a confused look on his face. Turning to see Spike staring at the screen he became even more perplexed. "Spike, what the hell is going on?"
"You said he was killed in a shuttle accident, right?"
"Yeah, so what's your point?"
"Was it before the Gate accident?"
"Uhh…yeah, it happened before the Gate accident," Jet answered slowly, his mind still trying to comprehend what Spike was getting at.
"Listen…'Three days ago, a disastrous accident occurred onboard a prototype shuttle as it was exiting the atmosphere. The shuttle, which was en route to the recently completed gate now orbiting the Earth, was carrying James Simmons and many of his supporters'," Spike broke off for a moment while his eyes scanned the rest of the article, " 'Simmons, the creator and head of the newly founded Inter Solar System Police force was midway through his push to end Syndicate influence within areas of politics and police. He was on his way to commemorate the completion of the Phase Gate and was believed to unveil his plan to remove the influence of the Syndicates during his speech. As of this time, there is no evidence leading towards foul play."
"So…you're saying that this wasn't an accident…that fifty years ago, the first director of the ISSP was assassinated?" Jet voice displayed his thoughts of incredulity. "Now what, pray tell, led you to that conclusion?"
"Because it's true."
Both men turned to the new voice. Standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest and a small grin across his face was Seraph. Jet eyes betrayed his confusion as to the meaning of the statement, but Spike's eyes fastened themselves on the man across the room.
"How do you know that?" Spike answered. Even though he believed the statement to be true, his tone betrayed his unease with the newcomer.
"Secure files," he answered nonchalantly, as if dismissing the harsh words directed towards him.
"And what files might these be? Why don't you enlighten us commoners…and while you're at it, how did you get access?" Spike rose from his seat, his tone becoming harsher as the seconds passed by. His distrust growing with the man who was somehow connected to his past.
"They were ISSP files. I had access," Seraph's eyes turned from the previously disenchanted gaze into a battle-hardened stare, "because I'm ex-ISSP."
"You're telling me that the ISSP has proof that their first Director was assassinated and they didn't do anything about it? Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I wasn't born yesterday!" Spike tone was betraying his impatience with the other man.
"I know who you are Spike Spiegel and I know whom you've worked for and what you were. Everyone's known of L'Étranger," Spike's brow cringed at the term. "That's what they called you, wasn't it, when you worked for the Red Dragons."
"L'Étranger," Jet said softly, his gaze turning towards Spike, "You were L'Étranger?"
"How do you know that?" Spike's right hand slowly tightened into a fist, his jaw set tight…I left that name years ago…why won't it leave me?
"There isn't a person in the ISSP that hasn't heard of that name, but I do know that no one outside of the Red Dragon Syndicate has seen the face of L'Étranger and lived," Seraph answered casually, moving toward the yellow chair across from Spike and taking a seat.
"So how do you know I'm him?"
"First, you're reaction. Second, I've been freelance for a while, and you tend to dig up all kinds of information in that business. Lastly," Seraph leaned forward, resting his chin on his thumbs, his hands obscuring his mouth, "because there are powers involved that you would not believe."
"What are you talking about?" Spike asked, the edge in his voice receding into curiosity.
"What if I told you that the Syndicates don't exist?"
"I'd say you're dumber than you look," Spike answered, but his ever-growing curiosity was taking hold.
"The Syndicates do exist, on some level, but not to the extent that you believe. The hierarchy extends beyond the Van, the Capos, and whatever they call themselves. There's only one Syndicate…and it's run by twelve men, one for each group."
"Twelve men? One for each group? But there's only seven Syndicates," Jet's silence was broken as he finally spoke.
"Correct. The seven from the Syndicates, one from the head of the Martian government, one from the BSSI, one from the Venusian government, one from the ISSP, and the last is the head of group…the head of The Brotherhood," Seraph's voice was even, his eyes centered intently on the man across from him.
Spike slowly fell back on to the sofa, his mind rapidly trying to comprehend the massive amount of information he was just given. "You're telling me that all the Syndicates, the BSSI, the ISSP, the leaders of the two most populated planets in the system, and this…Brotherhood dude, are all in cahoots? What the hell is 'The Brotherhood' anyway?"
"The Brotherhood of Twelve," Jet muttered softly, Spike's head snapped towards him. "There's an ISSP file a mile long on these guys but we've never actually been able to prove that they exist."
"That's because they run the ISSP, they control everything from politics to government agencies…even the Syndicates."
"You know, just a thought," Spike decided to cut in, his skepticism returning slightly, "but if this is all classified, why the hell are you telling us?"
"You killed the leader of the Red Dragon Syndicate...you're in deep shit."
"Vicious killed them first."
"Maybe so, but that was a coup. The difference is that even though Vicious was at odds with the Van, he was still in the organization and that organization would have continued. You-" Seraph jabbed his finger towards Spike to accentuate the point, "-are a rogue. You are outside the organization and you aren't taking over. When the King gets killed, it's usually because of some sort of vendetta but the person with the vendetta usually wants to take over…you messed up the system. And these people like their system."
"Doesn't the fact that you helped me out put you in the crosshairs too?" Spike shot back, his wit returning as well.
"I don't exist, remember?"
- - - - -
Bars…plural…more than one…that seems to sum it up. Booze, cigarettes, and…and…pretzels, yeah…pretzels, can't forget about those…they make the world turn. Getting drunk is never really the plan…it's just always something that happens. I mean, the bottle's there, staring ya down…and you can't let it go to waste so you drink it. Then before you know it, you're curled up inside the bottle, all your problems waiting for you outside…but right now, they don't matter.
Why don't they matter you ask? Because you're plastered beyond belief, that's why. But for those few hours when you know you've got your three best friends: alcohol, tobacco, and your firearm…when you've got a cigarette, your guns loaded and so are you…life is grand.
But after those few hours of blissful ignorance…God…the next day is a bitch. You realize you're outta smokes, you can't remember what happened and you have a half-empty clip…and you realize you had a good night. 'Cause for those few hours, your problems didn't matter…they were outside the bottle. Away from you.
But nobody looks beyond the immediacy of the solution. We're all lazy and spoiled for crap sakes…we want everything now, overnight, and in a pill. We don't want to work for anything, but we still want all the benefits. So you never realize that by getting in the bottle and leaving your problems outside…we're just trapping ourselves in a false reality and false sense of security. Our problems are still there…they're just kinda bendy and hazy right now…but they're still there, waiting for us…waiting for the false security of the bottle to shatter and to assault us when we're nursing a hangover…
Well…screw them…I need another drink…
- - - - -
…Her finger tapped the bar lightly, a barely audible sound coming from the meeting of flesh and wood, but the bartender noticed despite the nearly inaudible sound. Come to think of it, the entire bar noticed the solitary woman slouched at the bar, but they all could tell not to try anything. They could tell this purple-haired female was one person you don't bother, even if she wasn't drowning her sorrows in the strongest stuff she could afford.
But despite the fact that the woman was drowning her sorrows in stuff that was meant to degrease engines, and the fact that not a single patron of the watering hole had the guts to make a move, the newcomer standing at the door decided to try his luck. The fact that he had green hair didn't really elevate his chances however.
"You do realize that you're risking severe liver damage by inhaling that crap."
The woman slammed the glass onto the bar, a hairline crack running up the side as it made contact. "You know what…Spike?" Faye snapped in a slightly slurred sentence, "I don't give a shit. The faster my…what'd ya call it?"
"Your liver."
"Yeah, my liver…the faster my liver goes kaput, the faster I'm outta this hellhole called life," with that, she spun back towards the bar to refill her glass. Spike stood silently next to her, whether it was out of respect of what she just said or mere amusement, no one will ever know…but what happened next surprised the voyeuristic group of patrons that had become enraptured in the new events.
"Care if I sit?"
"Nope…go ahead." Sliding into the seat, Spike glanced over towards the half empty bottle, then grimaced slightly. "What's the matter? Not to your taste?"
"Umm…yup, I never like paint thinner," and in one smooth motion, he reached out grabbed the bottle by the neck, placing it out of arms reach of the distraught female.
"Hey, I was drinking that!"
"Not anymore," with that he jumped to his feet. "Hey! Anyone wanna bottle of gasoline! Guaranteed to knock you out or your money back!"
"How much?" someone in the back yelled.
"Free!" Still gripping the bottle by the neck, Spike threw the bottle towards the other man, who obviously had already had too much to drink. The bottle hit the man in the chest with enough force to knock the breath from him. The man doubled over, turning his face upward to glare at the man who attacked him…then he realized the blue suited, green haired man was charging straight at him. Before the man could move, the sole of shoe implanted itself in the man's forehead sending him careening the opposite direction and directly into a table.
The patrons whose table had been knocked over slowly came to their feet, their eyes displaying a hazy rage that comes from too much alcohol, then that alcohol being splashed across the room.
Spike, in the meantime, had backed over to the bar were Faye was sitting with an amused grin on his face. "Drunks are so cute…wouldn't ya say?"
"You're an idiot," Faye muttered rising to her feet.
"Naw…I'm just eccentric. Care to dance?" he asked, gesturing towards the four large men stepping towards the two bounty hunters.
"Why I'd love too."