At the end of the day, the end of the light,
She keeps the remains of all of her foes.
Miranda is dying with all of her might,
She never comes, she always goes

She sticks the camera right into her arm,
Anything to forget what the trouble's about.
It causes her pain, that's part of the charm,
She's down for the count, and finally out.

Miranda is taking the stars down,
A little something to call her own,
But the lion still rules Miranda,
And Miranda is always alone.

The band was pretty good; the song was an old one from the turn of the century. The fingerpicked guitar weaved a simple melody that showed a hint of sorrow, of mourning. It was a bouncing song that sounded happier than the lyrics meant it to be.

It was just like the bounty head I was hunting down. Seventy thousand woolongs, nothing big, but just enough to get that new stabilizer for the Swordfish, something I needed badly.

I blew out a cloud of smoke, peering through it to the woman across the bar from me. She had short, curly red hair, a killer body, and a look or pure sorrow in her eyes. She kept glancing over her shoulder as though she was being hunted.

Perceptive.

I wondered again when I had stepped into this life, this position just beyond the law. Was it after my parents had been shot outside the store they had operated, or was it when I joined the Red Dragons to get revenge?

I didn't know, and I didn't really care anymore. Bit by bit, everything had been stripped from me, so I refused to care anymore. A comrade had once commented on what he had seen as bravery.

"It isn't, Matt. You have bravery, courage. I just don't give a damn. Live, die; win, loose; it's all the same to me. There's a difference between that and bravery."

Maybe it had been true then. But not now, not since…

Leave it. That's the past. It belongs there, where it can be buried and left behind.

Like my real name.

I stubbed out my cigarette, resettling my jacket sleeves on my arms. My pistol was tucked into the inside pocket, the grip just inches from my waiting hand.

The woman got up and headed for the door, pulling a long wool coat over her shoulders. I got up and followed her at a respectable pace, making sure that I kept a few people between us at all times. I wasn't going to grab her tonight; I was going to scout out her haunts, where she went on a normal day. With no record of her picture on file, just a description and a list of hobbies and crimes, it was a sure bet that no other cowboy would find her before I collared her.

Because I knew exactly who she was. She was a face from my past.

Or rather, from someone's past. I didn't have one.

She would be shocked to see the shell that my heart had become, but it was her damn fault. No one deserved to be hurt like that. Let her burn, wherever she is. If I see her again, I'll gun her down where she stands.

The woman arrived at a run down building, the kind of flophouse that you could rent a room for pocket change but was still respectable enough that no one would think to look for you there.

So, of course, that was where us cowboys always looked first. The figure stood, a small pistol in his hands. He called out for the woman to freeze, pistol pointed at her but not trained on her.

Idiot.

He fell dead as a small knife plunged into his face between the eyes. The woman, the show of timidness and fear having dropped for a moment to be replaced by a look of a professional assassin, scanned the area for witnesses. None, since I had dropped into a store and was gazing through the tinted window at her.

Miranda hadn't lost her edge a bit.

I reflected back on the orders I had been given when I had taken on this contract. This would be difficult. I left the store, entering the building and inquired as to the room number of the young lady that had just entered.

I knocked on the door, and heard the voice call out 'What?'

"It's Spike," I said.

The door flew open, her face a mask of surprise. "I heard you were dead," she said, giving me a hug that would probably be bad for her image. Her eyes flashed wide as she felt the barrel of my pistol against her ribs.

"You, a cowboy?"

I smiled the smug, mysterious smile that always drove people insane. "Yeah, you could say that."

I pulled the envelope from my jacket and handed it to her. "This is from Mao. He's the one that posted the seventy thousand on your head and made sure that your picture never showed up on any of the posts."

She took the envelope and opened it, seeing the bills and documents that were within.

"He wants you to get off Mars before the Syndicate tracks you down," I said as I tucked my pistol away. "He's got kind of a soft spot for you."

She looked at me, still not convinced.

"What about you?"

I shrugged. "You know me, as long as I've got a gun and a buck, I'm good."

She laughed. "Ah yes, the ultimate pragmatist." She looked down for a moment.

I was gone like a wraith before she looked up again. I hate long goodbyes.

I wondered where I was going to get that stabilizer from. Not many shops carried parts for my baby.

I lit a cigarette and looked up as the rain stopped. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Another days shuck, another days buck.