A/N: So, here's the second cahpter. And I guess I apologize to Seal, because this is his song, "Prayer For The Dying", and I just plum forgot to say that. But I'm sayin' it now, so it all works out in the end. So, here ya go. Enjoy some more!
Forceful Aging…
Spike Spiegel was a punk. A grade A, certified punk. An orphan since who knows; he had made the streets his home. But hey, even a street punk needs a roof over his head. So, in his spare time, he flipped burgers down at Martian Joe's. It didn't pay well and he swore that his arteries would be clotted by the time he was 30, but it paid him enough to get some really crappy apartments in a really crappy part of town. But no matter.
He knew how to take care of himself. He'd become fluent in Jeet Kwon Do. However, it wasn't exactly a language. Unless you classify it a language of the body. In that case, then he was probably the master. Just short of Bruce Lee, his (deceased) teacher and mentor. Old VHS tapes and Earth really were good for something.
But this Mars born youth was also getting fed up with flipping burgers and dodging the local gangs. Lord knows he'd never join one. They were too sloppy and often times inefficient. This Syndicate thing didn't sound so bad, though. He wasn't a fan of drugs, himself. He liked to be of sound mind at all times. But he could be persuaded (for the right amount) to deliver drugs to someone. No problem with that at all.
He had also heard that the Syndicate was really dangerous. And getting in was next to impossible. It's not like you can just stroll into Syndicate HQ and fill out an application. But interestingly enough, that's what Spike had done. Smart? Of course not. But then again, Spike always did do stupid things. But in the most brilliant of ways.
Actually, it appeared as though his efforts might pay off. He received and inconspicuous letter from the Red Dragons, one of the most powerful syndicates this side of the solar system. The letter said, though not simply, that he'd be contacted in Syndicate style, and then it would be determined whether or not he was "what we are looking for."
Switching his television off and saying a little prayer to Bruce, Spike headed off to bed. He had to be at the Martian at 6 a.m. That was ridiculous in his opinion, but hey, valuable members of society needed their body killing breakfast. At this rate, he'd have an old man's attitude to go with his clogged arteries.
Settling into his freshly changed sheets (the old ones had seen 10,000 miles of use), Spike checked his alarm one more time and said goodbye to the real world. And what do you know? He surely said it in more ways then one.
Help me, I'm fading…
Vicious strolled into the apartments as if it were nothing at all.
'How could someone live here?' he thought to himself.
Vicious always prided himself on being neat and well kept. It appeared that this Spike person didn't feel the same way. As a cockroach scuttled across his feet, Vicious picked up the pace. He could almost feel the dirt seeping into his skin.
He chose the elevator, though many a time, he was told to take the stairs. But the stairs were too suspicious. And why draw unnecessary attention to yourself? Vicious had his own style of killing, his own style of anything, so he'd keep doing it this way until he encountered a reason to stop.
The bell dinged at the fourth floor. Vicious strolled out of the vessel and proceeded down the hall. He was looking for room 439, and he hoped he reached it soon.
Finally, there it was. As he stood for a moment, he thought about his entrance. Bust the door open? No, too loud. Knock and then force your way in? No, too much trouble. Pulling something from his pocket, he had made up his mind: pick the lock and sneak in. Not too hard.
As he heard the click, Vicious slowly pushed the door open. To his surprise, and good fortune, the door did not squeak, it just swung quietly open. Closing the door back, he crept down the hallway. He could hear his victim snoring.
'This is going to be easier than I expected,' Vicious thought to himself as he put a hand on the doorknob. He pushed the door open and just barely missed the bullet that was roaring towards his head.
'What the hell!' he thought, as he dodged another bullet.
"He man, I don't know who the fuck you are or what you want, but you're in my place, so I can legally kill you!" the youth bit out.
Vicious stared at the young man.
'So this is Spike Spiegel,' Vicious mussed. He was an odd looking fella. Tall and lanky and incredibly skinny. But he definitely had enough sinewy muscles on his slim frame. And to top it all off, his head was covered with some shaggy rug. What, no…that was just his hair.
Vicious visibly chuckled at this man's balls. Obviously, he didn't know who he was dealing with.
Heaven's waiting…
Four more shots went off. Three missed the sliver-haired man and one was deflected by the sword he had pulled from somewhere on his person.
Cursing as he fired his last bullet, the lanky youth grabbed the closet thing he could find and chucked it at the intruder.
As the object hit the target, the man with the sword stopped almost sunned for a milli-second.
'A pillow? Did he really just throw a pillow at me?'
'Fuck!' thought the youth, 'Did I really just throw a God damn pillow at him?'
"That's some tactic, Spiegel, but rather ineffective."
That was a cold, bone chilling voice and Spike was almost totally caught off guard. And how did he know his name? Who in the hell was this man?
Sensing his shock, Vicious charged him, sword ready to pierce. But Spike snapped back to reality just at the right time, and landed a blow to Vicious' head with his right foot.
"Ha!" he cheered as the silver-haired man sank to the ground. "Bruce saves the day again!"
Spike carefully stepped over the fallen man and headed out of the room. But as he heard a moan of consciousness returning, Spike walked back to the man and grabbed his sword.
"Pretty fancy weapon you got there, buddy. But I'm gonna have to take this from you. Wouldn't want you to get hurt now," he grabbed the weapon and headed out to his living room. "I'm gonna go call the cops, now. I don't take kindly to murder attempts at three in the morning."
Vicious watched the young man stroll casually out of the room. As he sat up, he tried his best to keep his head from spinning. What in the hell was that move? And why hadn't he seen it coming? Who was this kid?
Picking himself up off the floor, Vicious righted himself and stalked off after Spike. He was sent here to kill him, and the only way he'd fail was to die himself. And quite frankly, that just wasn't an option.
It's time to move on.
"Turn around!" Vicious demanded. This was going to end now.
"Man, what do you want? What did I do to you?"
"You didn't do anything to me, personally, but my superiors want you dead. So, who am I to question them?"
"Well, aren't we a good little lap dog," Spike joked, as a cocky grin made its way to his face.
"You might want to watch your words," Vicious responded as he launched himself towards Spike.
The two met each other half way. Fist and feet and sweat flew. These two men were seemingly evenly matched. Neither one faltered, nor did they gain ground. Grunts of exertion and clever quips where exchanged between the two.
"Is that a dye job gone wrong?"
"What?" Spike asked as he dodged another punch.
"Your hair? That green is hideous."
"Hey, I don' make fun of you, gray-head."
"It's not grey, ass."
They continued their physical and verbal battle, both of them becoming steadily exhausted.
"You look like you're running out of steam, Spiegel."
"Not that easily. And hey, since you know my name, shouldn't I know yours, too?"
"You're a foolish man, Spike," Vicious replied, dodging those dangerous legs. "Vicious."
"Really? What a name," he smirked.
At the rate these two were going, they'd be fighting all night. However, Spike noticed sweat beads on Vicious' forehead, and he saw one sliding towards his eye. And just as he predicted, the salty droplet splashed into his opponent's eye, blinding him for a split second. But that was all that Spike needed.
He quickly did a roundhouse kick and landed the blow to the side of Vicious' head. Then he quickly landed an open hand blow to the middle of Vicious' chest, which effectively knocked the wind out of him. As Spike watched Vicious fall to the floor, he had to admire the man.
He was the only person Spike ever had to work at. Normally, Spike could have knocked a man out cold in three minutes or less. But this had been going on for almost two hours, and only a fluke brought him to the winner's circle.
Smirking slightly, Spike grabbed Vicious' sword and pointed the tip to his heart.
"Now, I could kill you, or I could let you go. Which one do you chose?"
"For my loss, I should die. Begging for my life would be looked down upon."
"How 'bout I spare you out of the kindness of my heart?"
"How do you know I won't turn around and kill you?"
"Because I don't die that easily."
With an unspoken understanding between the two, Spike tossed the sword aside and extended a hand to the fallen man. Begrudgingly taking it, Vicious allowed himself to be pulled up. With a slap on the back, Spike spun him towards the door.
"Well, man, you're an excellent fight. Now get on back to your place of residence, and let's never speak of this again," Spike said, realizing that he had work in about and hour.
"If you believe that this is over, then you would be wrong."
"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Spike retorted as he opened his front door.
When he looked out, however, he found five men, all in black blazers with red bands on the right arm, smiling at him.
The man in the front began to applaud as the other four nodded in approval.
"Well done, Mr. Spiegel. Well done, indeed. You fought one of our best men, and actually beat him. That is a feat worthy of becoming a Red Dragon."
"What!" Spike screamed.
"Wade!" Vicious screeched. "You mean you used me as an initiation?"
"Yeah…sorry about that," Wade responded as he scratched the back of his head. "But look on the bright side…you now have a partner, worthy of your prescence.
"My partner…" both Spike and Vicious echoed. Spike was beaming, he was finally going to be a Dragon and do something exciting with his life. Vicious, however, had a look of utter horror on his face. This reckless youth with his tuft of horrendous green hair, cocky attitude an amazing fighting skills was going to be his partner? What did he do to deserve this?
"Grab some things, Mr. Spiegel. You won't be needing this shit-hole anymore," Wade said, breaking the shock. "When you're partner is ready to go, head back to headquarters, Vicious." And with that, the men disappeared down the dark hall.
"So, partner, looks like we have some adventure ahead of us," Spike beamed as he stared at a still shocked Vicious.
The two began an intense staring contest. Vicious shot his cool bullets, aka, silver eyes, while Spike just casually glared at him, as if it were nothing at all. What seemed like several minutes passed. Letting out a truly frustrated sigh, Vicious looked towards the door.
"Hurry up and let's go!"
Satisfied with himself, Spike bounded down the hall, leaving Vicious alone and infuriated.
'Damnit, I do not need a partner!'
A/N: End of chap. 2. Yeah, I'll prolly post 2 more chaps tomorrow. Hope you liked it;I does my best. There's a lot of cussing in this fic, but I only do it because that just seems to be the way Spike and Vicious would interact with one another. Well, see ya later and thanks for you time!