Three-Four Pentatonic

4

disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Not even Starbucks. Not even a Starbucks travel mug.

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Faye hadn't seen Jet leave that morning. In fact, she had been looking for him all day, and was about to throw things around the room by the time he returned. He opened the door with a foot, both his arms carrying bags with gardening supplies sticking out of the top. She rounded on him. "Where have you been?"

He looked at her as though this was a stupid question. That's when Faye noticed the groceries. "Oh shopping for your stupid trees were you? Where'd you come up with the money huh?"

Jet looked tired. And he was, in a sense. "Faye, I'm not in the mood."

"You take better care of those bushes than you do us!"

"Faye…" Faye was fuming, but the last fight hadn't left her mind entirely, so she merely folded her arms and tapped her foot as angrily as she could. Jet set the bags down next to the hall and fell onto the couch, a metal hand collapsing onto his forehead and dropping down, dragging his face with it momentarily, before falling into his lap. She looked down at him, masking her confusion with an irritated face. "You haven't been acting…Jet-like…, Jet." She noted.

"Oh haven't I?" He asked stolidly.

She brushed a bit of hair out of her face, making a slightly offended noise at his disinterest. "No you haven't. Are you sick or something?"

"I'm not sick" he replied. "I've just…I'm exhausted Faye. I've held everyone above the water all my life, and sometimes, I get tired."

She had expected him to evade the question, and so, upon his saying this, blinked several times as if to shake herself. "Well, hell, you can always ask me to do stuff. Shit, Jet, I'll cook tonight if you want."

He held up a hand. "No! I…I'll cook dinner, Faye. I'll be fine. I just need sometime to relax…"

Faye threw her hands up, stalking out of the living room. "Fine! I won't pretend to understand you anymore. Men! Honestly…

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Faye sat on her bed, dressed in a white sleeveless and black shorts, the water rolling sown her skin. She ruffled her hair up with a towel and squeezed it to get the water out. Something black caught her eye, and she paused. It was the video, hovering there on her desk; it didn't seem to touch anything. As she looked at it everything else fuzzed away, as if a camera somewhere in her head was losing its focus, until it was just a black box imposed upon a sheet of steely blue.

She hated that tape. As much as it used to eat away at her to not know who she was, it bothered her more now that she knew. When she remembered her past everything was supposed to change. Everything would go back to normal again. That's how it went in the fairy tales.

Faye had always hated fairy tales. They always featured a beautiful girl who was always perfectly behaved. Then one day she'd get screwed over and something gets blamed on her. Just as the beautiful, stupid, floaty, frilly, wussy girl had had enough, she'd sit down to cry because her life wasn't perfect. Faye supposed there might be people like that. In the real world, no one had sympathy for those types of girls. In fairy tales, though, once the girl would cry, some stupid, gay little elf would come and save the day. The elf or whatever was usually somehow a prince, and so of course the girl must fall in love with him, and they'll live warm and fuzzily after. Stupid, sexist, unoriginal stories. That's all fairy tales were.

With a sudden burst, Faye kicked the betamax, sending it crashing into the opposite wall. She smiled with grim satisfaction as the tape spilled out onto the floor, the intestines of a horrible carnivorous beast that was no more. What had that movie ever done for her anyway? Nothing, that's what. It made her think she could change the past, change peoples minds. And now Spike was dead. There was little she could do before, and nothing she could do now. She should've left when she had the chance, avoid all of this mess. Spike was the one responsible for all of it. Even now, Jet walked with a limp, a personal memento from Spike, trying to shift the blame on them, trying to say it was their fault for messing around with him.

Well, he had no right to say that. All Jet ever tried to do was clean up the boy's mess, and Faye only ever did was…um…hang around. Hang around and get caught. Like the pansy frilly girl in the fairy tale.

Faye kicked her desk, using exactly as much klutzyness as is needed to hit the corner on her instep, breaking her skin nicely.

"AGH! FUCK!"

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Lorraine opened the bathroom, and glanced around. It was dingy and small, with the fluorescent bulb flickering every once in a while. She looked up at the water stained ceiling tiles, with a cracked light and a vent, slightly ajar, in the corner, making a wind tunnel effect. She was pretty sure she could her rats up there.

She shook her head, disgusted, and closed the door again, walking back to their table, and donning an air of a gothic princess. Her striped stockings and short black shredded skirt helped a bit. D.J. sat at the table, brooding over his quarter-caff macchiato tenellato latte vente, with everything dyed black except the tips of his hair, which was done up in the ancient, yet for some odd reason insanely popular flock of seagulls haircut. He looked at her legs first, then at her. She looked back at him, and had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing. He scowled for real.

"I'm sorry, It's just so weird looking!"

"Well why do you think I wore sunglasses? Lennon-esque as they are..." They conversed in hushed tones.

"Who the hell was Lennon anyway?"

"I dunno, some hippie, I think."

"Where'd you get those glasses?"

"…around." He said, looking secretive.

Lorraine sighed. "I can't believe they were out of colored contacts."

"I know, right? All I wanted were black eyes."

"I know. Who ever heard of a Goth with bright green?"

"I hope some one has…"

"It makes you look like a cry baby!"

"Ye- Hey wait!"

"I'm not saying you are one!"

D.J. glared at her over through the steam of his coffee. She went back to reading her book, which had a black and red morbid dust cover. The cover went to a different book, and so didn't fit exactly.

D.J. glanced at the book. "Which one is that?" She turned the page, eyes glued to the print. "Psychology of memory."

He snorted. "Oh the creepy one about memory wipes?" She nodded in response, taking a sip of her coffee, which had a name to long for her to remember. "Aren't they banned now?"

"Well duh. The only reason they were ever legal was because of some stupid loop hole." She replied. Listen to this. This guy, Doctor Peter St. Peter, PhD, the one who invented it? He was manic depressive. Became addicted to them. Nearly turned his head into tapioca. When they took him into custody he slit his wrists." D.J.'s eyes widened around the glasses. "Does the book say why?"

Lorraine nodded, catching a look from one of the workers, and closing the book decisively. "In a different chapter. Come on, before that guy notices us." She jerked her head in the direction of a skinny, spiky-haired cashier.

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Jet eyed her oddly, leaving his cooking unattended for a moment as he backed out of the kitchen, staring at her.

Faye turned around mid hop. She held a washcloth to her foot; hand out to brace herself against the wall if she fell. She looked over her shoulder; her body contorted in a way Jet didn't know was humanly possible. His lip was pulled up and eyebrows raised in a 'huh?' expression. Faye, looking like a poster girl for yoga, hopped around to quasi-face him.

"Where are the band-aids?"

"There in the bathroom…"

"Well which one!"

"Any of 'em! Just look in the cabinets."

"OK then…" Faye said, turning back to go, but was stopped by Jet's perssistant "Why?"

She turned back to face him, the look on her face obviously that of pain. "Because I gashed my fucking foot on my fucking desk, and I'm trying to fucking find the fucking band-aids, but it won't stop fucking bleeding! That's fucking why jet!" Jet's eyebrow went up even higher. "That's because your moving around too much. Go sit down and put your foot on something." He replied. "I'll go get the bandages." He turned to the nearest bathroom, after putting the burners on low.

Faye glared at his back as he walked away. "Yea, easy for you too say. How 'bout I put my foot on your shiny little head?" She mumbled to herself in one of those not-too-rare instances where she was mad enough to do anything. But then she remembered the other day, when they had that argument on the stairs. It was an odd thing to remember just then, and completely out of the blue, but somehow held some sway over to her, Because she hobbled over to the uncomfortable yellow sofa and propped her leg on the table, suddenly very weary.

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Jhonen looked at his pink haired comrade, a sort of fear on his face. "Why don't you do something?"

His friend worked the frappuchino machine. The plastic orange summery-goodness colored name plaque stated his name was Roman. He looked at the door, and back at Jhonen. "Man, no way. You're the one who thinks it's her! You open the door!"

Jhonen was taken aback. "Alright, one; it is TOTTALLY is her, and two, you're all gangly-ish." He said, running his fingers through his spiked hair.

Roman frowned. "What does that have to do with anything!" This comment received dirty looks from the guy across from him. "If we're down to stupid comments about one another, okay fine, you talk like a metro!"

Jhonen leaned forward, pointing one finger at the door, the other at Roman in his erratic animated way. "You're taller! You can run faster if she pulls a gun at you."

"WHAT!"

Jhonen sighed. "Alright, fine. On three together…"

"I guess."

"One" Jhonen started, looking at Roman a bit before he caught on.

"Wh- I …Oh! Two…"

"Thre-"

"Oh! Yes!" Said the female of the pair. Roman's eye's widened. "Are they…?" He asked, the ohs and yeses continuing. Jhonen turned slowly towards the door. "They're fucking!"

"They can't do that in a Starbucks bathroom!"

"well, why don't you tell them to stop!"

"No way, what if you are right? She'd blow my head off!"

"Hell, maybe it'll be like one of those ten minute orgies before one of them has to leave for a meeting."

"what!"

"Don't ever do weekday mornings my friend."