A/N: Kind of a short chapter this time around - the next one will be longer, I promise! I just wanted to take it easy on this one.

Chapter 4 - Been Caught Stealing

Sitting in the middle of space, drifting at something over a thousand miles an hour, and sucking on a cherry cough drop, Spike had to admit one thing.

Being on the other side of the bounty-hunting coin sucked. Oh, sure, now he had a ship, but he couldn't dock anywhere because his ship was basically marked. This was highly inconvenient. This was also why, along with his grand total of three woolongs, he was drifting through space like a hopeless idiot. Gas was expensive. And the kid had given him away! To her credit, she had used a fake name - Emmanuel-something, which was rather amusing because he didn't look Hispanic in the slightest, but they apparently bought it, along with the crappy picture he had seen them conversing over when the guys at the local fueling station finally realized exactly WHICH retrofitted asteroid racer that was sitting in their parking lot.

Looking at the reference picture they were working with, he could almost understand "Emmanuel". Not that that made this suck any less. And of course, the kid wouldn't arrange for shit, because he had forgotten the damn souvenir. Okay, that wasn't exactly fair. He had a souvenir. But all the dust and gunfire and the blood and crap had given him a really nasty scratchy throat, and, well... his Cherry-flavored comrade had paid the ultimate price. So now he was drifting through space at over a thousand miles per hour, a thought that seemed vaguely familiar, as though he had just made this observation a few lines ago in his own little internal monologue. Which, he reasoned, was entirely possible. He had bothered to look into this amnesia thing and it said that there was also this thing where you had trouble forming new memories, which basically just meant you couldn't remember whatever it was you did five minutes ago. It could happen. In what he was sure was a fairly NEW observation, though, he had spotted a somewhat larger ship almost directly in his path. It was at least large enough that it had a hangar which in and of itself was large enough to hold the ship he was currently drifting through space in. Kind of crappy looking too. The thing had to be at least... what, like twenty years old? It was all sorts of banged up and probably hadn't had that new car smell in quite a while. Of course, none of this concerned him so much as the fact that the (presumably curious, or at least Spike hoped that was all it was, because he really didn't feel like being captured, though he supposed he had really run out of choice in the matter when his fuel tank had similarly run out) owner of this particular ship had apparently decided that it was a perfectly reasonable idea to open up the hangar, apparently ignoring that little law of inertia which meant he would probably barrel right on through. Then he noticed the claw on this thing, and he figured that this wasn't the first time this thing had reeled in a ship that was hurtling through the void.

Jet Black, on the other hand, was worried about exactly the same scenario - for an entirely different reason. This was the Swordfish. He had specifically sold the Swordfish. No reason not to, he figured, and honestly, he had a dead partner, he didn't feel like dealing with holding onto the guy's ship. Best just to move on. Because THAT one had applied so many times in the life of the Black Dog. Yeah, he was basically known for just letting go. Wait, no, he sarcastically reminded himself, try the exact opposite of that, hadn't he built his career and reputation on being a stubborn bastard? Yeah, that's just about right. As the Bebop's claw arm reeled in its prize, he couldn't help but make his way down to the hangar - but the Swordfish was already popped open, and the cockpit was empty. Incredulous, and feeling for all the world a feeling he could only imagine might be shared by Ebenezer Scrooge in that old Earth story when confronted with his own, equally dead partner, he ventured a quiet, "Spike?"

Hmm. No clanking chains. That was a plus. Jet Black, 1. Ebenezer Scrooge? 0.

Spike's reaction as he lay hiding in one of the deep shadows cast in the Bebop's hanger, was, understandably, a bit of harsh internal language. Not to mention the question of how the hell he had managed to run into yet ANOTHER person from his murky past in what could be no more than a week. He thought. Time got kind of weird when you didn't have a solid past to work off of. It was one of those things. Hopefully this guy would just go away.

Then Jet remembered that the Swordfish had apparently been stolen, drew his gun, and Spike realized that no, Jet probably wouldn't go away. Which led to another bout of harsh internal language and nearly to a bit of external language that almost certainly would've gotten himself caught. Feeling there was no other choice, he quickly rushed out, attempted to sneak by this guy, and when it became obvious that this particular strategy wasn't going to work, swung his leg up in a kick. Which simply slammed into something made out of steel, which apparently was this guy's arm. This time Spike let out a harsh "fuck" before pulling his leg down. By the time Jet turned and got a good look at him, he had his ridiculous hat pulled down over his ridiculous eyes. Still, Jet spied a familiar tuft of moss-green hair (and really, who else had hair that color) poking out from a hole in the hat, and once again, this time incredulous...

"Spike?" To which the offender replied by busting out some sort of slide past him and kicking into his spine. Which he REALLY did not enjoy. The second part of this response was a further pressing of the foot into his spinal column (and now he was getting a little pissed and almost convinced that this was Spike - who else could nearly break his foot, then somehow gain the upper hand?) and Spike's best imitation of a Spanish accent. Which kind of sounded British, too. "Spike? No clue who you're talkin' about. Emmanuel, mate." Okay, not British. Australian. Jet wasn't a damn linguist. "Now, I was actually startin' to enjoy my peaceful little drift through space, but that ain't happenin', so, maybe I can get some fuel and we can never see each other again, like never in a million years, cool?" Okay, it was totally Spike. Only he would mix up his accents this bad. Jet just groaned. "So... if you are alive... What the hell are you doing back here?" "If I only knew, mate," Spike-also-known-as-Emmanuel answered. He was sticking to his guns, using that same crappy quasi-Spanish/British/Australian/Hippie accent. "Wouldn't mind knowing who the hell you are, either, or where the hell you keep the fuel, eh?" Okay, now he was Canadian. What the hell?
"Drop the fuckin' accent, mate," Jet intoned, now both confused as to what exactly was wrong with Spikemanuel, and a little pissed about the very uncomfortable position he was in and what he imagined was a very comfortable loafer of some sort that was still not very comfortable when lodged in his spine. "And if you must know, the fuel is... Probably around here somewhere. Over there, actually." Jet twitched his neck a little, (which Spike... Emmanuel... WHATEVER didn't seem too happy about, but had to grudgingly accept as the easiest way for Jet to motion), gesturing towards a little corner, where the Hammerhead sat, a pair of gas cans clearly visible next to him.

Son of a bitch, Spike said (mostly to himself), how did I not notice that? But that wasn't the main concern. And with a quick "Sorry, bub," he brought the foot up from this guy's spine into the back of his skull. As Jet passed out, the last thought that ran through his head was simple:
Score one for Ebenezer Scrooge. His partner didn't know kung fu.

Spike was enacting some serious get the fuck out manuvers in this one. He had left the ship that had captured him long behind, and was seriously hoping to evade pursuit... In the meantime, (and with 50 woolongs he had fished out of the other guy's wallet while he was knocked out, something that made Spike glad he didn't have much pride to worry about), he was heading the hell home. He brought up the radio, made a call, and was confronted with a full head of bright, unkempt red hair... pointing the other direction. "Jeez, kid... how many loose ends did I leave."
"Ed is not talking to you."
"Obviously enough to strangle my ass."
"Ed does not see a souvenir..."
"I'm starting to wonder if maybe my miraculous survival isn't that wonderful."
"Who is this calling Ed, and what gifts do they present to her mighty Edward-ness, royal majesty of Ed-tania?"
"Ed-tania? Okay, you're insane. I knew this, of course, but I thank you for reaffirming the status quo and maintaining some semblance of normalacy," Spike replied.
"Ed heard someone say sarcasm was the refuge of the weak... or somethin'..." Ed mused, not realizing she'd just spoken to Spike souvenir-less. Luckily for her, Spike didn't either.
"I prefer to think of it as the salvation of the supremely bored, kid. Signin' off." Spike shut off the radio. That kid just wouldn't talk to him without some stupid souvenir.
Wait... He had a solution!

Forget the whole damn thing and go get a beer. Score one for Spike Spiegel, master detective.

Spike sat in what was probably the only bar on Callisto, downing a beer and staring in sad contemplation at the ring that drink left on the bartop - which the barkeep noticed, too, and before long Spike was brought out of his reverie by a harsh clunk of glass as his drink was pulled up and dropped harshly on one of those little cardboard coasters... It was only then he saw the name on the coaster. "Sullivan's?!" he exclaimed in shock. "You ever run a place up on Mars?"

The bartender looked at him. "I did. What of it?"

Spike looked up. "Nice place. I went there once. Got shot at a few times." Okay, that was the wrong thing to say. "Could I keep the coaster?"

"100 woolongs."

"The beer was forty-five!" Spike stood up, pulling the coaster out of its place indignantly - and watching the cup spin through the air ominously. He should move. He really should. This couldn't end well, no way. But he watched... and watched... and watched... and cursed that dramatic tendency that drew out mere moments into agonizing hours. And then it landed, and everything rushed back to reality, and Spike was at the doorstep of the bar in a moment as a sharp crash brought things roaring to life - and the bartender moving after him with an indignance that suggested he might find himself once again under gunfire at the fine establishment of Sullivan's.

He decided to be gone before that became an issue. He was good at that, actually. And before long...

In space again... But, I've got fuel. And eight woolongs... And a beer coaster. He grinned, calling up the radio once more.
"Who requests an audience with Edwardia Wongolia Hauston Pepelu Tvirusky the Fourth?"
Damn that kid. "You're adding syllables again, Ed," he commented dryly, holding up the coaster. "Got you a present."
Ed practically squealed in delight. "Awesome work, lunkhead! Super-special-coolio-awesome, even! Ed will get right to work."
Gee, Spike thought, a little embarrassed. I would've been fine with, "Spike, you're a really swell guy."

What was the moral of this story, exactly?

See you later, Space Cowboy

Spike: Apparently, I'm just gonna keep barreling through life - though at this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if I end up dead AGAIN. And things just seem to keep getting weirder and weirder for me... At least I found a good bounty for my next exciting adventure. Yay. See you there...

Next Session: Dracula From Houston