No kidding'
I'm ready to go
When I find her boy don't you know
If I get her in my sight
Boom boom! Out go the lights! – Pat Travers

Spike was cleaning his gun, his good old trusty Jericho. He was pleased to learn that the gun wasn't confiscated by authorities; rather, it had been snagged by one of the remaining Dragons and held in safekeeping. The kid had returned it to Jet one day when Spike was still in the hospital, even though the kid never went to actually visit Spike. Jet described him, but Spike was unable to place who he was.

Today was going to be a big day, larger than Spike had had in a long time: he was going on a bounty today. His main purpose was to be backup for Faye, which amused him, but he was a smart enough man to realize that he still wasn't up to the task of either leading a hunt or going solo. His speech was nearly flawless, he could do a modicum of fighting, but he simply wasn't up to par. Spike was also dismayed to learn that his left side simply was neither as limber nor as strong as it used to be, which threw off his balance. He continually struggled to find a center of gravity. And furthermore, he'd been having nearly constant low-level headaches lately. The headaches were not severe enough to cause him much concern, but they were annoying.

Spike was also hoping to have a chance to get Faye off the ship, because they had left some things unfinished. Also, even though Spike was what Julia always called a clueless misogynistic male, he was still sensitive enough to know that there was something not right going on between Faye and Jet. He honestly didn't want to know the entire story behind their relationship, but the Bebop was simply too close of quarters not to notice when the balance, tenuous as it was, was out of whack.

Jet was pounding away on the ship's computer, working to get some more low-down on their target. They'd managed to work out a general vicinity for this loser: a pedophile by the name of Victor Sinikis. Spike was not necessarily proud of everything he'd done in his life, but he would shoot himself in the head, and the crotch too, before he would ever be a pedophile. And this guy, well, he took the cake: his target was mainly young girls under the age of fifteen, and every time Spike thought about Sinikis, he'd think of Ed. He missed the girl.

I miss her too.

Spike looked over his shoulder to see Ein. Yo.

Yo, yourself. You know, it's funny to me how every time I talk to you, you have to locate me to make sure I was the one who spoke. How many dogs on this ship talk to you in your head?

Spike chuckled. Yeah, but you also talk in my head from great distances, and it also seems that you can also read my thoughts. That's creepy, dog.

You seem nervous, Spike.

Why shouldn't I be? It's been practically nine months since I've been on a bounty. Furthermore . . .

". . . Spike!"

Spike whipped his head around and blinked several times before he realized that Jet was trying to get his attention. "Cripes, what is it, Jet?"

Jet scowled. "I would tell you to take your thumb out of your ass, but it looks like it might be doing you some good. Take a look at this."

Spike rolled his eyes, clicked the magazine of his Jericho home, and ambled over to Jet's monitor. "What do you have?"

"A list of aliases for Victor Sinikis. He's been traveling under a lot of different names, but this might be his most recent. The scuttle is that he's running a revival tour aimed at teens under the name Seth Popovic."

"A revival? A religious revival? That son of a bitch."

Just then, Faye walked in, adjusting her brief blouse. "Talking about yourself in the third person again, Spike?"

Spike grinned. "You know, as kid, I got whupped a few times, but the worst whupping I ever got was when I couldn't stop laughing after my mother called me a son of a bitch." Spike laughed for a moment, and then he sobered. "This creep we're going after, he's got a youth revival gig going. Probably looking for fresh meat." Spike actually took a look at Faye and her outfit and said, "You're not wearing that, are you?"

Faye looked down at her abbreviated wardrobe. "What's wrong with it?"

Spike sighed. "You can't dress like a whore and not stand out at a revival, my dear. If you want to be inconspicuous, wear the industrial bra and a shirt long enough to tuck in so you don't expose belly flesh when you're jumping around in the rapture of the Almighty."

Faye wrinkled her brow in confusion, and then scowled. "Like you're not going to burst into flames when you step through the door. Fine." Faye turned on her heel and stalked off

"Industrial bra?" smirked Jet. Spike shrugged with a smile and ambled back to his room. His new suit, much like his old one, was not exactly an inconspicuous look for a teen revival either. He was glad to realize that his headache was diminishing, however.

A short while later, both Faye and Spike were landing their respective ships in an inconspicuous area. Spike hopped out of the Swordfish and briefly touched the hull like he was greeting an old friend. He'd missed flying. It was a bit awkward, again because of the weakness of the left side, but he managed just fine.

Just keep up the negative perspiration, and everything will be fine, Ein's voice chimed in his head.

Negative perspiration, check, thought Spike idly. Faye was catching up to Spike, and he finally got a look at her change in clothes: slim black pants, a white sleeveless button-up blouse, and black flat boots. Spike wondered where she was hiding her Glock.

"Better, Mister Revival Fashion House?" she queried.

"Almost perfect," Spike replied, and he reached to close one more button on her blouse. Faye blushed as his fingertips brushed her skin. Then he held out a small wooden cross on a leather cord. "Here. Wear this. Just don't lose it." Then he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a similar unadorned wooden cross on a cord. He dropped it over his head, checked his Jericho in the holster he wore under his flannel shirt, and said, "Shall we?" Faye dropped the cross over her head, and then took a quick peek at the back, which said "Peregrine, 2057". Unsure what this meant, she followed Spike down the street towards the revival where they hoped to find their bounty.

They didn't need a GPS to tell them they were going in the right direction, though; the noise of the crowd and the music led the way. Soon, they both got into a throng of people, mostly teenagers and college kids, all extolling the virtues of the Lord. Faye suddenly found herself pulled into a prayer circle with a group of girls, and they were soon chanting show they would be brides of Christ and chastity until the Lord found suitable husbands for them. It was all Faye could do to either not run screaming or laughing hysterically. She looked around for Spike, and saw him laughing and high-fiving with a group of young men, and she actually heard Spike say, "Praise to Him on high!" as he lifted his hand above his head. Faye had enough time to wonder just how familiar Spike was with these revivals when he suddenly came up to her and said, "Faye, we have to get inside. Seth Popovic is definitely in there."

One of the other girls in the prayer circle squealed and said, "Yes! And Godsicle is playing right now! They're so good looking and so Jesus-centric!"

Spike replied, "Amen, sister!" and grabbed Faye's hand and led her through the throng towards the door of the warehouse that was hosting the event. One the way through the doors, they both had their left hands inscribed with a huge black "x", which, as Spike explained it, were marks that they were clean and drug, alcohol, and nicotine free, and lived their lives clean on body, mind, and soul. Faye rolled her eyes briefly and Spike smirked and winked at her in return.

The band Godsicle was jumping about on stage, singing about the perils of a woman named Jezebel as another group of young people jumped about in the thrall of the hard rock song. Faye was amused at how this very secular-sounding rock music could so easily have dogma in its lyrics, and then Spike grabbed her hand, and led her to the near edge of the pseudo mosh pit. "Do you see him yet?" yelled Spike over the music, as he jumped about much like the young people with his arm raised in the air.

"What are you doing?" shrieked Faye.

"Blending in. And jumping helps me see over the crowd. Wait . . ." Spike did a few pogo jumps in time to the music – thank God for drum solos, thought Spike – and then said, "I think I saw him. Kind of short, with wiry red hair. Down front, near that alley that leads back to the stage. Scream 'praise the Lord' or something while I lift you up." Spike then grabbed Faye and lifted her onto his shoulder, like he had seen some of the other young men doing to their girls.

Shortly, she said, "Got him! I'll work my way down there." Faye slid off his shoulder.

"What's your plan?"

"Sidle up to him and nab him, of course."

"I'll swing around the far side. Make sure you do innocent flirting, and not your worldly harlot routine. And act younger. He might be turned off by someone your age."

"I know how to do this, Spike." And with that, she began to dance through the crowd, doing her best to behave like the other young women there. Spike moved back toward the sidelines and watched her go and make contact. However, she must have bungled the rendezvous, because Popovic/Sinikis made a run for the back of the stage.

"Christ in a sidecar," Spike muttered as he began to jog to the other side of the stage. He got there just in time to get Popovic's elbow in his throat, and then Popovic ran towards the crowd. Coughing, Spike muttered a few more epithets that broke at least two of the Ten Commandments, and took off after him. Spike knew that he couldn't use his gun in a crowd like this – not that it really ever stopped him before – but there were simply too many people, all of whom were thinking that Popovic was going on stage soon to testify for the Lord, not scout the crowd for new slew of girls the same age as Ed.

With the thought of Ed fresh in his mind, Spike bounded through the crowd, saw his quarry, and leapt forward in a full body tackle, taking down Popovic and unfortunately a few innocent bystanders. Popovic responded by kicking back with one foot against Spike's bad left leg, and pulling a girl's pants down to her ankles trying to pull himself up. Shrieks filled the air. Spike had had enough of this crap already, so he pulled out his Jericho and pistol-whipped Popovic on the back of his skull, making Popovic go instantly limp. Spike struggled to his feet, muttering. He looked up to realize that the entire warehouse was silent, save for the squeal of approaching sirens. He took a quick look at the girl who'd gotten pantsed, and she seemed okay. He took another quick look over his shoulder to see Faye, working her way through the crowd, her Glock out and pointed downwards. He looked back down at Popovic, who lay face-down and spread eagled on the floor, and gave him a kick in the crotch for good measure.

Sighing, Spike reached into his pocket with his left hand, the one emblazoned with the black "x" of bodily purity, pulled out a smoke and lit it, saying, "Excuse me. Carry on with your party."

Spike and Faye bickered the entire way to collect the bounty, haggled over what percentage each of them should get, and then, when they'd finally decided to get a drink, fought over which bar to go to. As they ambled down the street towards a watering hole, Spike said, "You know, I've missed bantering with you."

Faye looked up at Spike, surprised by his friendly words. "Me too."

"Is everything okay?"

"With what?"

"With Jet." Faye didn't answer, and Spike decided that it wasn't really any of his business. He decided on a different tack. "Could I have that cross back, please?"

"Oh . . . here." Faye handed the cross over. "Who is Peregrine?"

"Someone from long ago."

"Why do you have his cross?"

"Because it's mine."

Faye frowned. "I don't get it."

Spike sighed. "I don't either, these days."

After a moment, Faye said, "Isn't Peregrine the patron saint of . . . I can't remember."

"Peregrine was the patron saint of the wounded and the sick."

"I thought that was Saint Jude."

"He's the patron saint of lost causes."

Faye furrowed her brow. "How come you know so much about patron saints? Is Peregrine your patron? Were you actually confirmed?"

Spike didn't answer her; he merely lit another cigarette. "Who was your patron saint?"

Faye was still so dumbfounded at the possibility that Spike was a former Catholic that she blurted out, "Mary Magdelene."

Spike smirked. "Not surprised," he muttered, and then he cursed in pain when Faye delivered a mighty slug to his left shoulder. They continued on in silence for a while, and then Faye said, "Whose cross are you wearing?"

Spike still had his cross hanging around his neck. He lifted up to eye level and looked at it for a moment. "My father's."

Faye had never considered Spike to have a father, as ridiculous as that sounded, and she opened her mouth to ask Spike about him, but then they reached the tavern, where Spike bought her a drink even though they had decided to each buy their own.

By the time they'd each had a night cap and made it back to the ship, Spike was excessively weary. His back ached, probably from lifting Faye up and then tackling the guy. He didn't feel one morsel of remorse for kicking the guy's area, but his left hamstring felt stiff because of it. He didn't see Jet on his way in, so Spike slipped unseen to his room. Ein was taking up his usual corner and looked asleep, but then he opened one eye, gave a mighty yawn, and said, that went fairly well.

Fairly well, yes, Spike concurred. He took off his shirt and started rubbing his lower back. Christ, that hurts.

Lift me up onto the bed. Spike quirked an eyebrow at the dog, but he complied, and then the dog asked him to lie face down on the bed. Once Spike had done so, after giving a quizzical look to the little dog, Ein then jumped on Spike's back and began walking all over it.

Spike groaned. So not only are you a data dog, you give shiatsu massages as well?

You overdid it, didn't you?

What do you think?

I think Jet's already got another one for you.

Bring it on. Ein, I will give you exactly two hours to stop doing whatever you're doing.

I'm concerned about this bounty, though. It's a gang made up of leftover Red Dragons.

Spike opened his eyes. He took a breath, and then said, What's their beef?

Apparently, their beef is with you.

Vicious sympathizers.

Precisely.

See, this is why I didn't want to take over the Dragons, like Mao allegedly wanted me to. Too much political shit. I'm no good at stuff like that. Who's in charge of this little faction?

Hiroki Sautsuma.

Why is that name familiar?

He's the one who brought you back your Jericho. Is your back feeling better? Spike didn't answer, and his eyes were closed. Ein settled down on the small of Spike's back and closed his eyes himself, and it seemed to both of them that they dreamed of rolling hills filled with wheat, and a lazy afternoon breeze as small animals darted in and out of the tall stalks.

Spike later opened one eye and saw only a darkened room. He could taste stale whiskey on his tongue, and he could feel a small but warm and heavy bundle on the small of his back. He also had a headache worse than any hangover he could ever remember. Spike craned his head around on his neck to see something furry, and then he remembered Ein walking all over his back like a small Asian woman in a disreputable massage parlor. Spike rolled to his side, and Ein slid off Spike's back with a grunt, but he didn't wake up. Spike pulled a shirt on and wandered out to the common area, where Jet was sitting again, pounding on the computer.

"Jet."

"Spike."

"What did that keyboard ever do to you?"

"What did you ever do to Hiroki Sautsuma?" Jet snapped back.

"Other than breathing? I don't know what his deal is. He apparently was the one who returned my Jericho while I was in the hospital. I didn't know that returning a revolver was the same as throwing down a gauntlet."

"Well, it's not just him, but a group. Check this out." Jet leaned back to show a page from a website – the Dragons now have a website? Stone the crows, thought Spike -- that had some scuttle on it regarding Hiroki and his "long standing feud" with Spike Spiegel. "You have a feud going on with this guy? Why don't you ever tell me these things, Spike?"

"Hard to mention when you don't know it yourself. Has he done anything like throw a brick through a window yet? Or called for a rumble?"

"A rumble?" That was Faye, entering the room from the shower while scrubbing her wet hair with a towel.

"Nice hair," mumbled Jet.

"At least I have hair," snipped Faye. Jet ignored her. "So does that make you a Shark or a Jet?"

Spike was confused. "Jet? Jet's a Jet . . . maybe . . . isn't he?"

"Gah!" exclaimed Faye. "You are such a Philistine, Spiegel." Faye moved out of the room, singing, "When you're a Jet / you're a Jet all the way / from your first cigarette / to your last dying day . . ."

"Jet, do you ever understand what the hell that woman is talking about?"

"I try to ignore her these days. Are you going to meet up with this clown?"

Spike shrugged. "I suppose. I don't feel like having him hanging around with some chip on his shoulder."

Spike began to mosey his way to the Swordfish, and Jet called after him, "You're taking Faye as backup!"

"She can catch up."

Jet harrumphed and went back to looking at the screen. He didn't like the idea of this punk, either, but Hiroki was younger and certainly more able-bodied, and Jet felt sure that once again, Spike was walking into not necessarily a deathtrap, but certainly as his old man liked to say, a whirlpool of suck.

Spike gunned the Swordfish a little bit more as he flew toward the city centre. She'd gotten a bit sluggish from sitting in the dock for so long. But he didn't trust Jet, and certainly not Faye, to fire the old girl up and take her for a spin to keep her from getting clapped out. Spike lit a cigarette, tucking an extra behind his ear for later, and made his way to where he'd heard that the Dragons were setting up shop. Already, he was wary – this was a new stretch of town, very shiny with lots of glass buildings, not the older, more ethnic area where the Dragons had held sway for so long.

But like a dog finds his way home, Spike homed in on the new location with ease, actually getting a parking stub for the Swordfish. He wondered casually if Hiroki would validate it for him, and tucked the stub in his pocket after checking his Jericho again. He was still so tired from yesterday, but he hoped that the weariness looked more like boredom on his face, still drawn and thin from so many months of recovery. His headache was also showing no signs of waning. Yes, it was turning out to be a lovely day indeed.

He pushed open the door of the brass and glass offices, and located the office candy immediately. He ambled his way over to her, still dragging on his smoke, and asked to see a Mr. Sautsuma.

The office girl fanned the air in front of her face with her hand, coughed a delicate cough, and said, "There's no smoking in here, sir." Spike looked at her a moment, and then flipped the butt into his mouth and swallowed it. The girl openly grimaced.

"Is Mr. Sautsama available?" repeated Spike.

"Do you have an appointment?" the girl asked with distaste for this very strange man who'd entered her space.

"No."

The girl curled her lip. "And your name is?"

"Spike Spiegel."

That got the girl's attention, and the disgust on her face turned more fearful. She said, "Excuse me," and got up and walked to the big double doors as quickly as her little tight skirt would allow, and slipped through. Spike cooled his heels while looking at the non-descript art that matched the furniture.

The double doors flung open, and a short man in an impeccable and expensive suit came through, exclaiming "Spike Spiegel!" The man, who was also wearing sunglasses – probably as expensive as the suit -- then came over to Spike and caught him up in a gruff hug, and then began to shake Spike's hand, pumping it up and down like a butter churn. "Hiroki Sautsuma, a pleasure, a pleasure."

"You're very pleasant to a man that you purport to be having a feud with."

"Oh, that's just talk for the newspapers. Come with me." Spike was wary, but he allowed himself to be led into the main part of the building, while Hiroki waxed philosophical about the direction he wanted to take the Dragons in. ". . . This of course, being with your approval."

"Why would you need my approval?"

"That's the way Mao would have wanted it."

"Look, whatever Mao had in mind, I was unaware of once I left the Dragons. He didn't relay that kind of information to me."

"Because you went underground, Spiegel. Not exactly the way Mao would have wanted to pass on his legacy."

Hiroki's switch to calling him Spiegel didn't go unnoticed by Spike. "I didn't want his legacy then and I still don't want it now. You can run things however you see fit."

"But, you see, there is a problem. As long as you live, you control Mao's dynasty whether you claim to admit it or not. You have executive power over the Dragons -- both in a financial and operational sense. I don't know if that little hacker girl of yours was the one to set this up, because our hackers were unable to reverse the paperwork, a majority of which, ironically, didn't get generated until after your . . . discussion . . . with Vicious. Long after Mao's . . . untimely death."

Spike's mind whirled for a moment. He had thought that Mao had this in the works for a long time, but that was apparently not true. Ed wouldn't have hacked the Dragons network unless he had specifically told her to; Ed was more of a mischief-maker than anything else on her own. That only left . . . Ein.

A voice popped into Spike's headEin's voice. Look at his eyes. Spike did, and even though Hiroki's eyes were half-concealed by the expensive sunglasses, Spike could see enough of them to know that he was looking at eyes burned with Red-Eye. Red-Eye, the highly trafficked drug of the Dragons, the item that made for most of their collateral. An item widely used by the Dragons themselves, for it made the user feel even more invincible than the PCP and methamphetamine users of the century before.

Get out of there, another voice in Spike's head said. This voice was decidedly not Ein's, but an older, gruffer voice.

What? Who the fuck are you?

Get out! The voice repeated.

Doing his best to not show just how rattled he was by the presence of a voice in his head besides his own and Ein's, Spike said, "I don't know what you're talking about, Hiroki, and I honestly don't give a damn. If Mao had paperwork or financials set in place, that had nothing to do with me. We have nothing more to discuss. Good day." Spike began to make his way back to the double doors, thinking that if he could get out to where the office candy was, then the situation would simmer out. But then he heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked right at the back of his head. Spike stopped moving. He stood, silently, feeling the cold metal of the barrel against his skull. Then, in an attempt to sound less apprehensive than he felt, Spike sighed and said, "If you kill me, Sautsuma, Mao's dynasty goes right to probate."

"Better there than in your traitorous hands."

So that's what this is about. "I said, I don't care about the dynasty. It was not what I wanted."

"Unfortunately, despite your . . . abdication, you will be a Dragon until the moment of your death."

The lyrics that Faye had sung earlier came back to his mind as he slowly shifted his weight forward. From my first cigarette to my last dying day. We'll see about that. Spike then spun, grabbing Sautsuma's arm in one hand and delivering a punch to the gut with the other, which disarmed the shorter man. However, this set off alarms to the other members of the syndicate, who all seemed to appear from nowhere. Spike took one more punch to the guy's jaw, then let go and took off running to the double doors under a hail of bullets. He dove through the huge double doors, scaring complete hell out of the office girl, particularly when he joined her behind her desk and began firing back.

Just then, all of the glass walls of the outer office began exploding.

Spike looked out the front door to see none other than Faye in her Redtail, shooting out the entire lobby. She nearly flew her ship into the office itself, and Spike, for once, was glad to see her. He felt like taking this opportunity to get lost, when he got hit by two bullets from Hiroki's crew: one to the left shoulder and another to the right side of his gut. Fuck. Again? Spike dropped to his knees, doubled over in pain. And the worst of it was, the new pain from the bullets did absolutely nothing to take care of the headache. He fell to one hand, and looked up to see Hiroki standing over him, his gun pointed directly at Spike's nose. At the same time, Faye had her Redtail hovering with her guns pointed directly at Hiroki. Spike raised his gun, arm shaking, level with Hiroki's gun on him.

They stayed that way for quite a while.

"Are you finally ready to die?" asked Hiroki softly.

Spike's eyes narrowed. "I'm getting mighty tired of dying." And Spike pulled his trigger, and Hiroki's head disappeared in an explosion of blood and gore. Hiroki's hand dropped, but his reflexes went into play anyway, and his gun fired into Spike's left bicep. Then the Redtail fired in a flurry of bullets, practically disintegrating Hiroki's body.

Then the room fell blissfully silent.

The last things Spike remembered before the darkness came was the new sound of sirens, Faye's dismayed face, and how the pain in his head had reached a zenith.

Then, Spike was dreaming again, dreaming of the beautiful women with long flowing hair, abbreviated wrestling costumes, singing in Esperanto. But this time, their song kept going off key, hitting flats and sharps that shouldn't be possibly made by a human voice. The piercing sound went straight to Spike's bones, making them rattle and hurt even more. Then, a luscious redhead began a note that should have been high F but was something else instead, and threatened to shatter Spike's eyeballs, and he was surprisingly relieved when the sound of some asshole screaming in his ear overpowered the shrill note.

Spike's eyes flew open, and fell upon the grizzled face of Barleigh, who sat in a chair, leaning on his cane.

Barleigh sighed. "You never learn, do you? Just when we thought we were done with your ugly mug, you get yourself shot and land, once again, in my highly esteemed care."

"Your face is nothing to . . . write home about."

Barleigh frowned. "Are your headaches getting worse?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You're having mild stroke symptoms again."

"Am . . . not."

"Yes, you are. You're slurring your words again, and I'm noticing slackness around your mouth."

"Not . . . slurring."

"Perhaps you think you're not slurring, but you're concentrating with all your will not to, which comes out as slow and clipped speech, which I recognize as a cover-up for slurred speech. Look at the light."

Spike had no choice but to succumb to his ministrations, but thankfully, Thompson and her pretty face showed up, taking notes, drawing blood, and setting up tests. Once Barleigh left, Thompson began to disengage Spike from the monitors and began rolling his bed out of the room, with the help of Kennedy. They rolled past Barleigh, who was in deep discussions with Jet and Faye.

Well, Faye at least, thought Spike with a smirk.

He was run through the battery of tests, which proved inconclusive. Barleigh finally had to admit that, new bullet holes and the almost constant headache aside, there seemed to be nothing wrong with him. "Have you ever considered a more sedate line of work? Lion taming, perhaps?"

Spike sighed. "If there'sh nothing wrong with me, then can I go home?"

"Indulge us and stay for observation for a bit longer. Besides, you just had bullets removed from your ungrateful body. You should stay here for a bit." Barleigh finally stumped out of the room, taking Thompson and Kennedy with him. They must have then allowed Jet and Faye access to the room, because they came in shortly after.

Jet had his usually stern look. "Spike."

"Yo."

Faye sat down near Spike, and said, "It's a good thing I showed up, huh?"

"I was never more glad to see you," replied Spike, and Faye turned pink.

Jet noticed Faye's reaction, but kept his eyes on Spike. "What did you find out?"

"Oddly enough, Hiroki said that Mao had set up me as the legitimate heir to the entire Dragon's syndicate, which frankly baffles me, but at the same time, a lot of the files were created not only after his death, but after . . . Vicious."

I guess I didn't wipe out the paper trail well enough.

What?

I thought I had covered my tracks better. I'm better at hacking than file manipulation. I didn't expect for the noobs to try to re-create the syndicate like they did. I'm working on dissolving the whole thing now.

Ein, what the hell . . .

". . . Spike? Are you okay? Should I get the doctor?"

Spike's eyes came back into focus to see Jet close to the foot of his bed, looking pensive, and Faye was on her feet, leaning over him, and her hand on his forehead. "What . . . what?" Spike asked, confused.

"You just . . . faded out on us. Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

Faye looked at Jet. "I'm going to find Barleigh."

"No! Don't . . ." said Spike. "I'm okay . . . Just groggy with the meds." Faye and Jet looked at each other for a while, and then back at Spike. Faye sat back down, and Jet changed the subject.

In the end, Spike was sent back to the Bebop.