RP: Just a Rat in a Cage Characters: Spike (narrative) Time/Date: early night, July 27 Location: Room 213 Warnings/Rating: Uhm... PG-13, I'd say. Summary: He's far from home, and there's an unsettling hint of deja vu in the air... Status: Complete
Spike could hear rain in the distance, tapping against glass as if the echo of a life lost long ago. It felt neither real or dreamed but, instead, a strange mixture thereof. On one side of the conscious barrier: the vague sense that something was wrong, that the air didn't smell of cigarettes as it should; on the other side: a beautiful blonde with the metaphorical world on her shoulders. Between the two, only rain was common; and it was the rain which blended two realities into one.
He twitched slightly, but remained mostly unconscious and unwilling - if not perhaps unable - to wake. Everything felt heavy, from his limbs to the air itself. Nothing felt right; it was all out of place and turned upside-down from the natural order. Then again, he'd not felt half as right as he led her to believe that night. And so he relived it, half-asleep as he was.
A part of him knew that it was likely just a trick of the mind, but another part of him didn't want to let go...
"When this is over, I'm leaving the syndicate."
Ever since he'd met Julia, she'd had an eye to the past. He could see it in the way she looked at him, the way she stood by Vicious yet gravitated so strongly toward the lesser evil. People with no reason to live and no concern about the world in general knew their own. At least, that's how he imagined she felt. And he felt that she was his other half, the missing piece he'd subconsciously sought since birth.
Thing was: they never spoke of the past. The most she knew about him was that Annie was the closest thing he had to a mother figure and he'd trust that crazy bastard of a best friend to have his back when the bullets started flying. The most he knew about her was that she was half femme fatale, half damsel in distress, and knew a little too much about the inner workings of the Red Dragons. Mystery drew them together. Reality threatened to tear them apart.
Such was why he'd been incapable of sleeping. Shit was hitting the fan, inner politics were growing tense, and the opportunity was just too good to pass. It was his chance - no, their chance - to break away. It was a chance to claim the happy ending they wanted (or at least die trying). So he'd walked through the rain, fist tightly held around a folded letter inside his pocket, until he'd reached her apartment. He'd let himself in, launched right into the speech, and convinced himself that she'd jump at the chance to get out while she was still alive.
What he got, instead, was a worried half-smile and the sinking realization that she was dangerously near to a change of heart. The weight of the world balanced precariously on her shoulders, and she looked ready to either crumble or toss it aside and run... in the opposite direction.
"They'll kill you," she said; and when he looked into those beautiful, blue eyes, he knew she meant it. "You know how they work."
Though he almost-desperately wanted to, he couldn't resent her lack of faith in his abilities. She didn't know half of what he could - and most certainly would - do in the name of self-preservation (or anger or even pure sport). She didn't know just how similar he was to the lover she secretly cast aside in his favor.
And he didn't know anything beyond loving the woman. He didn't know how it would feel to abandon what may as well have been his family or betray his best friend (psychotic as said best friend happened to be). He didn't know if they'd get far, if he'd get himself - or even the both of them - killed. But, in a cocky and selfish sort of way, he didn't care. He needed her in order to feel complete, and he'd never fully be able to claim her unless they left.
Besides, he could take down a bunch of half-dead thugs - many of which were lucky just to have a face left. They could 'spray and pray' all they wanted; he could do one better, skip the devine intervention, and aim without missing a beat.
"Let them say I'm dead..."
It was thunder which drew Spike back to reality - even if on the basis of reflex alone. (For loud, unexpected thunder while one of his background is sleeping can easily be mistaken as gunfire.) He bolted upright, drew his Jericho from the confines of his jacket, and dropped to the floor to take cover behind the mattress - which he, at the moment, believed to be the yellow sofa on which he'd fallen asleep - before looking for the source.
For a long while, it all seemed to be a vague blur. He saw colors and silhouettes, none of which were familiar, and felt a throbbing in his head which almost seemed to suggest he'd been shot. Except... he held no delusions that he could survive a hot slug of lead through the brain, and it wasn't anywhere near hot enough for Hell - which he was certain the one-way ticket on his soul demanded.
So where, exactly, did that mean he was? And why did he feel as if someone had taken a monkey wrench to his brain and dismantled the sections responsible for vision and coherent thought?
Spike sank a little further to the floor - trigger finger still poised at the ready just in case - and did the only thing he knew to do when his nerves were frayed to such a degree. He fished around in his pockets for a cigarette (crumpled as always) and his lighter, fed his nicotine addiction, and waited for clarity. Unfortunately, clarity came a little late and a second crash of thunder sent him milliseconds away from shooting a hole through the window. If not for the flash of lightning, which finally clued him in, he may have destroyed the place and been none the wiser about the lack of return fire. (Not that he ever cared about damaging other people's property.)
Once he could focus properly, Spike returned to his feet and investigated his surroundings. He'd never seen anything quite like it before, though he easily guessed it was either a (very large) hotel room or apartment. It seemed very... out of place. The fridge and bed were fairly normal, but there were little hints of anachronistic flair - something that struck him as nonsensical in what was clearly an otherwise upscale room (the kind that, in the economic environment to which he was accustomed, would have been available only if he'd stuck with the syndicate and taken over as planned). A microwave, a coffee maker... He didn't know whether the names he guessed were right; he just knew that there was far better technology available. (Even ramen came without the need for adding water and shoving it inside a radioactive box for several minutes.) Yet, there were also hints of advancement, things like the impressively-thin device which had to be a computer.
Several minutes (and three cigarettes) passed before Spike was convinced that there was no direct threat and finally returned his gun to concealment. He didn't know where he was or how he got there, but it certainly wasn't home. All he could remember was taping the pinwheel - a gift from the crazy kid - ontop the Bebop, having a couple of drinks with Jet, and laying on the sofa. He didn't completely remember falling asleep, though logic proclaimed he had. And then... Rain, memories, thunder, and displacement.
He sat on the foot of the bed with his arms on his knees and a nearly-diminished cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. None of this made sense. None of it. Was he now literally caught within a dream? Had he been right all along and finally awoken from the dream of what his life might have been? Had he been injured and lost his memory like Faye?
Yeah. Maybe that was it. Maybe he'd finally pushed luck one too many times. Perhaps he'd found a woman who was the exact opposite of that Witney bastard. Or perhaps Jet had finally caught a big one and felt sorry enough for him to pay for a nice place to stay. It seemed like something Jet would do: throw in a few outdated appliances just to remind him who had cooked the food for three years. Or maybe he'd found Julia. Maybe she was out buying something to make dinner with...
"As if," he scolded himself. Not even in his dreams would he be so lucky. Besides, she'd made her choice. Or something like that. With a frustrated sound that was part growl and part sigh, he dropped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it into the floor. (Why should he care about something as insignificant as the condition of the carpeting in this strange, new territory?) He fell backward onto the bed, intending to stare at the ceiling until the answers came to him or he fell asleep - whichever came first; but something caught his attention.
He could have sworn he'd seen something familiar, a shape which struck him as important amidst everything else. No, not a shape. A word. A name. His name. Without bothering to question why he'd seen such a thing, Spike grabbed the piece of paper from the night stand and sat up to inspect it.
As he read, his eyes narrowed at the note, almost daring it to say the same thing twice; but it refused to change even after the third re-reading. And so it died. He crumpled the paper, threw it to the far end of the room, and slammed his fist into the mattress. (Two springs crunched under the force and one seemed to snap, judging by the sound it made.)
Suddenly, it all made sense: why he didn't remember leaving the Bebop, why he was in unfamiliar territory, and why it had been so difficult to regain awareness. There were so many things wrong with the scenario - so many things about which he didn't wish to think. The how, the when, the question of whether they'd grabbed Jet as well, the matter of just what kind of 'unique program' he'd been forced into... He had issues with being held against his will, let alone being 'observed' like a lab rat. Some things just weren't acceptable, weren't forgiveable. Spike Spiegel did not exist for some pretentious asshole's curiosity or the juvenile challenges of lines in the sand. He was nobody's caged animal - no creature to shove in a box, torment, watch through mirrored glass... Not again.
Whoever the so-called heads were, they were his. He would kill them - every last one of them. He'd make them wish they'd been smart enough to keep him unconscious... And he'd pray to every deity in the sky that this was another case of his past catching up with him. Either way, there were scores to settle; but if he finally had a chance for revenge...
A dark smirk painted his expression at the mental images, lending him a disturbing similarity to a certain, psychopathic ex-partner in crime. With a slight twitch forming under his left eye, Spike raised his thumb and leveled a finger toward the discarded note as if it were gun.