The Symphony Hall

Pre-Bebop, pre-Julia. Twenty-year-olds Spike and Vicious are low-time gang members for a group called the Red Dragons, but when an opportunity makes itself clear, their lives are changed. Rated R for cussing and adult situations.

Radishface

-- 11 --

The police knocked on the door at five. They had just barely fallen asleep.

Spike had answered the door, a good-natured grin on his face. "What's up?"

The policeman recited their Miranda rights and then proceeded to frisk the both of them. Vicious was sure that this wasn't standard operating procedure, but then again, it seemed like nobody gave a fuck about SOP nowadays, himself included.

Spike kept that enigmatic smile pasted on his face the entire time, even when they were shoved in different cars, separated. The smile was still there when they were reunited again at the station. Spike looked a little chilly, clad only in a thin undershirt and a pair of sweatpants.

Vicious supposed his body language betrayed concern, because Spike's eyes widened just a fraction. He whispered, none too covertly, "trust me on this one."

And then the policeman barked for them to shut the hell up, so they did.

--

A few hours later, they were free.

Shin and Lin had come to their rescue— Spike was nonchalant about it all, as if he had expected it to happen. They'd had gone back to their apartments to change into respectable clothing, and then they were on their way to the Red Dragons syndicate headquarters, for better or worse.

"Doctor of jurisprudence?" Vicious repeated, as they drove away from the police station.

"You wouldn't believe it." Spike's voice contained only the slightest tremor of incredulity.

Lin shrugged appropriately. "I had already had the necessary prerequisites to finish undergraduate school in two years. After law school, I passed the bar."

"No big deal or anything." Spike huffed.

"Not really." Lin shrugged again. Vicious peered at Lin's downcast face and noticed a slight reddish tinge to his cheeks.

"He's the poster child of the Chinese family." Shin chimed in, much to Lin's apparent chagrin. "Hail the conquering hero: from a prestigious undergraduate university to a prestigious law school in two years, and then to becoming a prestigious lawyer."

"Your parents know about the… this… thing?" Spike waved his hands in the air. "Red Dragons," or "syndicate," or "this illegal drug trafficking…" it was a hand gesture that could have many interpretations.

Lin laughed quietly. "Heaven forbid."

"Or rather, heaven permits." Shin grimaced. "Their lovely dead bones see everything."

"Oh." Spike raised an eyebrow, and nodded.

There was a pause for a moment. The driver lit a cigarette, and rolled down his window. It was uncomfortably humid in the limousine. Apparently Lin had convinced the police station that the two men they had captured were part of an internal security measure, a domestic terrorist containment unit employed by the government. Never mind that there wasn't any paperwork, or that these two guys lived in a shithole with marijuana stowed away under the couch. Lin's jurisprudence degree had been hard-earned, but local economics also had a lot of say in the anticipated liberty of Spike and Vicious. A policeman's meager salary left a lot to be desired in terms of integrity.

"And me," Shin broke the silence, "I'm the runt of the family."

"No med school for you?" Spike said.

"Nah." Shin shook his head. "I've always wanted to join the Mafia."

--

The lobby of the syndicate building was air-conditioned, a welcome respite from the humid limousine. Their shoes clicked smartly on the marble tiles. Escalators beamed various suit-clad men to the mezzanine level. Vicious smelled sandwiches.

"We'll take you to the top floor." Lin said.

"Sounds good to me." Spike beamed. "And then sandwiches. All of us. Later. My treat."

They waited for the elevators.

"So, this place is… a what?" Spike asked.

"A pharmaceutical company." Shin smiled.

"Top-secret stuff." Lin nodded.

"Somewhat government-sanctioned, too." Shin said. "We sold a big quantity of steroids to the military the other week."

"Most of the labs are in the basement, but we've got a couple of chemical labs in the upper floors as well. And then there are the business levels…"

"The rest of the space is rented."

"And then men-to-women ratio?" Spike grinned.

"There you are out of luck." Shin chuckled. "The syndicate rules state that there can be no relationships between male and female co-workers."

Spike bobbed his head sagely. "Understood, then."

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped in. Lin took a card out of his pocket and slipped it into a slot under the emergency call button.

Silence again. They stood, one man to each wall, and they shuffled their feet on the floor. Shin cleared his throat. Something remained unspoken—something was a little off, but Vicious couldn't put his finger on it—

"Wait a minute." Spike said. "No relationships between male and female co-workers?"

"Well, yes." Lin stared. "For obvious reasons."

"I like the loophole you've got going there." Spike smirked.

"What loophole—" Lin blinked. "Oh."

"And you, of all people, my brother, should understand the importance of being specific." Shin chuckled. "Being a lawyer and all."

"Well, I—" Lin flushed, but stared defiantly. "I would have thought that that much would have been obvious."

The nagging feeling hadn't left. Vicious closed his eyes.

It would have been absurd to think that anything would have changed in terms of syndicate protocol. But this was not the time for meddling, for establishing useless interpersonal relationships. No, this was a chance to become great, to become infamous and famous. The definition of greatness—influence, power, presence, and magnitude—seemed possible. There was the potential to rise above a life of hustling and negotiating and gambling and womanizing. It seemed quite possible to achieve greatness, here in this suffocating, brightly-lit elevator that was on its way to the topmost floor.

Spike looked over at him and grinned, still amused over Lin's embarrassment. Vicious froze, caught between two extremes.

Here was Spike—Spike of youth, and energy, and naivety— Spike who said things like I'll do whatever you're doing, who remained loyal to Vicious despite opportunities for advancement under Wolfe's Red Dragons—Spike, who drank beer and fucked virgins and never kept a stocked refrigerator—all the things that they had done, that they could do in the future—because Spike was defined by the things he did, the way he acted, the cognizant gleam in his eyes even when he was drunk, the husky voice that pierced through the thickest of cigarette smoke, the stretch of his limbs when he crawled out of bed in the morning, the mess of hair on his head, the stubble on his face when he hadn't shaved, wide lips and white teeth and a long nose, his body worked like a column of flexible iron, the feel, the touch of his hand—localized and agonizing and electric—

Vicious caught his breath and jammed his hands into his pockets. His fingers itched to touch—just lightly, just barely touching, ghosting over his arms, down his sides, to rest on his hips, to breathe his breath and absorb him. He wanted to touch, to press his lips against Spike's neck and bleed the life from him, render him limp and drained and hollow, and then he wanted to give it all back, a thousand fold, breathe the life back into him so that Spike would be the one standing, supporting Vicious, because now Vicious would be the one limp and drained and hollow and grey and lifeless, what little life he had left entrusted to Spike, entrusted to this entity of man, so completely and absolutely and to know that it was a dangerous, stupid thing to do, and to do it anyway…

The cleanliness, the pristine quality of this elevator—Shin and Lin, their light talk and feigned naivety—it was all representative of the corruption, of submission to the organization. All the syndicate members in the lobby, going place to place, riding the escalators, eating in the cafeteria—they were a part of something that defined them, that held control over them—and here was Spike, who would never let that happen, unconsciously or consciously—

What has he become to you?

Vicious smiled back at Spike, let himself enjoy the joke, the humor, to let himself enjoy that moment when they were only looking at each other and everything else could just go fuck itself, who gave a fuck about the syndicate, who gave a fuck about what the higher powers thought, about what the higher powers could do—if they could get out of this thing, out of the bureaucracy, out of the entrenching temptations to power, if it were only the two of them…

"We're here." Shin announced, and the elevator doors opened.

A red carpet led to the center of the room, where six lacquer-wood chairs stood in two rows of three. Behind the chairs was a Red Dragons tapestry. Various ancient Chinese artifacts lined the walls—pottery, jade sculptures, calligraphy scrolls. The walls stretched above and culminated in a skylight that illuminated the six chairs in a decidedly gothic way.

The chairs were empty.

"The Elders would be here to witness your initiation into our Clan, but—" Lin gestured apologetically at the empty chairs.

"They're away on an important 'business trip' right now." Shin muttered. "Cryogenic rehab, you know. Anti-wrinkle cream just doesn't work the way it used to."

"Shin." Lin sounded appalled.

"Well, everybody knows anyway." Shin shook his head and eyed Spike and Vicious critically. "Besides, you guys are in."

"Wait, that's it?" Spike blinked. "We don't even get a ceremony? We don't have to kill anybody to prove anything?"

"Technically," Lin started, "you can forfeit your pre-contract and leave the syndicate."

"But that doesn't even have to be an option for you guys." Shin walked over to a cabinet and unlocked it, rummaging around inside. "The Elders aren't here today, but we're certified to carry this out. So, copper or zinc for you guys?"

Vicious turned to Spike, because they needed to consult and consolidate, and not about a decision over copper or zinc, but because they had a way out, because they could get out of this if they wanted to, because they could forfeit and buy out of the game.

If it were only the two of us…

Spike looked at Vicious, their eyes met in a desperate, clinging gaze, well, what the hell do we do now, what the hell are we going to do, are we thinking the same thing, are we on the same track…

And Spike's eyes said, I'm doing whatever you're doing.

Vicious exhaled sharply, felt his breath go down to his very toes, and thought about comfort, and closeness, and Spike, and what might or might not happen, and how he'd be happy either way, with just his friend, with this friend who would go anywhere and do anything with him and for and how maybe he'd know what happiness really was—localized, isolated happiness with one other person, close to a heart that'd beat for the both of them—

Spike's eyes flashed, confused, for a split second. Vicious knew that he'd given something away, some unheeded drop of emotion.

He couldn't afford that—that emotion, however small or subtle. Because if they left now—and if they weren't thinking the same thing, wanting the same thing—no, then they'd part their ways, and then where would he go? What would he do?

The Red Dragons would buy time. It would buy them a contract, infallible and indestructible, and it would buy them their future, predestined and cosmic and autocratic, but it would buy time, because Vicious didn't know what to do now, and he wanted a future, however trapped he might be, but he wanted a future, and he wanted acceptance from it.

He knew he was being hypocritical. Syndicate mentality required that you didn't crave acceptance, or conformity, that you could kill your fellow man without blinking an eye. But syndicate mentality redefined fellow man to only include members of the group, and syndicate mentality dictated that all members adhere to syndicate code—a brutal conformity—

"Copper." Vicious said, refusing to look at Spike. "Copper."

His voice rang out, eerily loud in the silence, echoing, reflecting off the black marble tiles, absorbed by the red carpet, cascading down the high walls and reaching through the ceiling, and that one word, copper, became part of that room, part of its ancient Chinese artifacts and lacquered chairs.

"Okay." Shin came back, holding a contract, a candle, a copper coin, a pair of tongs, and a pin. "This is just for records. We usually don't do this, because so many members want to join each day—we just send them through the computer. But you guys are special."

Vicious kept his eyes averted, scared, scared to fucking death, for illogical and unreasonable reasons, they couldn't even be called reasons. He was scared, but he kept his hands from shaking as he pricked his finger with the pin. He kept his hands from shaking as he squeezed his finger to milk out the blood. He pressed his finger down on the contract paper.

Spike did the same. Vicious looked at their bloody fingerprints, next to each other, nestled like good friends.

"Sear it on this." Shin pushed the heated coin in their direction with the tongs.

Spike went first, and Vicious saw his hand jerk from the pain.

Shin turned over the coin, and Vicious pressed his finger against the coin. He held his arm still, refusing to acknowledge the pain.

This was how it began. An informal, rather hurried, and thoroughly modest, mundane induction into the Red Dragons, sealed on a piece of contract paper and on two sides of a copper coin. It seemed ironic that greater things might be able to come from this. This seemed a pathetic pact, something one would make in the backyard shed of a suburban household on a hot summer day, ten years old, with a best friend.

"We'll keep this." Lin said, and took the coin. "For symbolic reasons."

"Symbolic my ass." Spike cursed. "My fucking finger."

"Stop whining." Vicious somehow managed to say. "You've been through worse."

--

End Part 1

--

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing! xD This has reached over 100 reviews, which is amazing in itself. I started this out, planning for it to be an episodic type of fic that accounted some day-to-day adventures in the lives of pre-Julia Spike and Vicious. My hopes for it then escalated into some kind of pompous epic that would account the entire history of the Red Dragons… and then it dimmed down into a more modest type of epic starring everybody's favorite brooding gangster, Vicious.

I end Part 1 here because it seems fitting (I apologize for making it such a short chapter) that it would end with their induction into the Chinese Red Dragons…

I have high hopes for this fic (I haven't even gotten to why it's called "Symphony Hall" yet… of course it has to go on). I've got manymany pages of notes and plans written out—all that remains is for it all to be implemented. xO And for all the readers that have been following this for a while, you all know how long it takes me to churn out a chapter, no matter how big or small. Oo

Thanks again for reading, and I hope you will stay tuned for Part 2 (which will still be under the title "Symphony Hall") Until then, readers, thank you so much for all your support and love. x)

--

"So I hear you got the assignment."

Vicious looked up from his desk. "I did."

"You leave tomorrow." Spike placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward.

Vicious put away his case debrief and sighed impatiently. "I am."

"Great."

Spike sat down and crossed his arms, looking to all the world like a petulant kid. Vicious didn't know what to do. It was obvious that Spike knew enough about the assignment to come into his office and start demanding things.

"Three days."

"That's correct."

"In a fucking war zone."

"To you."

Spike's hands clenched. Vicious felt a pang of satisfaction, ill-earned but well-deserved.

"Then you don't think very highly of my abilities." Spike said airily.

"I do." Vicious said.

"Not enough, apparently. You picked Lin to go with you."

Vicious shrugged. "Get over it."

"Lin is a fucking clerk, my friend. How the hell is he going to keep tabs on you?"