The Last Duet
A/N: I do not own Cowboy Bebop. I obviously couldn't think of something that brilliant. If I could, I'd be a millionaire, and, to the great fortune of all, I am not. Thank God for my lack (but thankfully, not utter lack) of sheer brilliance. Oh, and I don't own a piece called "the Raven" either. It was written by a great poet named Edgar Poe.
The rain fell in a rhythmic pattern against the pavement, a solid beat to the city streets. Spike looked out from beneath yet another shadowy alley into the next one. He was here. Somewhere around here. Spike could sense his presence in the area. It was a talent he'd acquired back when they were kids, when they were just a couple of teenage boys with nothing better to do then ponder the mysteries of the universe. How long ago had it been? How could it get to be this way?
"God," Spike thought to himself, "I'm twenty-seven years old. It's been eleven years. My God, was I once sixteen? Has time really passed that slowly?"
It was a lament, the unending song of the rain; the song of a funeral chant. One of them would die tonight. Spike couldn't help but smile to himself. He'd been waiting for so very long to see him again, to face him in a final battle, and now it seemed he didn't want it to come. The human spirit can be so hypocritical.
Midnight was coming on quickly. Spike felt a small sharp pulse of fear shoot through him. They were running out of time.
"Come out," he whispered under his breath. "I'm ready for you. I'm ready. Come on out . . . you coward."
He wouldn't have to wait for long. For someone else was waiting for him. Waiting under the cover of the shadows. Waiting for the kill.
"That's it," a voice trailed out across the wind from a dark figure. "Right there. And then it will be all over, my friend. It will all be finished. . . now."
And for one second, Spike knew that the time had come. Unfortunately, it was one second too late.
Without a sound, the dark figure leaped off the top of the building, with the grace of a bird. His movements were sharp and disciplined. His white hair in shown in the dim light, contrasting to the seamless night. In the retreating starlight, one could just make out the glint of the katana that had taken so many lives before. He was the white darkness; Vicious Reddragon.
At the very last millisecond, Spike turned his head back, just in time to see the dark figure swoop past him, katana aloft, just inches from the back of his skull. Obviously, he had not expected for him to turn so abruptly. Judging from the angle, he had been planning to take off his head with one full turn. But that didn't work quite as expected. Spike never felt the blade enter the skin on his neck; it was that precise. It was only when it was jerked away with dangerous, instinctual velocity that he felt the bite of pain rip through him. As if in slow motion, he saw the body of his enemy twisting slightly off-kilter in the air, still on the full turn. He never even felt himself lift his gun up and pull the trigger. And suddenly, to as much of Spike's surprise as anybody's, a shot broke the utter silence of the scene and shattered the night air. Through a haze of confusion and deliriousness, he watched his rival writhing in mid-air, as if in his own private hell. With the grace of a ballet, he watched him land, slightly splay-footed, on the wet, drenching pavement, one foot sliding several inches forward, then bringing himself back up to his normal standing position, showing the full seriousness of his height. Two glittering, silver eyes stared back into Spike's dual- colored ones, full of anguish. For just a moment, Spike wasn't sure if he'd been hit or not. Then two words floated over the sound of the rain, and they spoke volumes.
"Thank you. . . "
For almost thirty seconds, they stood face to face, eye to eye, neither one of them blinking, just staring each other down. It was a strange sort of moment. The dragon's eyes glittered behind the pale skin of his face, the two points of light burning holes through the air. Then, without a warning, his legs gave out from under him, falling into the cold, dark water, his drenching white hair falling gracefully over his face. A large puddle of red water flooded out, stained from his heaving breast, the fresh blood rolling over his black silk clothes, deepening the hue.
"Oh my God," Spike suddenly realized in his mind. "I shot him. . . I . . . I actually shot him."
In an instant, he was running, running toward the one he had once considered his archenemy, and before that, his best friend. Who was Vicious Reddragon? It didn't matter to Spike now. He didn't think. He just knelt by the side of a man he had just shot.
For a moment, they stared, agape, into the other's face, unable to speak. And without warning, Vicious sighed and spoke again.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. . . my friend."
"Yes," Spike assured him, trying to convince himself. "Yes. . . of course."
There was silence, a lapse in reality. The sound of the rain gave a perfect background to the scene, where two friends, two enemies, and now, just two men, accepted the inevitable.
"Why'd you do it, man?" Spike found himself asking a question he'd kept deep in his heart. "Just tell me why. Why'd you have to do that to her? Why her?"
Vicious shook his head, as if saying no.
"Spike, Spike, Spike. . . how can you be so naïve? You just don't get it. You don't know why I killed her, do you?"
"What?" Spike couldn't believe his ears. "What are you saying?"
"You think I killed her to hurt you, don't you? Well, I hate to tell you, but you're wrong. You don't understand that that was the first of two acts of charity I've ever preformed."
"Charity?" he spat. "YOU CALL MURDER CHARITY?"
"Can't you see? Can't you see I put her out of her misery?"
There was another slight pause. Spike didn't speak. His head was reeling. How could this be happening? How did it get to be like this? It was just like a sci-fi movie. How could two former best friends end up like this?
"What was the second one?" he asked wistfully, looking out into the distance.
With a small smile, Vicious pointed at Spike's own throat. For one split second, he forgot that he, too, had been wounded, and ran his hand up next to his neck, and then felt the warm, liquid feeling of blood running down his face. It was utter horror, it was the worst nightmare. He stared at his blood-soaked fingers, the red liquid splashing over, seeping down into his sleeves.
"What happened?" he asked in a voice racked with misery and fear. "Good God, man, what happened?"
"You don't understand. . . it's not for any of us to understand. It certainly isn't her fault."
"But. . . God. . . how did it ever get like this?" he asked again. "I mean, God, once there was . . . aww, man, I don't know."
"The real question is: Why do we still ask these same, useless questions, which we will never be able to answer, because we will not accept the truth?"
The raindrops fell like tears of silver, cried for so many anonymous lost ones, for so many tragic plays that would echo through eternity, for so many love stories that ended so far from "happily ever after," and for so many unsung injustices that would go unknown for the rest of time. They fell on the two dying ones below that endless sky as they tried to find some last retribution that simply couldn't be found in the words of any language.
"And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor," Vicious spoke in an imperious voice, "And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted . . ."
"Nevermore." Spike finished for him. "That's from 'The Raven.'"
"Absolutely. And when will your soul be lifted, my fair-weather friend?"
Silence. . .
"You will remember, won't you?" Vicious gazed dazedly into his eyes. "Remember. . . you will die."
"Remember, you will die," Spike repeated.
"That's right. . .Remember, you will. . . remember. . . remember, you will. . ."
The white darkness stilled. His bosom heaved no more. His voice spoke no more. His eyes saw no more. Vicious Reddragon was no more.
"Remember . . . you will live." Spike pushed his eyelids over the shining silver eyes. He realized now what he had meant. For when he looked down at the black-clad figure, drenched with water and blood, lying, outstretched and motionless on the cold, unfeeling pavement, he found that he could not hate. No matter how he tried, there was no hate. All he could feel was forgiveness, and in a strange sort of sense, a feeling as if he knew what life was not a waste. That it had all been for something greater than himself, for some other authority to judge by. That somehow this life was something more than just futility.
As if coming out of a trance, he suddenly realized himself. He tried to get to his feet, but found that his legs didn't want to support him. And in that one moment, Spike knew deep down inside that he wouldn't leave this place alive. He tried again, but the strength just wasn't there. His legs just slipped right out from under him.
He suddenly noticed a warm splash roll over his hand. Dazedly, he looked down. The blood had seeped all the way down his shirt down through his sleeve, and now it was running out the bottom of his shirtsleeve. For one moment, it almost looked beautiful; the sight of the red washing slowly over the sleek, green cloth.
Suddenly, for just a second, his arms gave way, slipping on the wet ground, his elbows slapping against the cold, dark pavement. He swore, but he knew it was useless, because he simply couldn't pull himself back up again. The chill rinsed into his clothes, all around his body, as if the water could flow right through him. Water; they used to say he moved just like water. Now he didn't move like water at all; just laid there a wounded animal trying futilely to escape the inevitable. There was a sudden shock of sound. His wallet had splashed out of his pocket. It fell open to a photo tucked inside one of the pockets, which swam out into his view. A wallet sized photo of Julia, sitting at a windowsill at their old house, her natural wistful look in her eyes, her mouth pulled into a small, feminine-looking sort of half smile, her face relaxed and natural. Slowly, the fragile piece of paper began to float away, going with the current as it whirled down the drain.
"Come back," he cried out meekly, trying to snatch it back, but being out of reach. "Hey, come back."
Drifting further and further away . . .
"Yeah, that's right," he muttered dazedly. "Just go and run away like before. There it is for you."
He watched the photo disintegrate into a bunch of white paper, floating on the surface of the stream. It was drifting gradually toward the street drain, down into the darkness of the sewers.
"Where we all end up."
Spike was beginning to feel tired. Too tired.
"Can't fall asleep," he thought to himself. "I can't."
And as he became drowsier, he started to sing a little song to himself as he watched that one drop of whiteness flow away.
"Row, row, row hmm hmm, la la la la la, merrily, merrily, hmm-hmm- hmm, hmm-hmm-hmm, life is but a. . ."
Suddenly, his eyes closed shut. He was still conscious, but somehow, he couldn't open his eyes. There was nothing more to see, nothing more to be, nothing more to give, and nothing left to die for. He had done what he needed to do, and now he deserved a rest. As it grew darker behind those closed eyes, he knew that the time had come.
Then there was just the tiny, hardly- detectable sound of one mechanical eye, winding down as it lost its purpose.
The rain continued. But it was no longer the silver rain that streamed across the ground. It was blood-colored rain. It flowed from Vicious' body and Spike's body, and somewhere in between them, the stream became one, flowing down the drain. Caught between a soda can and metal piece of grating, a tattered photo lay caught, riding against the stream. The red water ran over it, the inks blurring, the image of a young woman becoming more and more abstract. But it didn't move. It simply sat there, stuck, as if neither time nor space could erase it.
In the street, a single red rose bobbed in the sway, its petals become dark in the purifying waters. And no matter how long you watched, it didn't look like it would ever die, as long as time would go on. . .
THE END
A/N: I do not own Cowboy Bebop. I obviously couldn't think of something that brilliant. If I could, I'd be a millionaire, and, to the great fortune of all, I am not. Thank God for my lack (but thankfully, not utter lack) of sheer brilliance. Oh, and I don't own a piece called "the Raven" either. It was written by a great poet named Edgar Poe.
The rain fell in a rhythmic pattern against the pavement, a solid beat to the city streets. Spike looked out from beneath yet another shadowy alley into the next one. He was here. Somewhere around here. Spike could sense his presence in the area. It was a talent he'd acquired back when they were kids, when they were just a couple of teenage boys with nothing better to do then ponder the mysteries of the universe. How long ago had it been? How could it get to be this way?
"God," Spike thought to himself, "I'm twenty-seven years old. It's been eleven years. My God, was I once sixteen? Has time really passed that slowly?"
It was a lament, the unending song of the rain; the song of a funeral chant. One of them would die tonight. Spike couldn't help but smile to himself. He'd been waiting for so very long to see him again, to face him in a final battle, and now it seemed he didn't want it to come. The human spirit can be so hypocritical.
Midnight was coming on quickly. Spike felt a small sharp pulse of fear shoot through him. They were running out of time.
"Come out," he whispered under his breath. "I'm ready for you. I'm ready. Come on out . . . you coward."
He wouldn't have to wait for long. For someone else was waiting for him. Waiting under the cover of the shadows. Waiting for the kill.
"That's it," a voice trailed out across the wind from a dark figure. "Right there. And then it will be all over, my friend. It will all be finished. . . now."
And for one second, Spike knew that the time had come. Unfortunately, it was one second too late.
Without a sound, the dark figure leaped off the top of the building, with the grace of a bird. His movements were sharp and disciplined. His white hair in shown in the dim light, contrasting to the seamless night. In the retreating starlight, one could just make out the glint of the katana that had taken so many lives before. He was the white darkness; Vicious Reddragon.
At the very last millisecond, Spike turned his head back, just in time to see the dark figure swoop past him, katana aloft, just inches from the back of his skull. Obviously, he had not expected for him to turn so abruptly. Judging from the angle, he had been planning to take off his head with one full turn. But that didn't work quite as expected. Spike never felt the blade enter the skin on his neck; it was that precise. It was only when it was jerked away with dangerous, instinctual velocity that he felt the bite of pain rip through him. As if in slow motion, he saw the body of his enemy twisting slightly off-kilter in the air, still on the full turn. He never even felt himself lift his gun up and pull the trigger. And suddenly, to as much of Spike's surprise as anybody's, a shot broke the utter silence of the scene and shattered the night air. Through a haze of confusion and deliriousness, he watched his rival writhing in mid-air, as if in his own private hell. With the grace of a ballet, he watched him land, slightly splay-footed, on the wet, drenching pavement, one foot sliding several inches forward, then bringing himself back up to his normal standing position, showing the full seriousness of his height. Two glittering, silver eyes stared back into Spike's dual- colored ones, full of anguish. For just a moment, Spike wasn't sure if he'd been hit or not. Then two words floated over the sound of the rain, and they spoke volumes.
"Thank you. . . "
For almost thirty seconds, they stood face to face, eye to eye, neither one of them blinking, just staring each other down. It was a strange sort of moment. The dragon's eyes glittered behind the pale skin of his face, the two points of light burning holes through the air. Then, without a warning, his legs gave out from under him, falling into the cold, dark water, his drenching white hair falling gracefully over his face. A large puddle of red water flooded out, stained from his heaving breast, the fresh blood rolling over his black silk clothes, deepening the hue.
"Oh my God," Spike suddenly realized in his mind. "I shot him. . . I . . . I actually shot him."
In an instant, he was running, running toward the one he had once considered his archenemy, and before that, his best friend. Who was Vicious Reddragon? It didn't matter to Spike now. He didn't think. He just knelt by the side of a man he had just shot.
For a moment, they stared, agape, into the other's face, unable to speak. And without warning, Vicious sighed and spoke again.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. . . my friend."
"Yes," Spike assured him, trying to convince himself. "Yes. . . of course."
There was silence, a lapse in reality. The sound of the rain gave a perfect background to the scene, where two friends, two enemies, and now, just two men, accepted the inevitable.
"Why'd you do it, man?" Spike found himself asking a question he'd kept deep in his heart. "Just tell me why. Why'd you have to do that to her? Why her?"
Vicious shook his head, as if saying no.
"Spike, Spike, Spike. . . how can you be so naïve? You just don't get it. You don't know why I killed her, do you?"
"What?" Spike couldn't believe his ears. "What are you saying?"
"You think I killed her to hurt you, don't you? Well, I hate to tell you, but you're wrong. You don't understand that that was the first of two acts of charity I've ever preformed."
"Charity?" he spat. "YOU CALL MURDER CHARITY?"
"Can't you see? Can't you see I put her out of her misery?"
There was another slight pause. Spike didn't speak. His head was reeling. How could this be happening? How did it get to be like this? It was just like a sci-fi movie. How could two former best friends end up like this?
"What was the second one?" he asked wistfully, looking out into the distance.
With a small smile, Vicious pointed at Spike's own throat. For one split second, he forgot that he, too, had been wounded, and ran his hand up next to his neck, and then felt the warm, liquid feeling of blood running down his face. It was utter horror, it was the worst nightmare. He stared at his blood-soaked fingers, the red liquid splashing over, seeping down into his sleeves.
"What happened?" he asked in a voice racked with misery and fear. "Good God, man, what happened?"
"You don't understand. . . it's not for any of us to understand. It certainly isn't her fault."
"But. . . God. . . how did it ever get like this?" he asked again. "I mean, God, once there was . . . aww, man, I don't know."
"The real question is: Why do we still ask these same, useless questions, which we will never be able to answer, because we will not accept the truth?"
The raindrops fell like tears of silver, cried for so many anonymous lost ones, for so many tragic plays that would echo through eternity, for so many love stories that ended so far from "happily ever after," and for so many unsung injustices that would go unknown for the rest of time. They fell on the two dying ones below that endless sky as they tried to find some last retribution that simply couldn't be found in the words of any language.
"And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor," Vicious spoke in an imperious voice, "And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted . . ."
"Nevermore." Spike finished for him. "That's from 'The Raven.'"
"Absolutely. And when will your soul be lifted, my fair-weather friend?"
Silence. . .
"You will remember, won't you?" Vicious gazed dazedly into his eyes. "Remember. . . you will die."
"Remember, you will die," Spike repeated.
"That's right. . .Remember, you will. . . remember. . . remember, you will. . ."
The white darkness stilled. His bosom heaved no more. His voice spoke no more. His eyes saw no more. Vicious Reddragon was no more.
"Remember . . . you will live." Spike pushed his eyelids over the shining silver eyes. He realized now what he had meant. For when he looked down at the black-clad figure, drenched with water and blood, lying, outstretched and motionless on the cold, unfeeling pavement, he found that he could not hate. No matter how he tried, there was no hate. All he could feel was forgiveness, and in a strange sort of sense, a feeling as if he knew what life was not a waste. That it had all been for something greater than himself, for some other authority to judge by. That somehow this life was something more than just futility.
As if coming out of a trance, he suddenly realized himself. He tried to get to his feet, but found that his legs didn't want to support him. And in that one moment, Spike knew deep down inside that he wouldn't leave this place alive. He tried again, but the strength just wasn't there. His legs just slipped right out from under him.
He suddenly noticed a warm splash roll over his hand. Dazedly, he looked down. The blood had seeped all the way down his shirt down through his sleeve, and now it was running out the bottom of his shirtsleeve. For one moment, it almost looked beautiful; the sight of the red washing slowly over the sleek, green cloth.
Suddenly, for just a second, his arms gave way, slipping on the wet ground, his elbows slapping against the cold, dark pavement. He swore, but he knew it was useless, because he simply couldn't pull himself back up again. The chill rinsed into his clothes, all around his body, as if the water could flow right through him. Water; they used to say he moved just like water. Now he didn't move like water at all; just laid there a wounded animal trying futilely to escape the inevitable. There was a sudden shock of sound. His wallet had splashed out of his pocket. It fell open to a photo tucked inside one of the pockets, which swam out into his view. A wallet sized photo of Julia, sitting at a windowsill at their old house, her natural wistful look in her eyes, her mouth pulled into a small, feminine-looking sort of half smile, her face relaxed and natural. Slowly, the fragile piece of paper began to float away, going with the current as it whirled down the drain.
"Come back," he cried out meekly, trying to snatch it back, but being out of reach. "Hey, come back."
Drifting further and further away . . .
"Yeah, that's right," he muttered dazedly. "Just go and run away like before. There it is for you."
He watched the photo disintegrate into a bunch of white paper, floating on the surface of the stream. It was drifting gradually toward the street drain, down into the darkness of the sewers.
"Where we all end up."
Spike was beginning to feel tired. Too tired.
"Can't fall asleep," he thought to himself. "I can't."
And as he became drowsier, he started to sing a little song to himself as he watched that one drop of whiteness flow away.
"Row, row, row hmm hmm, la la la la la, merrily, merrily, hmm-hmm- hmm, hmm-hmm-hmm, life is but a. . ."
Suddenly, his eyes closed shut. He was still conscious, but somehow, he couldn't open his eyes. There was nothing more to see, nothing more to be, nothing more to give, and nothing left to die for. He had done what he needed to do, and now he deserved a rest. As it grew darker behind those closed eyes, he knew that the time had come.
Then there was just the tiny, hardly- detectable sound of one mechanical eye, winding down as it lost its purpose.
The rain continued. But it was no longer the silver rain that streamed across the ground. It was blood-colored rain. It flowed from Vicious' body and Spike's body, and somewhere in between them, the stream became one, flowing down the drain. Caught between a soda can and metal piece of grating, a tattered photo lay caught, riding against the stream. The red water ran over it, the inks blurring, the image of a young woman becoming more and more abstract. But it didn't move. It simply sat there, stuck, as if neither time nor space could erase it.
In the street, a single red rose bobbed in the sway, its petals become dark in the purifying waters. And no matter how long you watched, it didn't look like it would ever die, as long as time would go on. . .
THE END