Indigo Blues
by Trisha L. Sebastian


Summary: What does it take to keep your cool?

Disclaimer: Right.  I've seen "Bebop" only up until "Waltz for Venus" so I
have no idea what really went on in Spike's past.  I'm kinda floating it as
I go along, folks.  [BTW, "Cowboy Bebop" and its characters are copyrighted
to Sunrise and I ain't getting any money from this fanfic.]  I tried to
remember the dialogue in question exactly, even went to the 'net to try and
find episode guides, but I didn't see any on the Turnpike, so, what you're
getting is at best a hodge-podge of dialogue.  I actually wrote this while
listening to the original soundtrack CD, too, BION.

This is dedicated to Indigo, to whom I will remind that when you're feeling
down, nothing beats watching Spike fight the bad guys, 'cause he's a bad
ass, doncha know?  Happy belated birthday, luv!




Calm.  Centered.  Cool.

He strikes out in the air, motion countered by a shift in body position and
he brought the rigid hand down and around, flattening his enemy in one
strike.  Two quick jabs in the stomach follow, and a leg sweep.  Another
comes up from behind him, and he whirls around on the balls of his feet, one
leg outstretched to trip, while the other becomes a fulcrum, focusing
shifting the energy up and out as he sprung upwards, a fist right in the
solar plexus.

Focus.

Sweat trickles down his forehead, a sweaty lock of hair plastered to his
cheek.  The blackness is all around him, punctuated by the heavy breathing
of another foe rushing at him.  A feint becomes a strike, a strike becomes a
blow.  He feels it almost before he heard it, a sound off to his left.  He
knows what it will be before he turns.

Not the gun.  Not yet.

He fights back against the darkness, his fists flashing in the dim light.  
A cigarette floats a room away in half-gravity, and he's tempted to reach 
for it instead of continuing the fight, but the next opponent is on him, 
slicing out with a knife.  He can deal with a knife.

Not the gun.

He reaches out and twists his wrist, pressing into the spot between the
attacker's wrist bones and squeezes.  He feels a howl of pain as he pulls
the opponent towards him, following up with several quick body blows and
a kick, high to the face.  He whips around, cheeks flushed and hair sweaty,
ready to deal with the other man who's come upon him and he freezes.

<click>

Not the---

Roll, dive, hear the bullets spray into his skin.  An high pitched cry in
the darkness.  A crash, a voice, a woman bending over him, tending to his
wounds.  She goes, he goes, the voice disappears and the only thing left is
the fall.

He falls into the glittering rose-gold colored glass, splinters making their
way into his face and ears.  His body turns, and he sees his life and he
sighs.  Roses on the sidewalk, roses cutting into his skin.  The thorns, the
thorns, how they hurt.

He doesn't get to scream before he's back in the darkness again.  So many
faces, so many dead.  He sees them all, hears their cries.  So many dead.
And there isn't enough time to say a word before he lands.

This is going to hurt.

"Hey, Spike.  Dinner's on."

He stops and turns.  "What're we having tonight?"

"Beef with bell peppers."

"Sounds good."

He leaves the darkness of his past behind him, leaves the cool of the
observation deck.  At his back, the stars twinkle their goodbyes as he steps
through the archway.

Center.  Focus.

Calm.





-FIN-