"Hand Grenade" A/N: Originally, this was to be one of a series of short stories exploring the crew's past, but time demands and a sudden case of writer's block forced me to convert this to a stand-alone. Bah.

In this story, Spike is 20 years old.

Disclaimer: I'd sooner drink Drano than accept responsibility for keeping the Bebop's pack of nutters under lock and key. Therefore, I do not own Cowboy Bebop or any of its characters, and I never will.

Hand Grenade, or How I Lost My Eye

Mars, Dome 182.33, October 13, 2064

"Goddammit, Spike's gone again."

Gone. Right. Gone out of my head, just gone right the fuck out of it. My feet drag over the cracked and pitted pavement. Vicious' hand grips my arm hard enough to leave bruises.

"Dragging this asshole home is getting real tired," he says.

"Just give him some time." Julia. Her hair reflects neon, streaking its gold strands green and violet. "He'll come out of it."

"That's what you said the last time." Vicious grunts and elbows me in the ribs as he repositions me. I make a weak effort to walk. The world is spinning and melting, shards of it leaping up and down at me, and when I look at Julia's hair again the colors swirl and jag.

She takes my other arm and puts it around her neck. Her frail shoulders beneath my upper arm, her hair warm like sunlight. My hand dangles over her chest, but even stoned as I am, I know better than to take advantage of the opportunity. I stop trying to walk and give in, breathe her scent. Leather and peaches. She's in blue jeans and a tank top tonight, but she still has her leather coat on.

Started normally enough. Some random shopkeepers didn't pay their protection money. We were sent. Old farts, one woman, one man, a bitchy Doberman straining at its chain. I can't get over the Doberman. It snapped at Vicious and he just cut its head off. Swish! One second a black dog lunging open-mouthed; the next, a detached mandible on the floor, white teeth stained with red, blood spraying. The mutt couldn't even whimper in pain with its tongue detached; its dying breaths were short huff-huff-huffs I could hear over the gunfire as we took out its owners. I heard those breaths even after the bastard finally died.

So yeah. I scored a pinballQ hypospray and put it in my arm. Well, that was after more alcohol than I care to remember or think about just now, what with the world going all Dali on me and all.

So I guess it's ending normally enough too.

"He's gonna have to learn to hack it someday," Vicious says, annoyed. "I'm not going to put up with this shit much longer."

"What do you plan to do about it? Report him to Mao? Mao knows all about it," Julia says. Her voice is clipped with the strain of carrying my weight. "Told me once that Spike'll be the worst of all of us once he loses his mind."

"Well, he sure is taking the scenic route," Vicious grouses. "There's his place. Finally."

They put me on the stoop. I try to thank them, but my tongue won't work, like every other muscle in my body.

Julia's cell phone rings then and she backs off to answer it. The pinballQ jacks my senses and then slams them down: I hear her end of the conversation as though through water.

She closes the phone. "We got a job tomorrow," she says.

"Looks like we can count him out." Vicious hooks a thumb at me.

"You know it doesn't work like that, Vicious." Julia's voice is gentle, and she steps up to him, puts her hand on his arm. "He has to go, just like us."

"He'll just get killed." Vicious kneels and looks into my eyes. "Spike. Are you going to make it, Spike?"

Vicious. Best friend Vicious. He tries to get some sign of life out of me, but his face suddenly begins to vibrate like a shaky vid still. I let my eyes roll back.

He stands up with a short, frustrated sigh and tucks his hair behind his ears, his motions sharp. "Goddammit, Spike, you've got to stop this," he says. His voice is pleading. "Not only am I tired of dragging your ass home—which I am, in spades—but this is going to get you killed. Do you want to die, Spike?"

Interesting question. I wish I knew the answer.

Vicious groans. "Let's get him into bed. Maybe he'll be worth something tomorrow if he passes out now."

X

Some mornings you wake up and it's like someone snuck in during the night and swapped everything you were or ever would be with a pile of shit. That's me. Shit Pile of the Century.

I stumble into the bathroom. The circles under my eyes are large enough for a prayer meeting. I fall into the shower, bang my head against the ceramic wall. Turn the cold water on by semi-accident; it freezes me, sharpens me a little. But goddammit. I'm still all fucked up from the night before.

My body's like a hand grenade, going tick-tick-tick. Ready to blow at any time. I know I'm driving myself into the ground. I even sort of know why I'm doing it. I rinse the shampoo from my hair and turn the water off.

I remember enough of the night to know I've got a job today, even without the message on my answering machine. I don't feel like it. A whole universe of don't-fucking-feel-like-it. But I don't know what'll happen if I don't show, whereas I do know what'll happen if I do, and since I'm not a big fan of surprises, I somehow get myself tricked out.

Even in clothes, Jericho in its shoulder holster, a string of secondary weapons around my hips and thighs, I still look like the Shit Pile of the Century. Nice. Just the thing that'll woo Julia away from Vicious' voodoo and put her in my power. I rake my hands through my hair, just to give myself that final homeless-bum touch.

"Relax," I tell my reflection. "Maybe someone'll get a lucky shot."

My reflection just looks sick and miserable. I flip it the bird before I grab my trench coat and leave the apartment.

X

The Syndicate owns this pool hall. Every person in it is involved with the Red Dragons in some way; those who aren't are either escorted out politely or ejected by brute force.

I find Julia and Vicious at a table, guns concealed by coats like mine. As I drift over, I try to hold it together. It's my own damn fault I hurt so bad, after all, and they rely on me to watch their backs. My death doesn't seem like such a bad idea, but theirs—that doesn't work.

It's a neat rationalization for doing my job. Kill innocent people to keep the friendship going. Let the good times roll.

"Yo," I say.

They both look up. "How are you doing?" Julia reaches into an inner pocket of her trench. Black leather, of course. Nothing as pedestrian as plain tan polyester for Julia. "You want a cigarette?"

"Fine and yeah," I say, bending to accept her light. "So what's shaking?"

Vicious smiles. "It's good news. The Jimang. They're trying to take over the East End again."

That is good news. No old farts or bitchy Dobermans today, just people like us. People who deserve to bite it and expect to bite it going in. I won't have to think about whether the guy I just killed really liked his morning orange juice or had a girlfriend who'll cry over him. Yay. I smile around the cigarette. "Where's it going down?"

Vicious shrugs. "No particular place. We'll patrol the East End and engage them where we find them."

Julia fiddles with the black goggles that hold her hair out of her face. "But we should score some gear first," she says.

She means Red Eye. Now that I think about it, a dose would seriously cut the misery of this multiple-substance hangover. "You seen Deve? He's always holding."

"Yeah." Vicious points. "He's right over there. Go rifle him. Here's my share." He hands over a handful of woolongs. Julia does, too. Why am I always the appointed drug monkey? I guess it's because I've got so much experience scoring for myself. Well, whatever. My nerves jump at the idea of a stimulant, something to speed up this slowed-down world I slog through.

Deve's an easy touch and the deal goes down smoothly. Woolongs get exchanged for three vials in one quick handshake. I check my pocket to make sure I have a pair of sunglasses before informing the others of the score.

It's too early to take it now; the effects would wear off before we even reach the East End. I'll have to wait until the Jimang show up. Then I'll feel better. I hope to God, anyway.

X

On the way there I sit in the backseat with the window down. In the passenger side mirror, I look almost human as long as I keep the sunglasses on. The cool air blows some of the cobwebs out of my brain.

Julia and Vicious talk about the upcoming fight in monosyllables. She has a little smile on her lips. Her hair ripples across her face and she pushes it back absent-mindedly. She does this at least twenty times and never notices.

Vicious' face is completely expressionless. I can't say he actually likes fighting so much as he dislikes not fighting. Both he and Julia share a common belief that in firefights, they are truly alive. They must get some kind of jazz off it that I just don't.

My reflection sneers at me. Okay, I admit to it, that's a lie. I love the adrenaline surge, the sudden sharpening of all my senses, the speed and skill that are mine alone. But. Ninety percent of the time all that's being used on poor schmucks just trying to get through their day, and it kills me—it fucking guts me—when I come down off the battle high and realize I enjoyed murdering them.

Just doing my job I can take. But getting off on it? No.

I talk about this sometimes with Julia and Vicious, but it never penetrates. They don't understand. To them, the world is very simple: there are people holding guns and there are people eating bullets. The goal of life is to always be one, never the other.

Maybe the reason I'm so fucked up is I'm getting tired of holding guns. In their world, I guess the only alternative is eating bullets. But there has to be more to life than that. Right?

X

We sight the Jimang hanging out in an old warehouse. The warehouse is on the very edge of the East End territory, but it's still our territory, goddammit, so they're fair game.

Vicious coasts the car to a stop a block away. I open the door and bang it on a fire hydrant. I grin. Vicious doesn't give a flying fuck about the little things. Fire hydrants, traffic tickets, hamburgers, smelly boxers... The guy never even watched a porn movie until I basically held him down and forced him to.

I slip out of the car through the narrow gap between the door and the hydrant. The vials of Red Eye chime against one another in my coat pocket. Now now now now now, my nerves chant. I don't show my jitters. Instead, I light a cigarette.

Julia plays with her goggles again, still grinning. "Hint, hint," she says, tapping one black pane with her finger.

"All right," Vicious says. He takes his sunglasses out of his pocket and opens them with a flick of his wrist. "Alley."

The Red Eye sprits into my eyes. Immediate rush. Bang! To the brain. The world takes on a slo-mo, red-tinged jumpiness. The first time I took this shit, I immediately hurled my guts out. It's funny the things you can get used to.

Julia shudders as the drug takes hold of her. Her lips curve in a sensuous smile, one I hardly ever see. Vicious must see it all the time. That bastard.

He puts his glasses on to hide his bloodstained eyes. "Let's do this," he says, his voice taut with anticipation.

X

The warehouse's windows are boarded up. Its dark interior is shot with bolts of light leaking through the cracks between the planks. Good conditions. Jacked up as we are on Red Eye, light and dark makes no difference. The Jimang, on the other hand, are screwed.

They open fire the minute we walk in. We do it like cowboys. I kick the doors open and Vicious goes in first, peeling off to the right. Julia takes the left, pistol in each hand. I stay dead center. Fuck it, I think. I use the automatic first, spraying the inside of the warehouse with bullets. I hear grunts and groans as some connect.

In silhouette, I make a beautiful fucking target, but the losers on the other side apparently couldn't hit water if they fell out of a boat.

Fine, then. Guess I'll take this seriously. I dive, roll, come up behind a pile of boxes. Peek over the top and let loose some hell. The mini-tom I'm packing pulls smooth as butter, no threat of jamming. The barrel grows hot enough to burn. I wrap my hand around it, feel the metal sear my palm. It peaks the Red Eye high, fills me with crazy energy. I could dodge bullets now if I needed to.

I scramble to another pile of boxes, advancing to the back of the warehouse. There are other rooms that need to be cleared. Someone in the distance shrieks in pain. A body falls with a thud. The air thickens with the smell of gunsmoke and grease.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Life and death all in a nugget. I shove the empty mini-tom back in its holster and pull the Jericho. I'm grinning like a lunatic. Self-destructive urge aside, I love this shit.

Julia cries out in the darkness, a valkyrie's scream. Beautiful golden goddess. She'll never go down. A bullet-riddled death would be too simple for the likes of her. My heart's pounding, blood racketing all over my body, and for a second my overloaded brain has no idea what it wants to do: fight, fuck, flee, fall. I twitch, and the moment passes.

I crawl over a corpse, sticky blood on my palms. I smell its meat and swallow against a sudden surge of nausea.

The back. There's a door to the office. I kick it in and whip through it fast, staying low.

There's only one guy in here. He stands behind the desk, holding a gun. My staticky vision jumps and blurs but one thing is clear: he's holding a gun, and its business end is pressed against a little girl's head.

I stand.

"You think you can hide behind a toddler? Lame."

The kid sniffles. She's a ragamuffin: it's obvious from her ill-fitting, filthy clothes and dreaded hair. This guy must have plucked her out of the street as a last resort when we burst in.

"Lame or not, you have a decision to make," he says. He's older, bristly white hair and little white goatee. His voice is smooth and cultured. God only knows what his story is, but I don't much give a fuck. "You've taken out my men. We're crippled. So why don't you just call it a day? If you don't, you know what will happen."

I train my gun on him. "Sorry, no deal."

"All right." The man lifts his shoulders infinitesimally. "It's on your head."

He fires.

In my Red Eye frenzy I see what happens next in slow motion, with aching clarity. The girl's body jerks. Her head tips. Her eye bulges from its socket, the cheekbone distorts as the bullet passes through. Then it explodes out the other side, trailing brain and blood and bits of bone. She crumples, falls. Continues falling. Hits the desk.

Blood puddles on the desk, pours to the floor. It sounds like rain. The human heart continues to beat even after the higher functions have stopped. So much blood in that kid, and it's all coming out now through her nose and mouth and ears and that one grotesque eye.

"You fuck—"

He fires again, but I dodge. I close the distance between us. I don't want to shoot this guy. No. I want to torture him, tear him to pieces, break every bone in his body and feed him to dogs.

We fight. Fists and feet, gunbutts and teeth. He pistol-whips me, breaks my nose; I feel and hear it go. Ignore the pain.

But then the Red Eye high fades. The comedown hits hard. I slow up, become clumsy; my muscles turn to water as the hangover comes back full-force.

I find myself pinned against the desk, my face level with the dead kid's face. I smell her, thick chemicals, and choke on a rush of vomit. Her blood is cold on my cheek. Her face, even distorted by the passage of the bullet, would have been beautiful one day. I'm sorry, kid, I think, but you're lucky to be out of this shit, at least.

The man stares down at me. Now that the Red Eye has ebbed, all I can make out are his eyes in the gloom: the flat, incurious eyes of a predator. "You lose," he says. "I think I'll let you live with something to remember me by."

He digs his thumbs into my eye sockets, and I know what he's about to do. I'm not surprised by my next thought: Yeah, sure, go ahead. Like I wanna see anything like this again.

The door bangs open. Vicious calls my name.

The sound of a gunshot. A stab of pain in my right eye. Fuckmegodthathurts.

White sparks, yellow flashes, sticky hot jelly on my cheek. I just don't care anymore. There's nothing I can do.

I don't know if this will kill me. I don't know if this will even stop the pain. All I know is, I'm going under, and I don't think I'll resurface this time.