Disclaimer:I don’t own Cowboy Bebop, or its characters. So unfortunate. Sob.

The spider had been crawling down the wall for an hour. Spike’s eyes flicked from the tiny arachnid to the hunched form of his roommate, curled up with a book on the moldering couch. He let out a sigh, the nth or so subtle hint to Vicious that he was fucking bored. The guy could sit there for hours, just doing nothing, leaving Spike to entertain himself in any way he could. Sometimes he masturbated, sometimes he went out on his own and got into fights, and other times he just watched the slow rot of the apartment around him. Impulsively, he shucked off a shoe and hurled it at the wall. When it fell down to the floor, the spider was just another smear blending into the horrid wallpaper.

The sudden noise startled Vicious from his reading and he raised an eyebrow over the top of the book. “Bored, are we?”

“It’s been three days since we’ve gone out and done anything,” Spike groused. “I’m beginning to think you only keep me here for decoration.” He glanced over and saw that Vicious was ignoring him now, so he added, “You know, because I’m so hot at all.” He crossed his arms over his belly at the hem of his shirt, pantomiming a striptease. “Is this better? You want me to take it off?”

Vicious finally set the book down and turned to level his deadpan gaze at him. “If I wanted a stick sculpture, I’d eat a bunch of popsicles. Twig.”

“Touché,” Spike conceded. “But you have to admit, if we stay here much longer we’re gonna grow roots in the couch. Unless you find some way to entertain me, like with that amazing poetry of yours.”

Vicious was leaning forward, pinning Spike with a positively evil glare, but now it was Spike’s turn to do the ignoring. “How did that one go? The darkness is consuming my soul, spiraling me down into an abyss of tight black pants and making my mascara run! Woe is me!” All this was said in the most melodramatic fashion possible, with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead.

When Vicious spoke, it was in the frighteningly low voice he reserved for people he was about to seriously injure. “If you go through my shit again, I swear—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spike waved dismissively. He stood and shrugged on his black leather jacket. “Does this mean we can go do something?”

“Fine!”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The two of them trudged down the street in synchronization, their hunched shoulders a warning for people to fuck off. For the most part, it worked. Over the year that had passed since Spike moved into Vicious’ hellhole of an apartment, they had made somewhat of a name for themselves in the Tijuana underworld. Like yin to yang, the young men had drawn out in each other that which made them strongest—Spike, his exuberance, charisma and confidence, and Vicious his cunning and insatiable ambition. Together, they were unstoppable.

Yet there was one part of Tijuana’s dark side that had eluded them. The part that both scared and fascinated them at the same time. The Syndicates. No matter whom they ran into, or who they beat, the duo was never able to penetrate any closer to that all-encompassing secret society. It was frustrating, and to Vicious’ determination and Spike’s damnable curiosity, an irresistible target. Vicious had no doubt that whatever their shenanigans were tonight, Spike would be steering them toward that very same target.

“Hey,” he said, abruptly coming to a stop so that Vicious jarred hard against his back. “See that?”

Vicious growled irritably and looked up in the direction Spike pointed. He stared hard for a minute, pushing a few errant dreadlocks out of his eyes to make sure he’d read the sign right. “You… you’re not serious?”

“Oh, come on, do you have to ask?” Spike’s grin spread into something frighteningly feral.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said no, dammit!”

“…Spiraling further and further, down past the dark black depths to which I have descended—”

“ALRIGHT!”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

An hour later the two of them were seated shoulder to shoulder on uncomfortable wooden bleachers. Spike’s shoes never ceased in their incessant tapping, while Vicious looked as if he might be sick. They had passed the lewdly decorated sign advertising a ‘Real Live Donkey Show’ countless times before, but never, ever had Vicious actually considered going.

“It’s a favorite Syndicate hangout,” Spike had argued, quoting the spurious insistence of their drug dealer, Sam. Sam was in truth no closer to the Syndicates’ private circle than the two of them were, but there was no arguing with Spike once he got one of his boneheaded ideas. So here he was, crammed between his best friend (if he could call him that) and an overweight man in spandex leggings, waiting in dreadful anticipation for the main event to begin.

Suddenly the lights dimmed, obscured by the rolling fog pouring from some unseen smoke machine. A curtain drew back, revealing a stage that Vicious hadn’t even noticed was there. The overhead lights blacked out to nothing, replaced instead by a badly aimed spotlight and several colored mood lights.

“Oh God,” Vicious moaned, squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as he could. He felt Spike’s hand clap down on his shoulder, squeezing in nervous excitement. But he wasn’t shrinking back like Vicious was. He was… cheering?

“Yeeeah!” the mop-headed fucktard yelled, sloshing his beer all over Vicious’ brand new trenchcoat. God dammit.

And then the music started. Vicious wondered if he could just shut off his brain and pretend this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t—oh god what was that sound?

Vicious wanted to sink down into his bench and disappear, but Spike just wasn’t going to let him go easy. No, since Vicious’ eyes were closed, Spike instead appealed to his sense of hearing and gave him a running commentary.

“She’s... she’s coming out!” Spike’s enthused voice came from too close to his ear. “Man, oh man, she’s wearing a belly chain and pasties! Dude, you gotta see this!”

Vicious let out an exasperated growl, thinking maybe it would be better to watch than have Spike yammering on the whole time. “Just shut up,” he said, shoving Spike’s face down into his mug. Spike spluttered angrily and made to thwack Vicious on the back of his head, but suddenly froze, gaze transfixed on the stage. Vicious stared at him curiously, then slowly, slowly turned his eyes to where Spike was looking. Oh God.

“Anunciar, PEDRO!” cried a melodramatic voice from somewhere offstage. Out ambled a bored-looking donkey, to raucous applause.

Oh God. She was approaching the donkey, undulating in a sickening fashion the whole time. She was—wait, were those sparkly tassels on her pasties? Was she really going to—

Oh God.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Vicious was leaned over the bleacher, green to the gills and watching the last of the beer and bile he’d just coughed up dripping to the ground below. “I hate you, Spike Spiegel. I thought I did before, but now I know. Now I know the true meaning of hatred.”

“You know you liked it,” Spike chuckled, planting a foot a few inches from him and leaning over him.

“You—”

Both of them were interrupted by anxious, hushed voices coming from under the bleachers, several yards away from where they sat.

“Are you sure about this, Clive?” one of them whispered. “It’s still in development, and we don’t even know if it works. We might not even be able to sell it. And you know what’ll happen if we get caught. The Red Dragons will—”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” hissed the other. “You don’t know who could be listening.”

Mystery man was right. Spike and Vicious were now rigid in their seats, all pretense of blending in forgotten. Slowly Spike turned to Vicious, giving him a significant look. I told you so.

Vicious quirked an eyebrow, settling back into his seat in feigned nonchalance just in case the men were watching. Fine. But what are we gonna do about it?

Spike jerked his head in a minute movement to where the men were standing. Follow them.

The corner of Vicious’ mouth jerked and the intensity of his gaze rose a few notches. Are you nuts?

“Let’s go,” Spike said, rising without another word. Vicious swallowed his surprise and indignation and disappeared into the shadows behind his partner, moving like a wraith. One thought replayed itself over and over in his mind. They were interfering with the Syndicates. This could only end badly.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

They had tailed the two men for seventeen blocks, and still had no idea where they were headed. Spike didn’t think the men were aware of his and Vicious’ presence, so it must have been standard protocol to meander when returning to home base, to help throw off potential trackers. A valiant effort, but entirely ineffectual. The two teens had wanted this for far too long to give up now.

“Have you noticed, we’ve slowly been headed in the general direction of government street?” Spike murmured from behind the collar of his jacket.

“Of course,” Vicious smirked. “These guys must be more entrenched in TJ’s inner workings than we thought.”

Spike rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation and thought about the cold steel packed between his skin and the back of his jeans. He’d become an excellent shot, and whatever he couldn’t do with a gun, he could do with his martial arts. Vicious, beside him, was a demon with the huge bowie knife he kept hidden under his trench coat, and he’d taken to martial arts rather well. Spike didn’t see how anyone could take the two of them down.

He would have done well to remember what his mother had often shrieked at him so long ago. Pride goeth before destruction.

“Hey,” Vicious hissed, grabbing Spike’s sleeve and pulling him into a larger crowd of people. They watched as the two men they’d been tailing ducked into a narrow alley, almost invisible from any angle other than head on. The two teens followed the crowd across the crosswalk to the opposite sidewalk, pushing open the door to the first small shop they came upon. An antiques shop. The wide bay window provided the perfect vantage point from which to watch what went on with their mafia friends. Spike pretended to be interested in some old coins on display while Vicious fixed his attention on a large Japanese sword nestled in a pile of old sabers and claymores. Both of them jumped when a cool voice droned from behind them.

“Hello, sirs. May I help you?” The teens whipped around to eye the speaker, a man in his early thirties with curly brown hair. He would have been incredibly attractive were it not for the odd, detached smile that curled his lips.

Spike felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. “We were just, ah, looking around.” He felt Vicious elbow him in the side, hard. Why, why had he said that?

The man grinned. “Indeed.”

Shit. This guy was smart, and he was onto them. But who was he with? The guys across the street, or someone else? “You got anything around here I could get for mother’s day? Old paintings or something?” he tried.

The shopkeeper’s grin turned positively frightening. “I’m sure we do, but I have a feeling you young men are interested in something a little more… rare.” Spike’s trigger finger twitched subconsciously. “If you would please come with me, to the back.”

Spike felt his gut clench, and he tossed a glance over at Vicious. Nonverbal communication would definitely come in handy now. What do we do?

Vicious’ gaze remained level and calm, focused on the shopkeeper, and he inclined his head slightly. He’s armed. We follow, but be prepared.

The man turned his back on them, making his way sedately through the aisles and toward a low door partitioned off by a hanging curtain. He ducked under it, prompting the two teens to follow. They did, but kept a fair distance between them. Spike flipped the curtain back, revealing a long, bare hallway that disappeared around the corner into the bowels of the building. The shopkeeper led them along it, bowing as it opened up into a cavernous room, richly furnished and filled with men.

The nearest group, seated at a round card table, stood upon the three’s arrival. “Well, Santos, what have you got here?” Both boys stumbled as Santos gave them each a rough shove, in the direction of the group of men, who caught them roughly by the jackets. Vicious bristled at the rough treatment. Spike’s heart was pounding, wired with adrenaline and excitement.

“They were tailing Diaz and Vargas all the way from the Establishment,” Santos explained, the chilly smile returning to his face. “I got a call from Raquel and I watched ‘em come up the street. They came right in the shop. To spy.”

Diaz and Vargas themselves stepped out from another group of men, grinning. Spike cursed in his head and wondered how they got here, even as he realized they’d led him and Vicious right into this.

“Fuck you,” Vicious tossed in their direction, earning himself a rough shake from the men who had a hold on them.

“Fiesty, feisty,” came another voice, and the whole group of men scattered. A man in an expensive suit walked out, with slicked-back hair and sunglasses indoors. Spike stared unabashedly at him—this must be someone important.

“Mr. Garcia, s-sir!” Santos stammered with another quick bow. “We were not aware you would be overseeing this operation, sir.”

The man waved him off and flicked open a golden lighter to light the cigar he’d just stuck between his lips. “Christ, kid, call me Carlos. I just wanted to make sure it was all done right, is all. And you,” he said, catching Vicious by the jaw. “What exactly is your business with the White Tigers?”

Vicious’ eyes widened and Spike’s breath caught. The White Tigers were the Red Dragons’ rival syndicate, and equally powerful throughout the solar system. And this was their boss.

“If I may, sir,” Spike blurted before Vicious could even open his mouth. Carlos stared disdainfully down at him, but nodded for the men to release him. Instead, he heard several safeties being switched off. “My friend and I, here, we mean you no harm. We’ve heard of the White Tigers, and we’re actually great fans.”

Carlos let out a chuckle, which quickly escalated into a deep belly laugh. “Isn’t that cute,” he snorted when it had subsided. “Two kids that think the big bad mafia is cool, and want to get involved."

Vicious sighed and lowered his head, and now even Spike felt anger bubbling up within him. “I’m serious,” he insisted. “We can help you guys.” He felt like an idiotic child amongst these men. The only thing to do was prove himself. “Just let us show you what we can do.”

Carlos grinned. “What you can do, eh?” he glanced over at a gaggle of the larger men. “Tell you what. If you can take all these guys down, I just might have a job for you in tonight’s operation.”

Vicious jerked his head up, suddenly released from his captors’ grip to stumble forward. Spike was already tensed to fight, thrilling with the energy he never seemed to run out of. He took his place at Spike’s side and slid the bowie knife out from under his jacket, feeling the same adrenaline beginning to work its course through his own body. This was going to be good.

Four of the men approached them as all the others backed a good distance away. They were all armed, with knives or brass knuckles, leaving Spike the only one without a weapon. He thought briefly about pulling the gun, but decided that not only would that be a bad idea, he just plain didn’t need it. He could take these guys.

The men circled them, and Spike and Vicious moved in until they were back to back. Now no one could surprise them. Carlos nodded in approval. All at once, the four men signaled to each other and attacked. Two of them went for a pincer on Spike, knives easily knocked out of their hands by a series of high kicks. He landed a hard punch to the gut on one, then shoved him back into the other. Behind him, Vicious had just as quickly disarmed his opponents, and taken them out with a quick kick to the gonads each. Vicious wasn’t above playing dirty.

Carlos began clapping behind them as the four men struggled to their feet. “Perfect. I’ve got the perfect job for you.”

A/N: Once again, this chapter really feels sub-par. I’ll blame that on school and finals, and the fact that I wrote this in pieces over a weeks-long period. But hey, school’s out, so I ought to have a lot more time to devote to writing. Next chapter, the heist! Cheers!

P.S. - Poetry and donkey show idea courtesy Kimi The Great. Woo!