by Michael McCubbin

Arthur Doyle was lying on his back when he awoke with the sun in his face. The skylight was directly above him, and there was a single beam of light that illuminated the certain square of hardwood floor he was inhabiting at the moment. He groaned at the thought of getting up, and gave a guttural growl when he rolled over onto his side. He stretched out his fingers, only to notice a ruddy film on the tips and palms of his hands. He pulled his feet back under himself and sat-up kneeling. His blurred vision finally came into focus as he sat staring at his hands. They were covered in...was it...yes! It was dried blood! Did he have an open scab? Perhaps a bloody nose during the night? The question was answered when he stood upright, turned around, and faced the mangled corpse propped against the far wall.

Spike Spiegel picked up an apple, breathed on it, rubbed it on his jacket, flipped it off of his wrist, and bit down hard on his tongue. Jet Black had caught it in mid-air with a quick swipe. "I believe you're supposed to be the lookout." Spike frowned back at him. "That doesn't mean I can't have a snack." Jet raised the apple to his mouth and took an extraneously large bite, all the while cocking an eyebrow at Spike, who put the sunglasses back on. "I'll never get tired of these things."

Jet tried to speak, but was forced to swallow a mouthful of apple-mush. Spike was looking around the alfresco market with his back turned to him. "Don't speak with your mouthful, Jet. It's not good manners." He adjusted the focus of the binocular glasses with his forefinger, not noticing Jet choking on the apple behind him. "How are we supposed to find someone who doesn't exist?" Jet coughed up the gooey wad of chewed fruit, patted his chest, and spoke. "Simple. Don't look for him." Spike lowered the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and flicked up an eyebrow as he turned to face his partner. "You're a riot."

Four stories above, Arthur Doyle was staring at a corpse in his room. There wasn't much of a stench, so it must've only been there overnight. It was that of a woman. Tall, slender, strong, and beautiful...well, used to be. He looked around the room to find nothing. No furniture, no refrigerator, not even the bathroom. Wait, the bathroom was down the hall. His memory was beginning to return to him. Yes, she had come over last night. She, being his girlfriend, Dural. Near the door, the rifle lay where he had dropped it-still on "buck-shot." The room was a mess, now. Ah, yes, she had come back to get something. Her rifle, ironically. She had taken enough from him, and this would be the last, he had decided. If he had fingerprints, they would be everywhere...if he had any, that is. It would look like she had done it herself. He walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains.

Spike was getting tired of waiting. "I thought he was supposed to be here by now. "He was amusing himself by kicking a stone around under his foot. Spike moved over and booted it across the dirt path. "Are you listening to me?" Jet's wooden chair creaked as he leaned back in it. "Yeah, sure. What time is it? Never mind, I've got my watch." He looked down at his corroded, old pocket watch. "Twenty to nine." Spike "humphed" under his breath and kept pretending to be looking around for their man. As his eyes caught the butcher's booth, the sun reflected off of the knife and he had to cover his face from the glare. "Bright morning." Jet watched a small child lose his balloon to the breeze, and as his gaze moved upwards, he swore he saw Arthur Doyle pop his head out of an apartment window.

"Spike! Look there!" Spike snapped out of his trance on the waitress and caught their man in the corner of his eye. He stood up so hard his chair fell over behind him. He quickly reached into his inside jacket pocket for his .45 and-"No, Spike!" It was Jet. "No you idiot! Not in the market!" Jet stood up slowly on his bad leg and calmly whispered as the rest of the crowd stared at the two. "We take it to him."

Arthur slammed the window shut and ran for the rifle. He knew they saw him. He could see them as clear as day, and it was a wonder that they didn't spot him earlier. His associate was down at the market, and he couldn't risk getting him caught as well. He picked up the rifle and re-loaded just like he had done countless times before. The empty shell hit the floor with a "clink-clatter!" He cocked the gun and leaned against the window. He could make-out the two bounty hunters in the alley below. The larger one pointed down the narrow route to the back door, and Arthur had his plan. He could pull it off without firing a single shot. He put on his cloak and tucked the rifle inside, then lifted the window.

Spike and Jet ran down the alleyway of the apartment building to the heavy backdoor. Jet shoved Spike out of the way, and with his cyborg leg, kicked the door wide open with a huge "slam!" Spike was anxious, he could tell. His step was bouncy and quick, and his finger was itching to pull that trigger. They ran up four flights of steps until reaching their destination. The apartment door was ajar, so Jet told Spike to get to one side. Jet punched open the door, and they both pointed their guns at an empty room.

Spike was deliriously enraged to discover that there would be more thinking than shooting. He was hanging his head out of the window with his gun tapping at the side of his leg. Jet was on the opposite side of the apartment, staring at Dural Ferrari's visage smeared across the wall. Maybe if he stared at it long enough, it would move. At the front door of the complex, Arthur Doyle's face flashed a wide smile. He could picture them trying to figure out how he managed to jump four stories. "What a pair of fools." However, in his hurry, he didn't make quite an admirable attempt at a disguise.

Jet placed his thumb and forefinger on his chin, trying to look somewhat sophisticated as his brain fumbled around for answers. He glanced over at Spike, who was still ready to shoot anything that stood on two legs. "Maybe he's still here." Spike didn't answer. "I don't see how a man could jump that far and still walk away. Although we've seen some crazy things now, haven't we Spike." Spike was still keeping a sharp eye on the market. "Or maybe," Jet started, "he's some sort of chameleon-being. He's right here, under our noses." Jet laughed at himself. Spike still wasn't listening. "Hey, Spike, why can't you just list-." He was waved off by his partner, who apparently had found something. Spike suddenly jolted out of position and smacked the top of his head on the window frame. "It's him!"

Arthur slipped a disc to "Jewel, " his reluctant employee. Jewel wasn't particularly friendly, standing at seven feet and two repulsive inches tall. His cybernetic eye gleamed under the shade of his wide brimmed black hat. "It's valid?" Arthur was standing with his back to the creature. "Of course. The account is clean and the money's there, don't you worry. All you have to do is clean up and you'll be done." Jewel's task was an ugly one, but someone had to do it. The blood was the worst part, especially once it had already dried. "Have a nice day." With that, he saw his employer turn and walk away. He gave a heavy sigh, tipped back his hat, and slouched back against the brick wall he was next to. As he flipped the disk around between his fingers, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. "Excuse me." He turned to the gruff voice, immediately greeting the business end of a gun barrel. "Hi there. My name's Jet."

Spike was about three or four paces behind Arthur. "Play it cool," Jet had mouthed. Spike "huffed." He hated playing it cool. He kicked a ball of dirt which crumbled into pieces as it rolled along the street. He followed it with his eyes until he was knocked sideways by a woman with a large basket of fruit on her head. He looked forward to realize that Arthur had stopped at a stand behind him.

He strode over casually, hands in his pockets, pretending to be looking for something. He kept Arthur in the corner of his eye at all times. Arthur was making conversation with the stand owner about a necklace, it looked like. There was a small electronic "beep" in Spike's ear, and he remembered the device that was there. He had been picking at it earlier. "Yeah, what is it?" Jet answered slowly. "I've got his pal here. He says Doyle's loaded, so be careful." There was a "click" and Jet's voice disappeared. Spike picked up an orange and moved closer, closer, right next to, his bounty. "Pretty necklace. Is it for your girlfriend?"

The man's eyes went wide and shot up at Spike. He stepped back in surprise and reached into his cloak for his pistol. Spike tossed the orange into the air, and Arthur's gaze followed it up, then stalled and came down fast, only to be punched in the face. Spike jumped up into the air and kicked him to the ground. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Doyle. "Dead or alive, it's your call." He gave the man a lopsided grin. Doyle kicked Spike's leg out from under him, and he toppled over backwards. Doyle leveled his rifle at Spike's head, and the two pulled the trigger at the same time.

Jet had already turned in Doyle's partner when Spike arrived at the downtown police office. It was much more urban here. You could tell when the smog entered your lungs. "That's 'gonna leave a mark." Jet was inspecting Spike's wounds. The shot had exploded into his shoulder, but only grazed his cheek, and he was picking at the bandages from where the pellets had been pulled out.

The two were sitting facing the chief of the unit. Spike tightened his tie, not expecting air conditioning. The chief was looking down at his monitor, and Doyle was in a heap in a chair behind the three. Spike's aim was uncanny. The chief started.

"Well boys, I don't know what to tell you. The man you brought in today has been dead for three years now. Government project reject, from what I gather here." Jet shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah, and? What about our money?" The chief pressed some buttons. "Well, I don't see how you can collect bounty on someone who's already dead." Spike and Jet both scowled as the looked at each other. They turned back to look at Arthur Doyle, only to see an empty chair.