days are just like moments, turned to hours
Sometimes Spike wonders if he lost his touch. If he's used up all his adventure, all his danger, and now all he has left ahead of him is a nice, sedate life. Almost settled.
It's worrying. It's worrying because he has the same half-empty clip left he's had for months. Maybe years. When was that thing with the dinosaurs?
The Bebop was never this boring. He's cleaning his gun, not because it needs cleaning, but because he half feels like if he doesn't check up on anything from before, it'll fade away, and then he won't know if any of it ever happened.
He reassembles the gun. He loads it. He sights down it.
He aims up a tree and shoots a melon, watches it fall.
"Bang," he says, as it explodes across the ground.
It's worrying. It's worrying because he has the same half-empty clip left he's had for months. Maybe years. When was that thing with the dinosaurs?
The Bebop was never this boring. He's cleaning his gun, not because it needs cleaning, but because he half feels like if he doesn't check up on anything from before, it'll fade away, and then he won't know if any of it ever happened.
He reassembles the gun. He loads it. He sights down it.
He aims up a tree and shoots a melon, watches it fall.
"Bang," he says, as it explodes across the ground.