i think it's time we blow this scene (intro)
"Bang."
Spike Spiegel wakes up.
He’s lying facedown on sand. What the hell? The syndicate must have dumped his body on one of the beaches, thinking he was dead. Sloppy.
He’s surprised he isn’t dead, actually. Looks like that son-of-a-bitch Vicious was wrong after all. He’s not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
(in his other eye, the one that saw the past, he watched again as the birds rose behind Julia’s falling body)
He fishes around in a pocket, eventually pulling out his communicator. He twists his head so it’s facing sideways and thumbs it on. "Jet," he croaks. "Hey, Jet!" Nothing but static. He thumps the communicator. Nothing happens, so he hits it again before letting it lie in the sand. "Piece of crap."
He rolls over and sits up. Stares. An ocean. Trees swaying in the breeze. This isn’t any beach he’s ever seen. This looks like...
...paradise. Even if it’s raining.
He is dead. Vicious managed it after all. At least I took the bastard with me. There’s no sign of him, but that’s to be expected; Vicious is probably somewhere even hotter than this. Wherever this is. It isn’t exactly what Spike had imagined heaven would look like, but then he never really imagined he’d make it there himself. He’d never really thought about it at all. He's not much for afters.
No sign of Julia, either, but he didn’t really expect that, either. Things in dreams don’t cross over to the real world, everyone knows that.
Of course, there was always the chance that this is still a dream. The kind where you wake up only to find that you were still dreaming. Waking up in the wrong universe seems about par for the crazy-golf course that is his existence.
Spike stands up, taps out a cigarette. He lights it, then ambles up to the treeline, hands in his pockets, elbows skewed out. He leans against a tree, says “Just another layer off the onion,” around the cigarette to whoever’s listening, and closes his eyes.
Spike Spiegel wakes up.
He’s lying facedown on sand. What the hell? The syndicate must have dumped his body on one of the beaches, thinking he was dead. Sloppy.
He’s surprised he isn’t dead, actually. Looks like that son-of-a-bitch Vicious was wrong after all. He’s not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
(in his other eye, the one that saw the past, he watched again as the birds rose behind Julia’s falling body)
He fishes around in a pocket, eventually pulling out his communicator. He twists his head so it’s facing sideways and thumbs it on. "Jet," he croaks. "Hey, Jet!" Nothing but static. He thumps the communicator. Nothing happens, so he hits it again before letting it lie in the sand. "Piece of crap."
He rolls over and sits up. Stares. An ocean. Trees swaying in the breeze. This isn’t any beach he’s ever seen. This looks like...
...paradise. Even if it’s raining.
He is dead. Vicious managed it after all. At least I took the bastard with me. There’s no sign of him, but that’s to be expected; Vicious is probably somewhere even hotter than this. Wherever this is. It isn’t exactly what Spike had imagined heaven would look like, but then he never really imagined he’d make it there himself. He’d never really thought about it at all. He's not much for afters.
No sign of Julia, either, but he didn’t really expect that, either. Things in dreams don’t cross over to the real world, everyone knows that.
Of course, there was always the chance that this is still a dream. The kind where you wake up only to find that you were still dreaming. Waking up in the wrong universe seems about par for the crazy-golf course that is his existence.
Spike stands up, taps out a cigarette. He lights it, then ambles up to the treeline, hands in his pockets, elbows skewed out. He leans against a tree, says “Just another layer off the onion,” around the cigarette to whoever’s listening, and closes his eyes.