“… nothing. i was just thinking it suits you. being a fogey, that is,” he parries effortlessly, throws his coat over his shoulder in the same leisurely manner, before pacing off towards his vermilion red MONO racer. come to think of it—the bebop must be just as old, if not older than ancient gadget in his hand. running smooth though—that ship; no matter how you looked at it. he slides onto his seat and starts up the swordfish’s engines. in the end, only those stubborn enough to hold onto aged bonds and grizzled principles were rewarded with reliability ( and it must be a similar kind of reciprocation that leaves him thinking, somewhere in the back of his mind, what a shame it would be to not be lounging on the trawler’s grubby mustard couch again ).
“ready as could be.” if this realization surprises himself, he doesn’t let it show in his routine answer. by the time the gates unbolt his mind is long elsewhere anyhow; engulfed by pitch black darkness whose only saving grace was a handful of million stars. “see you around.” it’s not poetic as it sounds. his personal sun is a 1730 ton-heavy pile of scrap and doesn’t glow. talk about perspective.
‘ 3, 2, 1… ready for lift-off, the gate’s open. ’ just as he finishes, the bridge keeping the aperture closed falls with a loud thud. spike revs the engines, taking off inimitably fast. the wordless departure has him a bit too nervous.
defeated, jet chooses to return to his devices. somewhat vexed by the way the discussion unfolded, he can’t quite help the strained grin twisting his lips. his tongue is tucked to his cheek when he decides to soothe his nerves by smoking. after fishing for the pack in his pocket, he angles it askance. no cigarette falls out, however. it is then that he crumples the carton, pitching it behind him as he crashes onto his chair, reclining backwards, crossed arms supporting his head. ‘ damn it. ’
jet closes his eyes and sinks his teeth into his lower lip, refusing to check the flickering monitor indicating spike’s location.
