"It’s 50,000 Woolongs," Jet reminds him, his cybernetic arm whirring as he snips a tiny leaf. "That’s a lot of bell peppers."
Gunfire shatters the tequila bottles. Spike is a blur of motion, his Jericho 941 barking in the dim light. He moves with a fluid, effortless grace, dodging bullets like they’re nothing more than annoying flies. Cowboy Bebop
Spike is staring at the ceiling, a cold cigarette dangling from his lip. "It’s 50,000 Woolongs," Jet reminds him, his cybernetic
"You’re not supposed to be here," Blue Note stammers, his fingers dancing over a holographic interface. "The past... it’s supposed to stay buried." He moves with a fluid, effortless grace, dodging
Spike stands in the wreckage, the Syndicate men dead at his feet. He looks at the charred remains of the computer. The data is gone. The ghost is gone.