Summary: Memories of the day that the bounty hunter became the prey...
A/N:  I don't own the series. Please don't read if you don't like yaoi, blood, or non-consensual sex. Thank you!

Then one time, Spike couldn't get up.
 
He lay still on his back only meters from a ship and closed his eyes to escape the too bright sun casting occasional ship-like shadows on his face. The light was hot, burning hot, on the bare skin of his forearms and neck and ankles. Someone was coming for him now; someone was, but who...?

 
Much earlier, Spike was standing in front of the SwordFish II, catching his breath before an unsuccessful chase to catch bounty that was fast, but foolish. He chased on foot for twenty minutes as he ran after the shape of a man ahead of him, sometimes close, sometimes far away, but always there. For once, it was a solitary run while Jet and Faye worked elsewhere.
 
The heat was fading, where he lay now.
 
After, Spike was firing his handgun at the fleeing shape when someone else shot the gun out of his hands. Surprise-- He gasped when the next bullet pierced his back. A trickle of blood dripped down his skin under his blue jacket. The shock made him foolish. His bounty was escaping on foot. Spike disregarded the pain welling up in his back and ran.
 
Like pavement when the sun went down, his body cooled.
 
Rewind, Spike continued running after his prey disappeared and halted only when he came to the edge of a river--a narrow river, yet he had no choice--and jumped. The rapids engulfed his body, scraped him over rocks and garbage. Water seeped into the bullet wound as the river dragged him over the sandy bottom, over, under; the water invaded his mouth and nose as he tumbled. He tumbled; he hit the shore.
 
The remains of coughed up water had evaporated from the hot ground.
 
Back, Spike pulled his body up the steep riverbank, meters of near vertical climb with only his wet fingers and toes gripping dirt and rock. Dizziness and pain reached him before he reached level land. He knelt, rested for a moment, recovered his strength, blinked grit from his eyes. Was he crying? Water dripped down his cheeks. His stomach heaved and his scraped hands braced him for the vomiting.
 
The bitter taste never left his mouth.
 
Only a foot against his ribs woke Spike's mind from its rest while his body still hung panting over his hands and knees. The toe of the leather boot smashed on his chest, his back. Pain like broken glass filled his body. The boot hit his face. Blood streamed from his nose, dripped from his mouth, regular splashes on the red-streaked puddle beneath his face. The boot struck between Spike's legs. He fell and curled up, wet body on the wet ground.
 
Still the throbbing pain remained.
 
Hands melded with the boots and pressed on the back of Spike's head, trapped it on the muddy mess. Melded legs swung over Spike's back as hands peeled away the rock torn jacket and melded mouth bit the skin above the entry point of the first bullet. A single whimper was forced from Spike. A body crushed his ribs.
 
The sun sank away.
 
Spike's blue pants were tugged off and his head was released, but covered in someone's damp pants. He fought the forced motion, spreading, relaxing, until the fist had pounded six times on his covered cheek. His legs slipped apart and the fingers slid in. He clung to the ground. Unseen, warm salty water dripped down his cheeks. With his eyes closed, maybe he could disappear.
 
His pulse resounded in his ears.
 
Shoved in-- Spike's gasp became a scream. The force tore his fingernails halfway from his gripping hands on the rocky ground. Repeated jerks jammed his body sideways, forward; the blood trickled down his thighs. Even his breaths, even his thoughts were controlled, destroyed by the feeling. His spirit was ripped from him. His life dripped from him. Gone...almost gone...his heartbeat faded.

 
Spike lay on his back and opened his eyes. The dark world was empty. He was alone.