Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ After the Fall ❯ Patience Makes Perfect ( Chapter 9 )

Title:After the Fall
Author:Girl.Interpreted
Betas:Alaena Night & Sugar Pill
Timeline:Post-anime (a few days after Vash returns to the girls with Knives in tow), with a manga topping
Pairings:Vash/Meryl, Millie/Wolfwood, Knives/a French cruller
Genre:Deep Space Planet Future Gun Action
Rating:T- for violence, language, sexual content
Archive:Please contact me for permission.
Disclaimer:Trigun, its characters and universe, are the intellectual property of their respective owners. I am merely borrowing for entertainment purposes. I make no claims of ownership, nor do I profit from my storytelling.

Summary:Last Time: Knives had a deeply symbolic nightmare-- pay attention, kids, because it will be the subject of a short essay on the exam: “Please describe how Biblical symbolism relates to Knives being a crack-pot. Bonus credit for discussing the geo-political ramifications of vivisection.” Also, we learned that Vash was, at one time, Karaoke King of Providence City (there might have to be a one-shot about that), though Knives didn't seem to appreciate his rendition of the Trigun end-theme. (Yes, that's what he was singing.) Elisabeth and Lina are back, and Lina is a genius and has a kid! Huzzah! And now, spooky scientist-types are having secret meetings about Vash and Knives. Could get crazy... Meanwhile, back at the farm, Wolfwood's thoughts became introspective, covering topics of morality and redemption. Just as quickly, his thoughts became naughty, covering topics of... well, maybe we should just leave that up to the imagination. A letter arrived for the girls and everyone puzzled over why the company was suddenly so hot for them to locate Vash. That is, until, a conveniently timed satellite broadcast let them know that the bounty on Vash had been reinstated and raised: $$200 billion! I heard a rumor that even Spike, Jet, and Faye are considering taking a shot at it. (Just kidding-- no “Tainted Donut” crossovers.) Back in the desert, we learned that a love of round, glazed baked goods is hereditary. Vash and Knives then heard the same broadcast that had everyone's knickers in a twist back in September. Knives reacted with a modified version of the Monty Python battle-cry: “Run Away!” Vash, however, was resolved to face the danger head on. With a maniacal gleam in his eye, Knives brandished a straight-razor, leading many readers to beg me not to cut Vash's hair. (Incidentally, Vash is crying in his room, claiming that everyone loves his hair more than him. I tried to tell him that it wasn't true. “They like your hot bod, too,” I consoled. But that only made him cry harder. Wonder why...) Little do the readers know, however, that Knives merely wants to reenact the knife-fight-dance from Michael Jackson's “Bad” video... maybe.

A/N: By the way, have you all heard of these two chicks, Alaena Night and Sugar Pill? Super-fanfiction-wonder-beta-twins! I've long-suspected that they were no mere mortals, but I had no idea they were actually cats. Nyah?

Chapter 9: Patience Makes Perfect


Vash pulled the truck to a slow stop outside of the New Oregon Saloon, hesitating before he cut the engine. It was fairly early in the evening, but he had hoped to arrive sooner. Already there was a constant flicker of motion passing by the bar's lit windows, the hum and swing of the crowd inside coming to life. His anxiety became a palpable pressure on his chest. He focused his awareness to the muscles in his back and shoulders, willing the tension to leak away. He could feel Knives' apprehension, a threatening cloud between them, and didn't want to add his own nervous energy to the growing storm.

Vash forced a smile to curl his lips. It came easily after so many years of practice. Still, he could tell that Knives wasn't convinced. He glowered at Vash, a look that seemed to tell him not to bother with the false gesture of confidence.

“Knives,” Vash sighed, the smile melting, “it won't be that bad.”

In response, Knives chewed more vigorously at his thumbnail, pausing to spit through the truck's open window. His dark eyes stared at the swinging doors of the saloon, watching as a group of men entered. They were laughing, talking loudly, obviously already drunk. Knives' expression was stoic. The only sign of reaction was a nearly imperceptible twitch in his jaw, and a slight tension in his shoulders that Vash sensed rather than saw.

Initially, Vash had agreed with the Doc's idea that he and Knives should meet with Max before venturing onto the ship. The SEEDs craft had crashed a few years ago, forcibly removing its residents from the isolation they'd enjoyed before that point. Most had resettled in New Oregon, doing their best to embrace their new existence on the surface of the dusty planet. Still, among those who continued to live within the ship, there existed the residual fear of Outsiders and an intense territoriality. It seemed they still clung to the idea that the utopia they'd once enjoyed could somehow be prolonged.

The meeting with Max Simon in New Oregon was meant as an opportunity to touch base. To ensure that the residents of the SEEDs ship had been prepared for Vash's return, as well as the introduction of Knives. Aside from the Doc and Max, no one in New Oregon knew the atrocities that Knives had committed. And Vash was supremely grateful for that. As high as his regard was for the people of New Oregon, he'd hardly expect less than a lynch mob if they knew who Knives really was. It would be impossible, however, to pass Knives off as anything other than Vash's brother, and the people on the SEEDs ship knew that Vash was a plant. Many had always been wary of that fact. And considering that the last time Vash had come to call the ship had crashed, introducing them to another plant, one they didn't know... well, the scenario did have the distinct possibility of going, ah... awry.

So, it made perfect sense to meet with Max before knocking on the door of the SEEDs ship to pay the folks a visit. At least, it did in theory. Vash was currently cursing Max's choice of a meeting location. There were probably more people in this saloon than at any other single location in town. And Knives' body language (not to mention his purposeful silence) was telling Vash that this might be too big of a step for his brother.

Still, there's no trial like trial by fire.

Vash took a breath, preparing to tell Knives it was time to go, but his brother spoke first, “I 'm not going.”

Well, I can see this is already going well. “Knives, don't start this. You know you have to go. If I have to go: you have to go.”

Knives' head spun, his eyes an angry flash. “What do you mean, if you have to go? This was your stupid idea!”

“Yes, well,” Vash adjusted the rear view mirror, appraising his own reflection, “I don't want to go in there looking like this.”

“I think it's a marked improvement,” Knives said snobbishly.

“I look like a jerk!” Vash complained, brushing his palm over his newly cropped hair.

“You look like me!”

“Exactly!”

Knives cast him an irritated scowl, and Vash smiled inwardly. It really wasn't a bad haircut. Especially considering that Knives had managed to do it with only a straight razor. But, Vash supposed, if you've been giving yourself the same haircut for over a hundred years, you should be able to do it on somebody else with your eyes closed. Vash kind of liked it. Fond as he was of his previous hairstyle, this one kept his head cooler and it didn't fall in his eyes. But, for now, he let Knives believe he hated it, because quibbling with him was distracting Knives from how nervous he was about going into that bar.

“Those stupid spikes were as blatant as the damnable red coat!” Knives argued for what felt like the hundredth time. “You've got to be the only moron who would go out of the way to as conspicuous and easily identifiable as conceivably possible when the whole world is hunting you down!”

Vash had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Hey, brother?” he asked, pensively regarding his reflection.

“What?” Knives said, arms now crossed in displeasure.

“Does this haircut make me look like a homicidal maniac?”

Knives took a swing at the back of Vash's head, but his twin ducked it easily, slipping from the truck as he opened the door. “Come on, Knives,” Vash grinned. “We're gonna miss happy hour!”

Vash said a silent prayer and walked straight toward the swinging doors. He didn't turn to look back at Knives, but a moment later he heard a crunch as his brother's feet landed in the sand. By the time he pushed one of the double doors aside, he could feel Knives' breath on his neck.

The last time Knives had been in a place like this, he'd still been collecting Gung-ho Guns. That had actually been quite amusing, seeing as every patron had ended up dead, slaughtered by Midvalley the Hornfreak.

He figured the chance of a repeat performance was slim to nil, firstly because Midvalley was dead, and secondly because Vash was running this particular show. Furious as he was at Vash for having brought him here, Knives found himself following his brother as closely as possible as he made his way through the growing crowd of drunks. There was less chance of someone accidentally brushing against him if he used Vash as a shield.

“Excuse me,” a woman said, smiling briefly, and placing a hand between Knives' shoulder blades as she moved past him.

At the contact, Knives shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. Another human pushed past him on his way to the bar, arm nudging his shoulder as the man called out his drink order. All too quickly, Knives found himself separated from Vash. Damn! Where'd he go? He scanned the crowd, the room was suddenly too small. Knives felt he was suffocating in the very stink and sweat of the bodies that pushed and pulsed around him.

It took a great deal of will to clip the rage he felt building to a manageable burn. It wouldn't do to lose his cool now and ruin the arrangement he'd made with Vash. Knives closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't have to look at them.

He could do this. agreed to five years, which leaves me four years, eleven months, one week, four days and probably about three hours...

“Oof!” Knives' eyes flew open at the sound, finding its source to be a rather unsavory looking human who'd collided with Knives' very solid shoulder. The drink the insect had been holding was now decorating the front of its shirt.

“Hey, fucker! Watch where you're going!”

Knives blinked at the filthy, drunken human staring into his face. He was confused for a moment. Was this vermin addressing him?

“Yeah! You, asshole. 'The fuck's your problem?”

Yes, it was in fact talking to him. And, it had called him a 'fucker' and an 'asshole'.

Knives closed his eyes again, willed his thrumming pulse to slow, his trembling fist to unclench. Don't kill it, he told the demon inside, the satisfaction is not worth the cost. Noble Vash was plant of his word. He agreed to their arrangement because he believed (still believes) that he could change his brother's mind about the supposed value of the human race. But when he fails to 'save' me, he'll have no choice but to honor his end of the bargain. Knives grinned automatically. In less than five years, with Vash at his side, he'd be free to kill every stinking, ugly, rotten-toothed piece of human trash on this planet. Including, this maggot, who was working very hard at dissolving Knives' self-control. Don't kill it, he told the source of rage inside him once more, soon enough they will all be dead.

“What the hell are you smiling about, shithead?”

Knives took a low breath, let it out softly. He attempted to address the human calmly: “Go. Away.”

Vash read his brother's lips as he pushed his way down the bar. He could tell that each word was an agony of measured control as it passed over Knives' tongue. Vash had precious little time to intervene.

Despite the insistent knowledge that he had to get to Knives as quickly as possible, Vash was able to wonder a moment at how easily the understanding of his sibling came to him. They'd been apart for the majority of their lives, and yet within just a few days of being near him, Vash found himself falling into the old pattern of knowing. He found that his mind naturally picked up on Knives' posture, the movement of his mouth as he spoke. He noted the intensity and mood of his gaze, even as he only saw it in profile, registered the flex and release of muscle from hairline to hip. An uncountable number of minutiae betrayed to Vash every aspect of his twin's mood and thoughts. He would have known him as well as he knew himself, even if they didn't share an empathic bond.

Vash felt a touch of rage at the drunk antagonizing Knives. For a moment he wondered if the feeling belonged to him, or if it had originated in his brother. No. It was his own. Vash had wanted Knives' reintroduction to the human race to be marked by kindness and understanding. Delicate. Their sisters had told him that Knives was delicate, and Vash saw it now. Saw it in how Knives was barely able to contain his rage, though Vash was certain he was giving it his full effort. He saw uncertainty in Knives, perhaps fear as well. Not fear of what the man would do to him, but of what he would do to the man. Not afraid for the pain he could inflict, but afraid that he would inflict it and the choice would not be his. Knives was about to lose control, and that terrified him.

Damn. It wasn't supposed to start like this. Knives' first encounter with a human was not meant to be a confrontation. You know, I leave him alone for three minutes... Vash wondered briefly if bad luck and poor timing were somehow hereditary. The curse of free-born plants.

If the man in front of Knives had been marginally sober, he might have sensed the danger. He should have seen it in the eyes of the tall blond when they finally turned on him. But through a fog of liquid courage, and a history of successful barroom brawls bolstering his confidence, this man took another step towards Knives. A gesture he meant to be quite menacing. And that action, moving within half a pace of Knives, was nearly the last thing he ever did. Fortunately for this man, the tall blond had a brother.

With a final shove, Vash placed himself between Knives and the drunk. Even with his back to his twin, Vash could sense the small release of tension, the nearly grateful relief. Vash smiled broadly at the drunk, placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Listen, friend. You're gonna want to back off. Like, right now.”

Still not understanding his peril, perhaps misinterpreting Vash's gentle tone as weakness, the man sneered, said: “Fucking one-armed, crippled piece of shit!” He pulled back his fist, and Vash watched its path as if in slow motion. Why does it always come to violence? Vash caught the fist in the middle of its forward swing, turned his hand so the fist twisted, as did the wrist and arm it was attached to. Two deft steps and a spin, and Vash had the man's arm levered behind his back. He put a little pressure on the elbow, not enough to really hurt him, just enough to keep him gentle and to make him aware of the strength behind the hand that held him in place.

“I tried to tell you.” Vash's voice was tired. He was angry, which was a feeling he wasn't comfortable with. This man, trying to be a tough-guy, for no reason but to feed his own ego, had nearly ruined everything. Vash put a little more pressure on the trapped arm, made sure his voice was suitably commanding as he spoke, “Now, you stay the hell away from my brother.”

Vash released the man, who spun and backed away, nearly losing his balance. Vash glared hard at the drunk who now blinked at him in confusion. Stunned into a state of temporary sobriety, the man touched his arm where Vash had twisted it, wondering over the quiet strength that had rendered him so helpless. He looked up and past Vash's shoulder, where his eyes would find Knives' face. Whatever he saw there dispelled any fight remaining in the man. Vash understood the look on his face: the drunk had finally realized how close he'd come to death.

Sobered and frightened, the man backed away until he could turn into the crowd. Vash watched the back of his head work its way toward the exit until it disappeared.

Knives was surprised at how grateful and relieved he felt. He was shaken, feeling the tremor and discomfort in his muscles. The stunning revelation was that he'd never before been required to reign in his temper. In the past, he'd never had to stop to think. He'd just reacted, and no one had been left in his wake to stir a question of the action. How was it that this had never occurred to him? But there was the truth, finally laid out in perfect clarity: Knives's impulse control was just barely under his command. If Vash hadn't stepped in when he had, Knives wouldn't have been able to help himself. He would have killed every man, woman, and child within striking distance.

There was no question; it was simple fact. Knives would not have grieved a single life, in fact he probably would have enjoyed the slaughter. That wasn't the point, though. The point was that he wouldn't have had a choice in the matter. That unnerved him.

Knives followed Vash's gaze, watched the drunk waver and disappear through the swell and throb of the crowd. Such insignificance. A single ant, indistinguishable from the colony, not even worthy of his notice, and yet... he'd almost thrown everything away for a chance to destroy that man. What a waste it would have been. Beneath him. And yet he would have been powerless to stop it.

Knives watched Vash's back as his shoulders relaxed, knew that he was going to turn around to face him. He was already angry, an anticipation of Vash's reaction. He was ready to meet a scowl, Vash's self-righteous indignation. Vash, patron saint of God's biggest mistake. With the new knowledge of his own limitations, Knives found he'd developed a grudging respect for Vash's patience. He'd been angry with the drunk, and yet he'd been perfectly controlled. His movements, the tenor of his voice, had all been precise.

It was irritating, infuriating. Don't you dare glare at me, Vash. Worse, don't you dare fucking smile. Actually, with the turmoil inside him at that moment, any expression Vash offered was just about guaranteed to set Knives off.

Vash turned, his eyes a soft apology, and Knives realized there was one response he wasn't prepared for: “Knives, I'm so sorry.”

Knives blinked once, stilled his body and expression to prevent any betrayal of feeling or thought. Vash was... sorry?

Vash stepped closer, blocked off any intrusion from the people around them. He placed his one hand protectively on Knives' shoulder. “You okay? This is my fault. This was a really bad idea. I never should have put you in a position like that, and I really am sorry, and if you wanna just leave... we should probably just leave. C'mon, let's go.”

“Vash!” Knives stiffened as Vash tried to lead him toward the exit. The bark of his voice sent Vash's eyes darting backward, as he released his grip on Knives' arm. He paused, the befuddled questioning of his expression becoming a rolling sensation of nostalgia as Knives took it in. He smirked, said: “You used to look at me like that all the time. Like you didn't know your ass from your elbow.”

Vash only blinked quizzically, his expression still deceptively innocent. He was waiting, Knives realized, carefully gauging Knives' reaction before venturing a response. God, but Vash was easy to read. And Knives realized the same was true of him, at least where Vash was concerned. Knives went over his own posture, knew that Vash was responding to his stillness. Waiting. Vash was waiting for a cue, a decision.

That dumb bastard! He really was sorry. And not because Knives had nearly murdered a room full of people (which Knives was certain Vash was perfectly aware of). No, Vash was honestly and sincerely sorry for having put his brother in a situation that would cause him such distress. That the limits of Knives' control had been bent to breaking. That he'd been made to endure an impotent rage as a human violated his personal space. Vash was even worried about him, about how he was feeling.

“Oh, fuck you, Vash. Stop looking at me like that.” Knives turned his back to him, began scanning the room for a more strategically favorable position. He spotted a table, miraculously empty, its previous occupants just rising to leave. It was close enough to the door, had room on two sides for easy exit, but was not in the course of the main bar traffic, buffered on one side by a partial wall. Knives twisted gingerly between patrons, staking a claim on the table by throwing himself into one of its chairs.

Vash could only follow dumbly. He'd been so sure that Knives would jump at the offer to leave. He hesitated, standing in front of the table as Knives sat. “Um, I thought...”

“Wrong,” Knives interrupted. “I don't need your protection. I don't want your apology. You thought wrong.” Knives leaned back in the chair, dusted imagined filth from his sleeve with a flick of the wrist that managed to be both regal and casually thoughtless. He quirked an eyebrow at Vash, who continued to stand dumbfounded by the edge of the table. “What, Vash?”

Vash swallowed, shook himself of his stupor. “Uh... You want something to drink?”

Knives frowned, “Yes... but I don't want to drink it out of the same glasses that they use.”

Vash rolled his eyes. “They wash the glasses, Knives! Besides, alcohol is naturally antiseptic, right?”

“Get me a double.” Knives gave Vash a dismissive little smirk, stretching his legs out beneath the table.

Vash allowed himself to smile as he turned away from his brother. He could feel he'd just won a major victory. He wasn't sure how or why, but somehow Knives' encounter with the drunk had been important. And something about the way Knives interpreted Vash's apology was important, as well. Anyway, Knives was acting so frigging elitist and self-important, Vash figured he had to have one up on his twin. It was one of the ways Knives had always consoled himself when he'd been proven wrong. Vash rolled his eyes as he thought of it, accepting two glasses (which was no easy feat with one arm) from the bartender. Knives could be such a child.

Returning to their table, Vash noticed a slight tension to Knives, and tried to follow his gaze as he set down the drink. “What's the matter now?”

“I'm being stared at,” Knives growled, “by that blond woman.”

“Hey, where?” Vash asked excitedly. “Maybe she thinks you're cute...” Vash's voice died in his throat as he spotted the girl Knives had been talking about. He quickly turned his head away. Wouldn't it just figure? “Not good.”

“What? What's the matter?” Knives' tension increased to the beginnings of alarm. “She's coming over here. Dammit, Vash! Do you know every human on the planet?”

“Hi there, ace gunman. Long time, no see.” The tall blond stood in front of them, resting her hand on her hip, just next to her gun, Vash noted. She wore pants and a vest under a worn leather duster, a dull, metal star on her chest marking her as Sheriff. Her eyes were warm, but keen. They flitted over Vash, and quickly moved over to assess his companion. “Didn't know you had a twin, Vash.”

“Wow, Marianne! How could you tell?” Vash laughed, his eyes all but disappearing into his smile.

The Sheriff looked from Vash to the man sitting next to him, a near perfect mirror image. She fixed Vash with a pointed glare. Vash laughed again, brought his hand to the back of his neck. “Guess it's kind of obvious, huh?”

Vash's brother sighed heavily, flashed him a look intended to let him know just how stupid he thought he was. He took a deep gulp from the double rocks and whiskey in front of him, his eyes falling on Marianne. Instantly, she felt disquieted, her gun hand itching on her hip. She resisted the urge to move it to the butt of her weapon, letting her eyes settle on the man.

He really did look remarkably like Vash. From across the room, she'd mistaken him for his brother. But there was a coldness to his posture, a silent aggression in his eyes, that let her know she would never make that mistake again. She tore her gaze from the stranger, turning back to the more familiar, and friendlier, of the brothers. “So... you still playing at being Vash the Stampede?”

Marianne's tone was carefully teasing, but Vash noticed that Knives' face held a touch of surprise and alarm. 'What does she know?' his eyes asked. Vash knew that after their last meeting, Marianne most likely had little doubt that he was the one and only Humanoid Typhoon, but the way she questioned him suggested she was still willing to play dumb. If he handled the situation correctly, he could diffuse it before Knives did something foolish. He laughed, made it genuine and only slightly exaggerated. “No way, young lady! You hear they got a bounty on that guy again? I'd have to be crazy to keep pretending I was him, don't you think?”

“Yeah,” Marianne agreed, her smile knowing, but soft, “totally nuts.”

Vash stood quickly, remembering his manners, offered her a chair. “So, you're Sheriff now, huh?”

Marianne sat, crossed her ankle over her knee. “Yes, I am. It's a good thing you aren't really Vash the Stampede, or else I'd be bound by duty to arrest you.” She looked meaningfully at Vash. It didn't take telepathy to catch her implication: Don't start anything in my town.

“Well, that is a good thing then.” He returned her gaze, and she understood: Don't worry. I'll be sure to behave.

“So, Vash,” Marianne redirected her attention to Knives, who had barely twitched a muscle throughout the exchange, “you going to introduce me?”

“Um, yeah,” Vash laughed nervously, shot an unreadable look at his twin. “Sorry. This is my brother, ah... Ashley. Uh, Ash, this is Miss Marianne... er, I mean, Sheriff Cayzen.”

Marianne noted that at the mention of his name, 'Ashley' gave his brother a look that could peel paint. What the hell are you hiding this time, Vash? She cleared her throat, and quirked a suspicious brow. “Vash and Ash, huh? Your mother must have had a sense of humor.”

If Knives' eyes had had teeth, they would have bitten Vash's face off. “Ashley!? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

Vash tried to keep a neutral expression on his face, something he'd always found difficult to do while having a telepathic argument. “What? I couldn't tell her your name was 'Knives'! She'd think you were crazy and dangerous!”

“I am dangerous.”

“Yeah, and crazy. Now, just shut up!”

“Vash...” Knives paused. He rolled his neck to the side, eliciting a disturbing series of cracking noises. “I promised not to harm any humans... I never promised anything about you.”

Marianne watched in silent confusion as the brothers stared at each other. Eventually, Vash scooted a bit farther away from his twin, and noticed that she was still waiting for him to respond. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Sense of humor. Guess she did,” he said, and his face became unreadable once more behind an overwhelming grin.

Marianne stood. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Vash. And, Ash... it was nice to meet you.”

Vash stood with her, responded that it was nice to see her, too. That they'd probably be seeing her around, as they might be staying awhile in New Oregon. But the brother? He didn't even glance at her as she left. Strange. She had the distinct feeling that a whole lot of trouble was headed her way, and that she'd have these two to thank for it.

She liked Vash. He was genuinely kind, had saved her life. Not to mention, he was pretty easy on the eyes. The thought made her blush a bit, which was definitely not becoming of a Sheriff. Besides, he may have been cute, and she might have owed him a great debt for his help with the unscrupulous Mr.Schezar, but he was still Vash the Stampede: a human magnet for misfortune.

Sheriff Marianne Aura Cayzen made her way through the doors, feeling the chill of night air as it touched her face. She sighed heavily and thought, “Yes. I'll be keeping a close eye on them.”

<><><><><><><& gt;<><><><>

What will I do if it's him?

Meryl remained seated, contemplating the same question again, as the rest of the passengers made their way off the bus. Stop being silly, Meryl. Vash wouldn't be captured so easily. Reluctantly, she pulled her own pink suitcase from the overhead storage rack and started down the aisle. The missive she'd received from Bernardelli two days prior was clutched in her fist.

'Special Agents Stryfe and Thompson:
'Re: Vash the Stampede

'Upon receipt of this letter you are directed to book passage to Kansas, Southern Cornelia.

'A party of bounty hunters have taken custody of a man whom they claim is Vash the Stampede. You will proceed to the Kansas City Jail where you will be met by the Southern Cornelian resident agent, Russell Plink. Kansas is currently under the jurisdiction of the Federal Cavalry, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Irwin, pending your identification of the prisoner.

'We have assured the Lieutenant Colonel of your full cooperation.

'A full report is expected upon completion of your mission.'

Meryl reviewed the contents of the letter once more, feeling she was still no closer to fully understanding its implications. It had been signed by Francis Bernardelli himself, the president of the company. That, in and of itself, convinced her totally of the Society's commitment to locating Vash. What was even more disturbing, however, was the involvement of the government. She, Millie, and Wolfwood had suspected that Bernardelli was in league with the Federation, and this confirmed it. But a Lieutenant Colonel?

It was an extremely high-ranking officer to bring in for the simple identification of a bounty. Even a bounty as high as this. And they'd taken command of an entire town. The government wanted Vash bad, and the military presence suggested they'd a very good feeling that the man they had in custody was the real thing.

If it is him, at least then I'd know he was alive, thought as she walked down the town's main street toward the jail. I suppose I could just say it's not him. They'd have to let him go then, wouldn't they?

Meryl wasn't sure this would be an option, however. Knowing Vash, he'd probably start crying, or shouting, 'Insurance girl!', the moment he saw her. She felt the beginning itch of anger as she thought of it. Wouldn't it be just like him to get himself into trouble, and then make it as difficult as possible for her to get him out of it? And to let himself get caught before he came back to her, without even sending a letter or anything to let her know he was okay!? That bum!

Merylstopped in front of a medium-sized, square building that looked like it had seen better days. The walls were riddled with sand-erosion and bullet holes. The sign that said, “JAIL” was barely legible.

Meryl felt a swell of apprehension, tried to press it down so it wouldn't show on her face. A Cavalry soldier was stationed at the door. He let her in once she identified herself.

Inside, she was greeted by a round man with glasses who looked to be somewhere in his thirties. He approached her with an enthusiastic gait, causing is considerable girth to bounce with the movement. “Special Agent Stryfe! It is such an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you. You must be Agent Plink.” Meryl shook the man's hand. “You know, I hadn't been aware that there was a Bernardelli office in Southern Cornelia.”

Agent Plink seemed delighted by her interest. He nodded vigorously, his jowls trembling over the top of his starched collar. “Oh yes! You'll remember there were a series of mysterious disappearances in towns all over this region a few years ago. The Society thought it imperative to establish a base of operations in the interest of risk prevention.” He leaned toward her as he added, “You know, many believe the Humanoid Typhoon to be involved, though we've never been able to confirm it.”

“I had heard that, yes.” Meryl withdrew her hand demurely. “I've also heard that there've been no further incidents in this area. I congratulate you, Agent Plink.”

“Thank you! And please call me Russell.” He beamed a huge smile that creased his eyes into the round flesh of his face. “You'll have to forgive my enthusiasm. I just can't believe that the Meryl Stryfe is here in my town! Everyone in the company talks about your exploits.”

Meryl blushed slightly, discomforted by the idea of celebrity. “Um... thank you, Russell. But really, Millie and I are just doing our jobs. It's really not all that exciting...”

“Where is Agent Thompson? I'd been told that you two would be arriving together.”

“Ah... well, Millie was unable to make this trip. There was pressing business I needed her to attend to.”

In truth, Meryl had left Millie in September. She was expecting a reply from Karen, and told Millie she wanted her to wait for it. Plus, now that the wheat season was over, Millie's father and Wolfwood were in the middle of expanding a separate house on the Thompson property. Previously, it had been reserved for housing seasonal laborers. Now, it would become the new orphanage.

“Stay and help build, Millie,” Meryl had told her junior partner. “Besides, with your brother's wedding coming up... you're needed here. There's no point in both of us going. There's no way Vash would get caught, anyway.”

It had been mostly true. There was a lot of activity in September that required Millie's help, and Meryl did want someone there to receive any communication from Karen. But it wasn't as if Wolfwood couldn't have handled it on his own. Really, Meryl had a sense that the situation with Vash had gone beyond the limits of the information provided to them. A small part of her felt that by coming to Kansas she was walking into a spider's web. If something happened, at least Millie would be free to keep looking.

It was a stupid thought. What the hell did she think was going to happen? But rereading the missive again and again, she knew this was bigger than the scope of her current understanding. Why did the government want Vash so desperately? Why did they need him alive? How was it connected to Bernardelli? She quoted part of the directive to herself: 'We've assured the Lieutenant Colonel of your full cooperation.' Why did it sound like they doubted that the girls would cooperate?

Meryl returned her attention to the present, and Agent Plink, who seemed disappointed. “Ah, well, I suppose it must have been quite important to keep her away...”

His tone suggested he would have liked for her to elaborate on this 'pressing business', but their conversation was interrupted by the approach of a tall young man wearing the military uniform of the Federation. He faced Meryl with the kind of stiff posture that spoke of discipline and training. She watched as he took in her appearance. His voice hinted at uncertainty, “Special Agent Stryfe of the Bernardelli Insurance Society?”

“Yes,” Meryl said, extending her hand. “Are you the man in charge?”

“Yes, ma'am. I apologize. I thought...” he hesitated.

“I'd be taller?” Meryl supplied.

He chuckled lightly. “Perhaps, ma'am. You've quite a formidable reputation.”

Meryl wondered briefly how he knew of her reputation, then realized that if the Society was aligned with the military, he probably had access to her file. He was young to be of such high rank. That spoke of ambition and resourcefulness, something Meryl understood. He was strikingly handsome, but not in the way Vash was. Vash's looks were nearly perfect in their symmetry and clarity; he was actually kind of 'pretty' (for lack of a better word), something that made him approachable. This man's features held a hard edge, a rugged imperfection that somehow added to their appeal. He smiled, but she noted that it didn't reach his honey-colored eyes.

Meryl instantly distrusted him.

“I'm Lieutenant Colonel Jared Irwin. I've been sent to oversee the transport of the prisoner. This way, please.”

Meryl followed him out of the small entry room, deeper into the building. Agent Plink was following close by her shoulder. Meryl was nervous. Something wasn't right about this, and that inkling of a feeling only solidified as they entered the next room.

Meryl took in her surroundings quickly. There were ten Cavalry soldiers standing at attention throughout. She noted a man, who must have been the Sheriff, sitting at a desk. His expression was sour. He most likely resented the Cavalry having taken control over his town. There were five other men in the room, rough-necks that Meryl assumed must have been the bounty hunters. There was a door at the back that she knew would lead to the holding cells. No doubt, that was where they would find the prisoner, and probably more soldiers.

Her mind rolled over the possibilities. This was a very strong government presence. Overkill by any standard. Meryl had worked long enough in the insurance business to recognize a bureaucratic machine at work, but this was over her head. She needed more information, but how much dare she ask?

“I'm curious, Lieutenant Colonel, why is it that the bounty is only good if the Stampede is taken alive?” She did her best to sound casual, and suddenly wished Millie was there: she was so much better at playing dumb.

Meryl thought she saw him stiffen, a moment of discomfort at the question, but it was gone before she could be certain. He smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm not at liberty to discuss that. It's just a standard military protocol. You understand, don't you?”

Agent Plink laughed. “Oh, we Bernardelli agents know all about protocol, don't we?”

Meryl smiled, all disarming feminine softness. “Yes, of course.”

Seemingly satisfied with her reaction, the Lieutenant Colonel continued walking toward the door that led to the holding cells. “We'll just need you to make a positive identification, and then you can be on your way.”

He sounded so certain, and Meryl found herself gripped with terror. It might really be him. They might really have caught him. Meryl suddenly realized how desperately she missed him. That she'd give nearly anything to see his face again. But not here, not like this.

Don't let it be him. Please God, let them be wrong. Meryl knew that if she walked into the other room and found Vash there'd be no controlling her reaction. She wouldn't be able to keep the truth of his identity from showing on her face. She found herself wondering how many soldiers were in the other room, how many she'd be able to subdue. It was hopeless. If they really had caught Vash, there'd be no way to save him, but she knew she wouldn't be able to just watch as they dragged him away. Away from her. Again.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” the Lieutenant Colonel asked, pausing at the door that might conceal Vash.

“Yes, fine.” She nodded, hoped she sounded more convinced than she felt.

“I've read your field reports,” he began carefully. “The way you spoke about the Stampede, it seems you're... ah, fond of him?”

She didn't like his tone. It was nearly insulting, but nothing she could protest outright. She weighed her response carefully. “In my experience with him, I found him to be an honorable man.”

“Agent Keele didn't agree with that assessment.”

Meryl narrowed her eyes at the name. Bardeaux Keele: the assassin who'd tried to kill Vash under the guise of being a Bernardelli disaster investigator, and had then held a gun to her head. Karen had told her that Keele was ex-military elite. At the time, Meryl had thought he was working independently, involved in an extortion scheme. But the way the Lieutenant Colonel had said “Agent Keele” made her wonder if his military status could accurately be described as 'ex'. Was it possible that Keele had been inserted by the military for the very purpose of eliminating Vash? Irwin had just all but admitted that the military had tried to have Vash killed, but in such a way that she couldn't call him out on it. That was the second time he'd done that: said something insinuating, but not blatant enough for her the name it satisfactorily. How deep does this go? How far-reaching are the government's plans?

She forced her expression to go blank. “Bardeaux Keele was not in a position to make an assessment of Mr. Vash's character. If I recall, he wasn't on the job longer than a week before he was arrested for opening fire on a crowded street, as well as for causing Grade C property damage.”

“Hmm... of course, ma'am.” Irwin smiled smoothly. “You've been assigned to the Humanoid Typhoon for... how many years has it been?”

“Several.” Meryl couldn't keep the icy edge from her voice.

The Lieutenant Colonel continued to smile, as if he didn't notice how she bristled. Meryl knew, though, that he had noticed. “I'm sure you must know him very well.”

That was the third time. This man was very good at being suggestive without being overbold. Meryl was tempted to ask just what he was implying, but knew that confronting him wouldn't be advantageous. If he was trying to get a rise out of her, it would be foolish to jump to the bait. Better to continue the facade of perfect social etiquette. She smiled demurely, said: “My experience in the field puts me in a unique position to be of service to you, sir.”

“And the Federation is grateful for your assistance, ma'am.” He turned to Agent Plink. “If you'll wait here, Special Agent Stryfe and I will return momentarily.”

Plink looked as if he might protest, but the Lieutenant Colonel had already opened the door to the holding cells and was ushering Meryl inside. He didn't allow her to turn her back to him. He wants to see my immediate reaction, Meryl realized. Oh please, Vash. Don't let it be you.

It was darker back here. Meryl was right about there being more soldiers. There were four more outside of the center cell. She stepped forward, aware of Irwin's gaze. He didn't even try to hide how closely he was watching her.

Meryl peered through the bars, met the eyes of the captive. “That's not him.”

There was no surprise in the Lieutenant Colonel's voice as he asked, “You're sure?”

The question was redundant. He knew that Meryl was telling the truth, and that there was no way she would make a mistake. More importantly, Meryl realized, he'd known all along that the man he held in captivity wasn't Vash. They set this up. They were trying to get a read on me.

Meryl gasped in understanding. Of course. She and Millie had been closer to him than anyone else the government would have access to. Vash was a ghost, a nomad with a knack for disappearing. If they so urgently wanted him in custody, it would make sense for them to use the insurance girls. This whole thing was a test to discover the nature of our relationship, to see if they'll be able to use us to get close to him.

She turned on the Lieutenant Colonel with new eyes. He'd been watching her this whole time, taking notes, prodding her for reactions. I can't give him anything more to work with. As if outside herself, she felt her features relax, her muscles soften as she gently shrugged. “I'm positive, sir. That man isn't Vash the Stampede. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful.”

“It's quite all right, ma'am. I'm sorry to have troubled you with a false alarm.”

Now that she knew his intentions, the Lieutenant Colonel appeared infinitely more condescending and unctuous. Still, Meryl allowed herself to betray nothing of her true feelings. “I only hope this matter with the Stampede will be settled soon. You must understand how tiring it is to try and prevent a localized disaster from causing damage.”

Irwin laughed and she smiled sweetly. “I can only imagine, ma'am. But, I assure you we'll have him in custody soon enough.”

Over my cold, dead corpse, you son of a bitch, Meryl thought, though the smile never left her lips. This man thought to read her like a book, to use her to get at Vash. There was a smugness to him that revealed how certain he was that he'd be able to do just that. But, it wasn't the first time a man had underestimated Meryl Stryfe.

The Lieutenant Colonel and Agent Plink said their goodbyes, and a guard showed Meryl outside. Back on the sandy street, free of the binding formality of politics and protocol, Meryl allowed her hands to bunch into fists. She was sure she'd given something away here today before she'd realized the nature of the game, but she'd learned a great deal as well.

She dragged her suitcase down the street, quickening her pace. A glance at the position of the suns told her that if she hurried, she could catch the bus that would get her back to September in two days time. She needed to talk to Millie and Wolfwood as soon as possible. The military, as well as Bernardelli, would be watching them closely now. Already, Meryl was watching alleys and shadows for someone tailing her. Suddenly, everything had become so much clearer. Unfortunately, the new clarity only allowed her to see how intricate and complicated everything was. Now, she didn't just have to worry about finding Vash; she also had to worry that she'd lead the Cavalry straight to him.

Despite her anxiety, Meryl found herself smiling. A subtle, irrepressible grin that tickled her lips as she dipped her chin, let her hair fall over her eyes. Stupid Vash, she thought, any sane woman would have already realized that you're far more trouble than you're worth.

<><><><><><><>< ;><><><><>

Knives hesitated before the bulb. He had asked to be shown down here, felt it was imperative that he talk with both of his sisters still living on this ship. There used to be four, but two had been killed. It had been his fault. He had to say something to the survivors, but nothing he could think of seemed sufficient.

He and Vash had waited three more hours at that saloon for what amounted to a ten minute conversation with Max Simon. The human had appraised him gruffly, but not disrespectfully. He was all business, that one. Told them that everything was set, and had them out the door and on the way to the SEEDs ship in nearly the same breath.

Vash had been timidly apprehensive, afraid that no one on the ship would want him back after what had happened last time. Knives thought it was somewhat odd that Vash wasn't angry with him. After all, if these humans rejected him, it was because of actions that Knives had set into motion. Leonof the Puppet-master. Gray the Ninelives. Hoppered the Gauntlet. His Gung-ho Guns had been thorough in their destruction. A little too thorough. It was lucky for them that they'd gotten themselves killed in the process, because they really wouldn't have wanted to be around when Knives learned that two of his sisters had died. Legato had suffered for that mistake. But...

“It was my fault. I don't know what to say to you.”

Knives closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass. Whenever he was near a bulb, it seemed he felt this overwhelming desire to be closer. It was if his sisters sang a silent siren's song, calling him home. But it was never close enough. He was always left with a hollow feeling inside, an unnameable discontent made sharper by the proximity to that which he couldn't truly be a part of.

He sensed the plant angel, prayed silently for her response. A sudden fear of rejection gripped at his heart. He wondered if it was similar to what Vash had felt, thinking these humans would hate him now.

“It's exactly the same. But I can't hate you, brother. Just like the humans don't hate Vash.”

Knives sighed in relief at her response, the warm tone. Still, he contended with her appraisal. “Don't draw comparisons. The humans are nothing like us.”

“Oh, but they are. I wish that you could feel the buzz on this ship, brother.” Her voice was full of bubbling, childish excitement as she spoke in his mind. “Everyone is so happy that Vash is home!”

The muscle above Knives' eye twitched. Had every member of his race lost their minds? He would have gotten angry with her, argued, but he remembered that he was there for a reason. He decided to focus on his original purpose: “I came here to atone, sister. I've wronged you. I... what would you have of me?”

She floated down from the center of the bulb, her hair soft, writhing tendrils of white-blond. She touched the glass as if to stroke his face, met his blue eyes with her own black, pupilless pair. She smiled, said: “Take care of Vash.”

Knives frowned in confusion. Vash was currently having his arm put back on. The Doc had offered to let Knives sit in on the procedure, but he'd declined, preferring instead to see his sisters as soon as possible. Vash would be fine, right? “Take care of Vash? I don't understand.”

His sister continued to smile at him, as if amused by his ignorance, but it wasn't accusing or patronizing. She pushed herself away from the glass, floated back toward the center of the bulb. “Our brother needs you. Go.”

Knives was left unsatisfied by her response, but he stepped away from the bulb. He followed his sense of Vash's location until he found himself outside of the medical bay where his brother was having a new prosthetic arm attached. The door opened with a soft, mechanical hiss.

Vash was laying on a table, a bright surgical lamp aimed at the stump of his left arm. The Doc was sitting on a stool beside him, magnifying lenses fixed over his glasses. The tableau chilled Knives in its similarities to his last nightmare. He stood frozen at the door.

“Please come inside, Millions,” Doc said without looking up. “There's another stool on the far wall. You can sit next to your brother on the other side of the table.”

While the Doc didn't appear the least bit surprised by Knives' sudden arrival, Vash seemed slightly dumbfounded. He tipped his head backward, his eyes widening as he took in the upside-down image of his brother. “Whatchya doing here? I thought you were going to see the plants.”

Knives shrugged, turned his eyes away from Vash as he picked up the other stool. The Doc was making an incision in the stump of Vash's arm, peeling back a section of skin. “Owwie, owwie, owwie!” Vash shut his eyes, but stayed still.

“I'm sorry, Vash,” the Doc apologized, working as gingerly as he could.

“'S okay,” Vash whimpered through clenched teeth.

Knives felt an instinctive anger at the sight of someone causing Vash pain. His hands felt impatient and useless as he bunched them into fists on his knees. “Haven't you given him any anesthetic?”

“Unfortunately, I can't,” replied the Doc, not looking up from his work. “When I attach the new socket, I have to be sure all of the nerves are properly connected.”

Knives looked down at his brother's face, recognized the slow breaths that indicated he was attempting a meditative state. It occurred to Knives that this was the second time Vash had gone through this. With a pang, he also realized that this too, was his fault.

As if aware of Knives' line of thinking, Vash smiled up at him weakly. “It's not so bad, Knives.”

Still smiling, Vash? Why? Knives eased the barrier that dulled their empathic bond. He began to feel a bit of the pain his brother was experiencing, but Vash quickly slammed the connection shut. “Don't,” Vash said.

So, Vash wanted to protect him from this. Why? If anyone should feel that pain, it should be Knives. “Shut up, Vash,” Knives said with irritation, as he forced the connection wide open.

The onslaught of pain made Knives feel faint. He gripped the edge of the table for balance as his head swam. And this was only an echo of what Vash felt! How the hell was Vash even conscious, let alone offering up that phony smile for his brother's benefit? Knives closed his eyes against the assault on his senses, but refused to close off the connection. If Vash can handle it, so can I.

Knives opened his eyes as he felt fingers thread through his own. He couldn't tell which of them Vash was trying to comfort by taking his hand. Vash's forehead was beaded with sweat, his breath coming in short puffs as he tried to keep his composure. When Knives didn't withdraw his hand, Vash gripped it more firmly. He put another mental barricade in place, cutting Knives off from the sensation of pain once more. Vash's eyelids fluttered briefly with the effort, and for a moment Knives thought he might pass out.

Knives looked across the table and watched as the Doc carved a hollow into the base of the stump. He dropped the chunk of discarded flesh into a basin on the small table beside him. Knives felt his stomach turn and fought to keep it from showing on his face. Unconsciously, he squeezed his brother's hand, and Vash smiled, weak but genuine, in response.

“You're such an idiot, Vash,” Knives said, and was surprised when his words came out tear-choked, without the bite of anger.

Vash's watery smile only persisted. “Thank you, Knives.”

Vash blinked dazedly at his twin. Knives could tell he was trying to focus on his face, but his eyes were glazed and his lids kept falling as if weighted. It had to take an incredible amount of restraint to remain still, Knives thought, to keep from crying out. Vash had made a few whimpering noises, but he'd swallowed back the brunt of the agony.

Knives looked across the table again, and locked eyes with the human as he readied the metal socket that would anchor the new arm, allowing Vash to feel and control it as if it was his own. The look the small doctor gave Knives told him that this would be the worst of it. Knives gripped Vash's hand with both of his own and thought, if he'd done this to me, I never would have forgiven him.

The Doc twisted the socket into place, and a jagged cry of pain finally tore from Vash's throat.

<><><><><><><>&l t;><><>

A/N: Part Deux: Who's Marianne Aura Cayzen, you ask? Or the dubious Mr. Schezar? Please see the second episode of the Trigun anime for answers. Though, you're probably already on top of that. How about Bardeaux Keele? Answer: Trigun Maximum, Volume One, specifically- No. 3: “Girls, Bravo!” Also, the showdown in the SEEDs ship that once hovered peaceably over New Oregon? We're going with the anime version of events: episodes 20 & 21. Um... am I forgetting anyone? Well you know Max and the Doc, yeah? Oh! What about Agent Russell Plink and Lieutenant Colonel Jared Irwin? Well, I kinda made them up. So, no reference material there.
Additionally: Vash's hair is cut, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it! X-P Relax... it'll grow back. Flame if you must, but I assure you that it had to be done. And at least, he's not bald. Doesn't that make you feel better? Huh?