Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ After the Fall ❯ Set It Off ( Chapter 10 )

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/nope, nothing yet
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: Wait! I know this joke: Two blonds walk into a bar... and one of them nearly freaks out and kills everyone in the place... Hmm, that's not much of a punchline, is it? Maybe I'm thinking of that one where a horse walks up to a sake stand? Anyhoo! Thanks to Vash's intervention, crisis was narrowly averted. Though, Knives really wasn't happy about Vash having to come to his rescue (the man's a bit of a control freak), so in the grand sibling tradition of Anything-You-Can-Do-I-Can-Do-Better, he decided to stick around and knock a few back. Vash and Ash ('Ashley' being a pseudonym spontaneously invented by Vash for his brother, because, well, let's face it: how does, 'I'd like for you to meet my brother, Knives,' really sound?) ran into Marianne, who's become Sheriff of New Oregon (I know! What are the chances? Funny how that worked out in a way that was totally coincidental and not at all contrived and/or staged by the author). Meanwhile, Special Agent Scully... ahem!... I mean, Special Agent Stryfe was locked in a cat-and-mouse battle of wits with a high-ranking military official. It would appear that the Federation hopes to use Meryl as a way to locate Vash... yeah, like she's gonna let that happened. Those military boys picked the wrong girl to mess with. Meryl had some questions answered, but a whole lot more were brought up. Why is the bureaucratic machine after Vash? (Conspiracy theorists unite! I've rented the VFW and there will be a meeting later with punch and pie. Make sure you aren't followed.) Later, Vash had a new arm attached. But since his time in the bulb had made the socket where the prosthetic attaches go bye-bye, he had to start from scratch. Ouches. Knives was thrust into a supportive role, which he didn't totally suck at, and as a whole, I found the scene to be quite emotive-- nearly as touching as the heartfelt “Brothers don't shake hands! Brothers hug!”scene from Tommy Boy, which, as you know, set the bar for displays of filial devotion.

A/N: n my latest one-shot, I mentioned that this chapter was approaching 12,000 words. Well, that was a touch too long (even for me). And as the content was becoming quite a sprawling mess, my betas gently suggested that perhaps I should save some for the eleventh chapter. Thus, I offer for your consideration: chapter 10, pared down to a much more manageable 7,000 words, or so.
Additionally, if I may be so bold: I suggest that you take a virtual stroll over to my profile, where you will find two one-shots I composed entitled, He. Did. What!? and The Road Home, respectively. If you haven't already, I encourage you to read them before digging into the following text. While it is not necessary to have read either, there are references, and whatnot, that will make more sense (and perhaps be funnier) if you have these little ditties under your belt.
Also, this chapter is titled, not for the 1996 film starring Queen Latifah and Jada Pinkett before she married Big Willie, but rather, a track from the Samurai Champloo soundtrack that was stuck on repeat, inside my head, as I wrote. Pick it up at realityLapse if you'd like to have a listen.

Chapter 10: Set It Off

“Either you trust me, or you do not. Stay or go, Vash, but don't hover.” Knives didn't look up at his brother as he finished his breakfast. He was almost done with the crossword, as well, if only Vash would shut the hell up. “The fact that the 'Jessica' creature is still alive should be proof that I've impulse control enough not to kill anyone while you're away.”

Vash frowned at his eggs on toast. Initially, Knives had wanted him to stay in New Oregon for at least a month before he set off to find his friends. But after a week of being around Vash, who'd become as jittery and restless as a caged animal, it seemed Knives was more than willing to see his brother go. Vash just wasn't certain that Knives would be all right in his absence. What if something happened? There was a lot that could go wrong, leaving Knives alone on a ship full of humans. Vash's brain couldn't seem to stop reminding him of the numerous ways in which the situation could end in disaster.

But, Knives did have a point. Vash had to decide to either trust his brother and leave, or not trust him and stay. Maybe a show of confidence would be good for Knives. Or, maybe Vash would return to find the ship on fire and everyone dead.

“I know you want to see her,” Knives said conversationally over his coffee cup. “I would have thought you'd be happy that I've not objected to it.”

Vash could feel his cheeks redden and fumbled over a hasty correction: “Her? You mean them, don't you? I want to see them.”

“Hn.” Knives' tone was disinterested, but a subtle, mocking grin was tugging at his mouth.

“I mean, of course I want to see Meryl, but I want to see Wolfwood and Millie, too. I'm sure that they're really worried about me, and they've probably been trying to find me this whole time, and I've just been cooling my heels...” Vash noticed that Knives' subtle grin had become a full on smirk. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Knives began smugly. “It's just that I only said that I knew you wanted to see her. I never mentioned a name.”

Vash crossed his arms, and opened his mouth to protest further, only to close it again. He wasn't going to win this game. Especially, because what Knives was implying was true. Sure, he'd thought about Wolfwood and Millie. He missed them. But...

He had to find her. Even if she was probably going to strangle him the minute she saw him. He pictured her face in that patented expression of deep annoyance that seemed to be cast in his direction so often. It usually meant that he was about to get smacked or lectured, or both, but somehow, over the years, he'd come to love that look. Maybe it was because, most often, if she looked at him like that, it meant that she was concerned for him. That she cared. And usually, her bark was a lot worse than her bite.

“You do want to see her?” Knives continued to smirk, not missing the opportunity to exploit Vash's embarrassment for his own amusement.

“Why are you so cool with this all of a sudden?” Vash countered. He wanted to change the subject, but Knives was being awfully reasonable. Reasonable, plus Knives, equals suspicious. “I mean, you obviously know how I feel about her.... er, them. And you're still okay with me leaving?”

Knives shrugged. “She's not so bad.”

Vash gaped like a grounded fish. “Oh no... no, no, Knives. We have a deal. You promised! What the hell are you planning to do?”

Knives threw his pen on top of the paper with a huff. Obviously, Vash would not be quiet until they'd had some sort of “heartfelt” conversation on the topic of his little human friends.

“I'm not planning shit, Vash. You think you're going to bring them back here and show me the 'error of my ways'. That I'll find them as endearing and engaging as you obviously do, and my faith in humanity will be miraculously restored. So go.” Knives fixed him with a narrowed gaze. “I want you to have every opportunity at 'saving' me, Vash. And when it's my turn, I don't want to hear a word about my not cooperating with you. We'll do things as I say, and you won't have shit to contend. Got it, Vash? If I'm up to something, this is it: I'm giving this little experiment everything I have, so that you will have to do the same.”

Knives raised his eyebrows at Vash, daring him to respond. And what the hell could he say to something like that? The prospect was frightening. When he'd struck this deal, Vash had considered the reformation of his twin a given, a matter or time and patience. But here was Knives, completely aware of what Vash was attempting, and yet totally unmoved. Vash had made him a promise, and if he didn't accomplish what he'd been so certain he could when he'd made this agreement, he'd be bound by his own hasty decision-making. But Knives couldn't really think that Vash would have anything to do with the destruction of humanity, that he'd help to wipe out the very race Rem had died to protect? Could he? But then, not killing them was probably as difficult for Knives as killing them would be for Vash.

“Okay, well...” Vash started, deciding that his best course of action was to zero in on the only statement Knives had so far made that could reasonably be considered encouraging. “So, you like Meryl then?”

“What? I didn't say that,” Knives scoffed. “I said she wasn't that bad. There's a gaping difference.”

“Why isn't she that bad? I thought you hated all humans.”

“I do,” Knives replied tersely. “It's only, now that you keep forcing me to interact with them, I find some humans to be more loathsome than others.”

“And Meryl is...?” Vash coaxed.

“Your pet, Vash, is...”

Knives sighed. Honestly, the thought of ever seeing that girl again had initially filled him with dread. From the moment he struck his deal with Vash, he knew his brother would want to find her, would find her. And really, the way he could feel Vash buzzing whenever he thought of her... At the very least, she was an unknown factor, one that shouldn't be ignored.

Her behavior, for one, was confusing and erratic: She hadn't killed Knives when she'd had the chance. She'd stayed when he'd let her go. He'd punched her in the face and she'd laughed at him. Laughed! At him! He'd had a long time to think about what had happened, and now... well, she was still obviously stupid and irrational, but... she was...

“She's not so bad,” Knives shrugged again. He picked up his pen and turned back to the paper. “How's your arm?”

Vash knew it would piss his brother off, but he couldn't help it: he grinned. So... Knives found his insurance girl to be an interesting anomaly? Before, Knives had always anticipated the meeting of a human with indifference or loathing. Meryl, however, made him nervous. And while that wasn't exactly sunshine and lollipops, it was something different. And that filled Vash with a sense of hope. “Arm's great.”

“Oh really?” Knives reached across the table without looking up, and poked Vash's deltoid where the prosthetic was attached. Hard.

“Ow! Quit it!” Vash whined, jerking the sore limb out of his twin's reach.

“Yeah. Seems super.” Knives still didn't spare his brother a glance, chewing absently on the end of his pen. “What's an eleven letter word for 'hermetic hater'?”

Vash smiled sardonically, rising from the table. “You can't get that one?”

“No,” Knives scowled, finally looking at Vash as he cleared the dishes. “Why? Is it easy or something?”

“Misanthrope.”

“Huh.& #8221; Knives' frown deepened. “Whatever. Leave already, would you?”

Vash dropped the dishes off in the sink. There was one more thing he had to talk to Knives about before he went. “Hey, Knives?”

“What?” Knives' voice had that 'slightly more irritated than normal' edge that told Vash he was swiftly losing interest in their conversation.

“If she decides to come back here with me, I want you to apologize to her.”

That got his attention. Knives' head popped up as he demanded, “Apologize? What the hell for?”

“What for?” Vash shot back incredu “For kidnapping her, terrorizing her, hitting her, trying to kill her... pick one, Knives.”

“That's not happening, Vash. Your little bitch can...”

Knives indignant refusal was cut off as Vash closed the short distance between them. He bent over Knives so that his own face was within a breath's width of his twin's. “That woman is very important to me.” Knives instinctively went very still. A growing storm was promised in Vash's voice, a tone that he'd never heard him use before. “She's saved my life more than once. She sheltered you and took care of you when she would have been within rights of putting a bullet in your sleeping skull. And you...” Vash closed his eyes, pausing as he drew a shuddering breath.

Knives wasn't afraid of Vash, but he was totally unprepared for the sudden rage in his twin. He recognized the tremor in his muscles, the shaky breath that meant he was having trouble containing it. He'd seen it in himself, though up until a month or so ago, he'd never given name to it. But Vash... no, he'd never seen this in Vash. At least, not outside of a bad dream.

“Vash?” he asked carefully. “Are you all right?”

Vash straightened, his eyes softening as if he'd only just realized what had happened. Through their bond, Knives could feel that the anger was leaching away as quickly as it had invaded. “Yeah, I...” Vash stopped, as if dazed, confusion evident in the crease of his brow.

Knives rushed to fill the silent air: “Fine, I'll do it.”

“You'll apologize?”

Knives looked away, but nodded his concession. “Sure.”

Vash frowned, but there was no anger in it. Knives wondered again at how swiftly, and violently, his brother's mood had shifted. “You hurt her, Knives. I think about what she looked like... what you did to her...” Vash turned away and ran a hand through short, tousled hair.

Since he'd witnessed the reattachment of Vash's arm, it had become glaringly clear to Knives that Vash's life had been defined by the endurance and acceptance of pain. So much pain, in so many forms, that Knives could barely begin to conceive of it.

Regret was a new and strange emotion, and Knives wasn't sure what he could do with it. He couldn't take it back, but... “I won't do it again,” Knives promised.

Vash smiled again, and any sense of the rage that had inhabited him only moments earlier was long gone. “Can I have the rest of the donuts?”

Knives considered the four honey-glazed pastries sitting on a plate in the middle of table: Tasty baked goodness, versus listening to Vash whine... “Fine, take them. Does this mean you're finally leaving?”

Vash quickly scooped the donuts up before Knives could change his mind, one of them being directly deposited into his mouth, while the other three were wrapped in a napkin. “Mmm hmm,” Vash affirmed around the pastry.

“Well, try not to get caught, and be careful of your arm.”

“What're you? My wife?” Vash groused, licking his fingers clean.

The muscle above Knives' eyes twitched, but he offered Vash a benign smile. “On second thought-- Get caught. I'm quite sure I would have a lot of fun retrieving you from the military.”

'A lot of fun', meaning: death, destruction, carnage. “You wouldn't dare,” Vash said skeptically. “You said you wouldn't harm anyone.”

“No. My promise was conditional. I said that I wouldn't harm a human unless said human threatened me or mine,” Knives calmly corrected. “I would take the capture and imprisonment of my only, dear, little brother as an inarguable threat.”

Great. Now I really, really can't get caught. Not that he'd had any intention of surrendering peacefully before, but now he had no doubt that if he did get taken down by bounty hunters or Cavalry his 'loving' older brother would literally carve a path through anyone who stood in the way of 'rescue'.

Vast cast his brother a withering glare as he cinched closed the top of his duffel: “Won't come to that, Knives.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Knives said as Vash hefted his bag to his shoulder.

Vash glanced back. Did Knives sound... nervous, just then? He smiled in a way that he knew Knives would find irritating and said, “Same to you, bro.”

<><><><><><><&g t;<><><>

Meryl tied off the line of thread, finishing the final stitch in Vash's duster. Every tear had been closed to near seamless perfection, every stitch as small and precise as a surgeon's.

She'd had a hell of a time finding the material to replace the missing sleeve. The textile dealer in September told her he'd never seen a fabric like it. He wasn't even sure what it was. But he'd been able to dye a few yards of heavy-weight cotton the same vibrant shade of red, and as she held the jacket out to inspect her work, she noted with satisfaction that one could hardly tell the difference.

Impulsively, she gripped the garment by the collar and bunched it around the lower half of her face, inhaling deeply. She allowed her eyes to drift shut. It still smelled like him.

Like sweat and dry wind. Gun-oil. The sharp, acrid burn of an expelled round. A hint of tobacco, second-hand from time spent with Wolfwood. A touch of something crisp and artificial: his hair gel, she realized. Whiskey, too. The parched heat of sunshine, and the cool stone wash of sand.

It smelled like... everything that she loved.

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


Rosana McLeod had never seen the bar so dead, even if it was only noon. Considering how hot the day was, she would have expected at least a few customers seeking refuge from the suns.

She sighed as she wiped down the bar. She'd already buffed the lacquered, artificially wooden surface to a dull glow, the closest thing to a shine she was going to get from the weathered relic, but Rosana had always been prone to nervous energy. Better to buff a clean bar than to stand around doing nothing.

The creak of the door as it swung on its time-wearied hinges brought her attention away from her aimless, circular cleaning. She squinted against the light that escaped in from the street. The tall, featureless lineation of a man stood motionless in the frame.

“Look, here,” she began peevishly. “If you're from the government, we already told you that we haven't seen him since he left, and we have no idea where he's gone.”

The man stepped into the low light of the bar. “Hey there, gorgeous,” he said, with a smile that was at odds with his dusty, road-worn appearance. “Lemme get a beer?”

“Vash!” Rosana swooped out from behind the bar, hugging him tightly before she pulled back just far enough to fuss. “You stupid kid! What are you doing here? Don't you know they put a bounty back on you? How did that happen, anyway?” She cocked her head to one side, appraising him suspiciously. “What did you do?”

Vash opened his mouth to respond, the tip of his tongue behind his teeth as he attempted to say, 'Nothing!' but Rosana didn't give him a chance.

“Oh, never mind. I'm sure I don't even want to know... What did you do to your hair?” she exclaimed, finally noticing the difference. Vash ran his hand over the top of his head self-consciously. He was sure the blond was muddy with sand and sweat. Rosana grinned fondly at him as he nervously rubbed at the back of his neck. “Well, I like it. It makes you look more grown-up. Are you hungry? Of course, you're hungry. You must be thirsty, too. Come and sit down. I'll fix you something, okay?”

Though he'd hardly spoken a word, Vash felt winded. It wasn't just Rosana. Now that he'd stopped walking, he felt his weariness catch up. He slumped gratefully onto a barstool. “Can I swap that beer for a glass of water?”

Rosana turned around to face him, already holding a glass and a pitcher of water, which she placed in front of him with a wink. “Now let me see if I can't whip you up a salmon sandwich... or six.”

“Rosie, if you weren't already married, I'd be on my knees.”

Vash smiled once more for Rosana before reaching for the water. It was only slightly cool, borderline warm, which he preferred. It just made it easier to drink fast. Half the pitcher was gone in the time it took Mac to appear from the kitchen.

“Well, you're flirting with my wife,” he grinned, “so you can't be in that bad a shape.”

“Hey-ya, Mac!”

“Kid, you look like you've been ridin' under a sandsteamer. Where the heck did you disappear to?”

Mac leaned against the bar. He was relieved to see Vash alive, and could tell the young man was happy to be in their company, but all three of them knew that Vash wasn't just stopping in to catch up. A lot had gone down since last he'd seen the Stampede, most of it shrouded in mystery.

“It's a long story, Mac...” Vash sighed, “... although it's kind of a short one-- I was taking care of some family business.”

“How'd that work out?”

“Still, waiting to find out,” Vash looked down at his hands, offering them the quirk of a smile, “but I'm optimistic... Uh, Rosie said something about the government asking questions... Wouldn't happen to be about me, would it?”

Mac barked out a dry laugh. “Seemed like the entire Cavalry was here 'bout two weeks ago, wanting to know anything and everything about you. Of course, no one here had any information. Even those who would've been willing to share it.” He fixed Vash with a meaningful look. “Ain't safe for you here, kid. Whole town knows your face, and I'm sorry to say it, but there're plenty who'd be happy to turn you in for that kind of bounty.”

Vash shrugged uneasily, then turned his attention to a plate piled high with sandwiches that Rosana set in front of him. “Had to come back,” he said between mouthfuls, “best service on Gunsmoke!”

He flashed Rosana an enormous, plastic grin, but was met by a soft, somewhat sad expression in return. “I don't know why you're in trouble, honey... but I know why you're here: You're looking for Meryl, right?”

Vash swallowed hard, hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Do you know where she is? And Milly, too? And there was probably a priest with them... though, he normally doesn't look like much of a priest. I went back to the house, but it was cleared out, and I figured that Meryl might have told you where she was headed.”

Vash had started his search in the last place he'd seen Meryl happy and healthy. He hadn't really expected her to be waiting there for him, but that hadn't stopped him from being crest-fallen when he'd walked into an empty house. How could he have been so stupid as to leave them alone with him? It had been worse than foolish; it had been arrogant. A flash memory of the smirk on her face as she handed him his 'peace offering', followed by her wide eyes and bleeding mouth as she dangled from Knives' fist.

Mac shook his head. “Millie came in here in a panic, with a dark-haired fella, asking to borrow the truck. A few days later they came back to return it. They had Meryl with them, pretty face of hers all a mess, but all she would tell us is that she was going to look for you.”

“Oh.” Guilt had never been a difficult emotion for Vash to identify, as it so closely resembled being shot in the gut.

“She sent us a letter last week,” Rosana offered, and Vash's face brightened, only to fall again as Rosana's expression remained cautious and somber. “There was no post-mark and she didn't say where she was, just that she was doing just fine, but... Vash, sweetie, she told us that if you came looking for her...”

Rosana stopped, turning away from Vash and toward her husband for support. Mac sighed heavily. “She doesn't want you to look for her.”

'The words echoed in Vash's head like empty footsteps. He found he had to close his eyes against the sad concern in Mac's face. He felt stupid, vulnerable. Embarrassed that the news surprised him. It was good, really. Hadn't he been telling her to stay the hell away from him for years? Hadn't he thought, a hundred times, how much safer she'd be if she'd keep her distance? How much happier? He recalled a dozen notes scrawled in his own handwriting: “Don't follow me.” Is this how she'd felt when she'd read them?

He looked unfocusedly at the plate of food in front of him. He could sense Mac and Rosana in his periphery, watching him with careful uncertainty. He could feel that they wanted to comfort him, but were unsure. He really should try to smile. He was making them uncomfortable. But his expression didn't want to cooperate. A small black cat leaped onto the bar and nosed at the sandwiches.

Vash reached out a hand to stroke the cat's back, but froze midway through the motion, registering a shift in the animal's mien. Its ears flipped, low and back towards the door as the hair at its neck raised on end.

Vash reacted before his logical mind made sense of the change. “Down!” he shouted, already vaulting over the bar, taking Rosana, Mac, and the cat to the floor with him.

The door of the saloon burst inward off the toe of a boot, letting in a spray of bullets that laid into the bar and the wall behind it. Rosana let out a startled cry as mirrors, glasses, and bottles exploded above them. Vash covered them with as much of his body as he was able, a rain of glass shards falling on his back and neck.

“Hold fire!!” a voice echoed, and Mac brought his hands away from his ears as the gunfire ceased, the sharp smell of smoke and metal more noticeable in the sudden silence. “Bounty's no good if he's dead, you fucking idiots!”

Recognizing the voice, Mac angrily attempted to stand, but was jerked back down by the hand Vash bunched in the hem of his shirt. “Anthony Trivolli, you filthy punk! What the hell are you doing to my bar!”

Anthony laughed. “Sorry 'bout that, old man! But that's what you get for harboring outlaws!”

Mac clenched his fists, but remained kneeling behind the bar. “Old man? I'm only forty-five, you snot-nosed son-of-a-bitch!”

“You okay?” Vash muttered, shaking the glass from his hair and collar. “Either of you hurt?”

Both men turned towards Rosana, whose face had turned red with anger. “I'm just fine. Which is more than that little brat will be able to say by the time I'm through with him.”

“Come on out, Vash the Stampede!” Anthony's voice bellowed from the other side of their barricade. “You broke my nose and you stole my truck! Two-hundred billion should just about cover it!”

“What!?” Vash popped his head up over the bar to see if he was serious. Another short burst of gunfire sent him ducking for cover once more. “I didn't steal your truck!”

“You're full of shit! Franklin saw you and your bitch driving out of town in it! Don't even bother lying!”

Vash crouched down with his shoulders leaning against the bar-back. He pulled his gun from its holster and held it loosely in front of him. So that's where the truck that Knives and Meryl were traveling in came from? He tried to imagine Meryl boosting Anthony's pickup, but the scenario was just too funny.

He noticed that Mac and Rosana were looking questioningly at the sudden smirk on his face. He quickly schooled his expression to one more appropriate to the current situation. Gunfight, remember? When he'd popped his head up for that moment, he'd taken in the layout of the bar. Damn. Somehow five men, including Anthony, had managed to get inside and spread out during the initial spray of bullets. And by his count of rounds fired, all still had ammunition.

'I'm getting sloppy,' Vash thought. How did it escape him that five armed men were approaching the only entrance? Dammit! If Knives were here, he'd be giving him flack about letting his sentimentalism dull his senses. Thank goodness for that cat... Vash looked down at the unusually small feline, who'd taken cover between his knees. “Thanks, kitty,” he said.

The best thing to do would be to end this quickly. The longer it played out, the more chance there was of somebody getting hurt. He took a quick scan of every object within arm's reach, seeing if any thing was usable. His eyes landed on a stack of serving trays. He readied himself, pivoting on the balls of his feet, his crouch still low. He quietly told the McLeods, “Stay close to the ground, and don't move.”

On the other side of Vash's barricade, across the saloon, stood Franklin Weaver. Up until earlier that morning, when someone had spotted Vash the Stampede entering town, he'd been a construction worker. Three hours later, he was now a bounty hunter. And if all went well, tomorrow he'd begin a career as a gentleman of leisure. That, anyway, had been the wise and reasonable plan they'd developed, as he, Anthony, and three other men had conspired over eggs at the diner across town.

Oh dear Lord, what the hell was I thinking?

Franklin looked to his left and right. The other 'bounty hunters' were still standing to either side, but they didn't look any more formidable than he felt. Franklin's palms were clammy and slick around his weapon, a gun he hardly knew how to use. He could feel the tension building in his muscles with every second that slowly ticked by. How had Anthony talked him into this? Going up against Vash the Stampede? He must have been crazy. No amount of money could be worth this.

He heard the Typhoon talking to the McLeods on the other side of the bar, but he couldn't make out the words. The tenor-pitched voice, even in muffled tones, made Franklin's abdomen pull in on itself in fear. He leaned forward slightly, could sense the men to his left and right tensing with him.

A flash of movement above the bar drew their eyes and their gunfire. Their bullets hammered a random pattern into the object as it flew through the air. 'A serving tray,' Franklin realized, his gaze darting back to the surface of the bar just in time to see the eyes of the Stampede as he came over the top.

Franklin's mind wasn't able the keep pace with series of events that then followed. One moment he was trying to bring the aim of his gun back around on the outlaw. The next moment, another tray collided with his hands, sending the weapon clattering across the room. In the same instant, Paul, the man to Franklin's right, lost his gun. The weapon seemed to fly from his hands of its own accord. But no, the Stampede had his colt aimed, smoke billowing from the barrel. He'd shot the gun out of Paul's grasp.

In the time it took Franklin to process this sensory information, the Humanoid Typhoon had already relieved two other men of their weapons, dodging their fire as he slipped between them. The butt of his colt, and the heel of his boot, respectively rendered both bounty hunters unconscious.

A blur of limbs and fabric half-stumbled, half-ran past Franklin. Apparently, Paul had decided to retreat. The part of Franklin's brain that had registered the turn in the battle wholeheartedly agreed with the other man's strategy. Franklin took off for the exit like a dart. This had been Anthony's idea. Whatever happened now, he was on his own.

Anthony stared in shock as his bounty hunters were all rendered unarmed, or unconscious, in the span of a few heartbeats that echoed ever more loudly in his ears. He kept his weapon trained on Vash the Stampede as he watched Franklin and Paul run ungracefully through the door. Cowards! He brought up a second hand to his gun, tucking his elbows against his chest to steady it. The outlaw's turquoise glare was fixed on him over the barrel of the silver colt, like an extension of the weapon, cutting straight into his core.

Sensing Anthony's fear, and having learned that a terrified man was the most dangerous and unpredictable of possible opponents, Vash lowered his gun and slipped it back into his holster. Anthony's eyes widened a moment in surprise, but a measure of his confidence seemed to return as he extended the 9mm handgun with a steadier arm in Vash's direction.

“Surrendering?” Anthony demanded.

The gunman smiled oddly, “Sorry, but no. Can't do that.”

Rosana and Mac's curiosity got the best of them, and they cautiously stood, the little black cat cradled in Rosana's arms. They watched as Vash strode slowly but assuredly towards Anthony, until the 9mm was all but brushing his cheek.

The tremor returned to Anthony's arm, and he shifted his weight as if to take a step backward. “Don't move!” he barked in desperation.

Vash wasn't sure how long Anthony's nerves would hold out, so he made a knee-jerk decision to neutralize the conflict. He locked his right hand onto the inside of Anthony's extended right elbow, moving the aim of the gun away from his face, so that it would harmlessly hit the wall behind him if fired. At the same time, he used his left hand to twist Anthony's palm down, and bend his wrist up. The gun dropped from Anthony's grasp as his fingers were left point to the ceiling, the back of his hand suddenly locked against Vash's chest. Vash slid his right hand up to Anthony's wrist, bending his own arm as he did, so that his elbow came over the top of Anthony's over-extended right arm. A little pressure as Vash brought his own right arm down into his body, pivoted Anthony on his bent wrist. The would-be bounty hunter soon found himself doubled over, staring at the ground as his right arm was pulled up and against Vash's body, perpendicular to the ground.

It all happened before Anthony had a chance to register it, let alone react. One moment he was holding his gun to the Stampede's head. In the next breath he was on his knees, staring at the toe of Vash's right boot, his arm pointing straight up behind his shoulder. He wasn't in pain, but the hold promised dislocation if he attempted to struggle against it.

“You know? I never did find out what you do for a living, Anthony,” Vash said conversationally as he kicked the 9mm away with his left foot. Mac came cautiously from behind the bar and retrieved it. He gathered the other discarded weapons, as well, and began checking on the unconscious men.

Anthony could feel a bead of sweat as it rolled off his nose. “I'm an architect.”

“Really?” Vash said brightly. “That's a really important job! I bet you're good at it, too.”

Anthony swallowed hard. Circumstance had to make this the strangest conversation he'd ever had. The Stampede spoke as if they were having a beer together, as if they hadn't just had a gunfight, and Vash didn't have him in an air-tight submissive hold. “Yeah. I guess you could say I'm pretty good at it.”

“That's great.” Vash eased a little of the pressure off of Anthony's arm, but kept a confident grip. “I hope you decide to stick with that. I really don't think that bounty hunting is your calling. Besides! It's really dangerous! Somebody might've gotten hurt. As it is, I think your friends are going to have real bad headaches when they wake up.”

Anthony didn't respond, holding his breath as he waited to see what the Typhoon would do next.

Vash rearranged his left had so that his grip on Anthony's palm was more comfortable for the other man. He bent slightly, gripping Anthony's left elbow as he helped him to his feet. Reaching eye-level, Anthony stared in mute confusion. “I didn't hurt you, did I?” Vash grinned.

Still stunned into silence, Anthony was merely able to muster a slow shake of his head.

“Hey,” Vash said seriously, “I am really sorry about breaking your nose. Looks like it healed straight, though! Oh and, I really didn't steal your truck, but I think I know where it is, and I can probably get it back to you, okay?”

“Um... sure,” Anthony managed.

“Great!” Vash's eyes squinted merrily into his broad smile. “I just need you to do two things for me, alright?”

“Uh...” Anthony began slow-wittedly, but the gunman cut him off.

“I think you need to apologize to the McLeods. And since you're an architect, it would nice if you'd fix all this damage.”

Anthony hazarded a glance away from the outlaw, noting the destruction around him, and the drawn faces and crossed arms of the owners. “Yeah, um, sorry, Mac... Rosana. I... I think I can get this fixed up within the month.” He turned back to Vash. “Is that okay?”

Vash shrugged. “You'll have to work that out with Rosie and Mac. But listen, I need you to apologize about what you said.”

Anthony's brain raced over every word that had come out of his mouth since he'd entered the bar. What had offended the gunman? Noting Anthony's confused expression, Vash narrowed his gaze. “You called Meryl a 'bitch',” he supplied. “I thought we came to an understanding regarding that sort of behavior.”

Anthony's pulse quickened as panic seized his gut, remembering what Vash had done the last time he'd spoken ill of the waitress. “Yes, sir! I'm really, really sorry about that. I don't know what I was thinking.” he hastily answered.

Vash gaze remained narrow and fixed, but his expression was otherwise calm and nonthreatening. “She's really a very nice girl...”

“Yes, I know,” Anthony said. A muscle twitched in Vash's jaw, and Anthony quickly amended the error in his phrasing. “I mean, I don't really know... I.. ah... I've never spent any time with her, so I don't really know her, like you do... or, uh...”

Vash put up a hand to stop the man's fumbling explanation. “It's okay, Anthony. Just be happy she's not here. You think I'm scary?” Vash let out a low whistle as he rolled his eyes. “Next time, I'll sick her on you. Got it?”

“Thank you, Mr. Vash, sir.” Anthony gave a small, respectful bow, intending to leave the bar as quickly as possible now that the gunman seemed to be through with him. As he straightened, however, he became aware of a blur of motion in his periphery a moment before the world went spotty, and then black.

“Mac!” Vash exclaimed, looking on in distress as the bar owner stood over the prone figure of Anthony Trivolli.

Sam McLeod rubbed his knuckles where they'd made hard contact with the side of Anthony's head. “You didn't really think I was going to let that punk off that easily after trashing my place?” Mac shook his head. “You really are too soft, kid.”

“But the fight was over!” Vash whined. “You didn't have to hit him!”

“Actually, son,” Mac clapped a hand on Vash's shoulder as the gunman stared incredulously at him, “I really did.”

Rosana had retrieved a broom from the back, and was already sweeping up the bits of broken glass and splintered bar, seemingly uninterested in the three men still laying unconscious on the floor of her saloon. “You should get going, sweetie,” she said between strokes of her broom. “With all that ruckus, somebody's bound to come and investigate, and you probably shouldn't be here when they do.”

Vash watched her work. She refused to meet his gaze, but he could make out the sheen of tears as her eyes focused on the floor. “Aw, Rosie,” he said as he walked over to her, the broom clattering to the ground as he wrapped her in an embrace. “Don't cry, okay? I'm really sorry. If I knew this was going to happen I wouldn't have come.”

Rosana laughed against his chest. “It's not that, you dumb kid. I'm worried about you!” She shook her head as she pulled away. “How'd a guy like you ever end up in so much trouble?”

Vash shrugged as he smiled. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Rosana's face became stern, motherly. A notion flitted through his mind, that in that moment, Rosana reminded him of Rem. “Now you listen here: I don't give a hoot what Meryl wrote. You go and find that girl.”

“But...” Vash began to protest.

“Don't even finish that sentence. I love Meryl, but she's stubborn and dense and doesn't know what's good for her.” She smiled, smoothing down the lapels of his duster. “You're a nice boy, Vash. If I was her mother, I'd want you to find her.”

If only she knew the half of it. She called him 'kid' and 'boy' when he was over ninety years her senior. A self-deprecating grin worked at Vash's mouth. “I'm not like the other boys, Rosie. I'm...” He almost continued the thought aloud. Almost told her that Meryl was better off without someone, something, like him in her life. That it was a blessing that she'd finally wised up.

Rosana read into the uncertainty that was laced through the pregnant silence that followed Vash's statement. She touched his cheek affectionately, catching his attention. “I don't think Meryl is like the other girls, either.”

“So, kiddo,” Mac interjected, brushing debris from a barstool before he took a seat, “what's next?”

Vash turned back to look at Rosana. She seemed so sure, so certain. Certain of him, of the value in the man before her. He smiled softly, remembering a bit of advice Wolfwood had once given him, and deciding that where Meryl was concerned, it would be better to have to apologize, than to ask permission. “You guys wouldn't happen to know how far it is to December from here?”