Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Life Thereafter ❯ Hangover ( Chapter 11 )

Disclaimer: How I wish I owned Trigun. Sadly, I own it not.

 

A/N: Ok, a few quick announcements. This chapter, and the last one have been leading up to the main plot of this fic. I actually wanted to put more into this chapter than I did, but decided against it due to time concerns and length. However, more to come next week!

Also, I would like to mention that my awesome brainstorming monkey Abo has done a fanart for this fic. This link to it is in my profile.

PLUS, since I'm really annoyed with this “no reader correspondence” rule, I have decided to get around it by posting reader replies at my website. Just click the homepage link in my bio to read them.

And now, without further ado, I give you the next chapter!

 

 

Hangover

 

Vash downed another gulp of beer, the fiery liquid burning down his throat, causing him to choke and cough, eyes streaming. He wiped the tears away roughly on his sleeve, somewhat irritated that after ten bottles, his constitution was still as pitiful as always.

“Don't drink this stuff. You have no tolerance for it. It's disrespectful to the booze to drink it like that.”

I know that, Wolfwood, but what else can I do?

Vash sighed, elbows propped up on a smooth, wooden bar, his chin resting in his prosthetic hand. He had wandered into this bar some time ago, ordering beer after beer from a skinny, brown-haired waitress who always scrutinized him in a very inappropriate manner before bringing him the drink. At first, it had made Vash feel uncomfortable, but now, on his eleventh beer, it didn't bother him nearly as much.

Vash took one last draught from the battle before slamming the bottle down on the bar, a silly grin on his face.

“Lady! How `bout another?” Vash sang, his voice slurring.

“Lady” stopped rubbing a wet glass with a rag and stared at Vash, who merely grinned further, the alcohol making him somewhat giddy. The woman set the glass down on the counter before reaching under the bar. When she came back up, she had another bottle in her hand.

“Thanksh, Lady!” Vash slurred again, reaching for the beer.

“No problem, honey,” she said in an alluring voice.

Vash guzzled another gulp of beer. “Ah! That hit da shpot!”

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she told him sweetly.

Vash grinned goofily. “I sho will!”

The woman flashed a smile at him before going to help another customer, hips swaying seductively.

Vash let his grin fade as she walked away. While it was true that he was far from sober at the moment, he still retained some measure of common sense. And right now, common sense told him that that woman wanted more than to serve him drinks. If he hadn't been a Plant, Vash knew he would have accepted the woman's sluttish offer.

Heh, the benefits of being a Plant, Vash thought wryly.

He sighed, resting his cheek against the cool surface of the bar. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the riotous noises coming from other drunks, as well as the scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol-laced breathes. The whole saloon smelled of sweat and grime as men came in after a hard days work to enjoy a couple drinks.

I'm not one of those men. I came to forget. But, I can't.

Vash knew why he was drinking. It was because he wanted some form of escape from the living hell his life had become. It was bound to get worse before it got better, too, since he was planning to leave the very next day with Knives. It wasn't something Vash wanted to do, but at this point, there really was no other choice.

A strange prickling in his right arm caused Vash to open his eyes sluggishly, lifting his head slowly of the counter. Looking down at it with suspicion, he slid off the stool carefully, trying not to disrupt any of the others around him. Then, Vash snuck off to the bathroom, slipping through the throngs of people.

Vash poked his head around the corner of the bathroom to make sure no one was inside. Hardly believing his good luck that the room was empty, he quickly enclosed himself into a private stall and stripped off his shirt, determined to see the full extent of whatever was happening.

His jaw dropped. Beginning at his fingertips and stretching all the way up to his shoulder was a thin layer of feathers. They were small, most barely the size of his fingernail, but they had a pearly-white color that seemed to shine almost with a light of its own.

Ok, Vash thought, dumbstruck, they can't be glowing. They must just be reflecting the light.

Upon thinking that, Vash promptly smacked himself mentally. Why am I even considering why they glow? I have feathers all over my arm! Why are they there? How are they there? This is the freakiest thing I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot!

Vash tentatively touched his right arm with his prosthetic one. At his touch, the feathers did not break off, as the fuzz had. Instead, they quivered, as if they had a life of their own.

“Eek!”

Vash jerked his head up at the sound of a female squeal. The same waitress was standing before the open stall door (which she had undoubtedly opened in an attempt to surprise him), pointing at his damaged and horribly scarred torso, as well as the feathers growing out of his arm.

Before she could screech, Vash clamped a hand (the one not covered with feathers seeing how he didn't want to freak her out any further), aqua eyes pleading with her.

“Please don't scream. I'm going to let go of you, but if you scream, I'll have to cover your mouth again.”

He removed his hand slowly, uncertain of her response. Her lips quivered as her eyes flashed back and forth between him and the door. Finally, she called herself enough to speak.

“What…what are you?”

“Eh, nothing special,” Vash laughed nervously.

She narrowed her eyes. “I'm not a fool.”

“Eh heh, well,” Vash began hesitantly, “I've been in a lot of tough situations over the years so I, er, sorta picked up some souvenirs from them.”

“Uh huh,” the woman said skeptically. “What about the feathers?”

“Oh! Those. Well, they're, uh, very stylish, don't you think?”

The woman stared at him like she didn't believe him for a second. Vash gulped nervously, praying she wouldn't cause a riot out in the bar.

After a few moments, she said, “I don't believe you, but I won't tell.”

The woman turned, flipping her hair impudently at him, before flouncing out the door. Vash sighed with relief before hastily pulling his shirt back on. Then, he wrapped his hand in a towel he swiped from the bathroom. No need for others to see the “feather phenomenon.”

That was close. Man, I need a drink…

 

 

The next morning…

 

Meryl sat at the table in the small, yet clean, kitchen, the scent of black coffee wafting into her nose. It was relaxing in the early morning hours. She was glad she had gotten back into her routine of getting up with the suns. There was something comforting about routine. Change upset the balance of things.

One hand loosely clutching the mug's handle, Meryl leaned forward a bit, letting her other arm rest on the table's rough, wooden surface. Absently, she traced her finger over it, feeling the texture and grooves of the wood, in figure eights while sunlight streaked through the window, the rays bending through the glass.

Meryl's mind wandered, her thoughts drifting. Millie had already left the house for work. She had, of course, been late. Before leaving, Meryl had handed her a plate of food. Millie had eaten it in silence before leaving. However, Meryl had noticed her friend's eyes were red from tears. She had undoubtedly not gotten much sleep last night. The reason why she had been crying all night was a matter left to the imagination.

Meryl sipped at her coffee, the bitter liquid flowing across her tongue before she swallowed it. Her thoughts continued to drift, especially to the subject of a certain donut-scarfing gunman.

It's all wrong…

Meryl sighed, setting the cup down on the table with a clunking sound. Vash didn't have to leave. It was wrong that he felt he had to. Yet, Meryl had not been able to say anything to him as he walked out the door. The close-knit group that Meryl, Vash, Millie, and Wolfwood had been a part of was falling apart, little by little. First, Wolfwood had died, leaving Millie alone. And now, Vash was leaving with Knives.

I'll be alone…

She shook her head. That wasn't true. Millie would still be there. It would be just the two of them again. They had gotten along well enough before they had ever met Vash the Stampede. Meryl and Millie had been partners for what seemed like an eternity. Separating them was an inconceivable thought.

Yet, nothing lasts forever. Life, in all its intricacies, is proof of that. So, even if Millie and I return to Bernardelli, there is no guarantee that we won't be separated somewhere along the line. After all, we're Disaster Investigators. We go where disaster goes.

That thought was rather sobering. Meryl didn't want to lose her best friend. Then she really would be alone. And, in all actuality, she and Millie were still on assignment watching over Vash the Stampede. Technically, they were not permitted to allow their subject to wander off and never be heard from again. This was because they probably would be heard from again in some sort of disaster. Had it not been for the Fifth Moon Incident, Meryl and Millie would have been severely reprimanded for abandoning their post.

And, Vash is a disaster, Meryl thought wryly.

Meryl furrowed her brow in thought. So, Vash could not leave. Well, he could, but the fact as that he wasn't allowed to. The thought made Meryl's mouth twitch upward into a smile.

I guess I'll just have to tell him leaving isn't an option. Besides, I've gotten too attached to him. I'm sure, given enough time, I can adjust to his…er…rather unusual traits.

Feeling pleased with herself for coming to that conclusion, Meryl drained the remainder of her coffee, stood up, and brushed off her overalls. She came to the decision that Millie had been right. Meryl had only made the situation worse by not talking to Vash and being up front with him. She was going to change that.

Meryl looked at the time. It was still pretty early, only a little past seven in the morning. She frowned a bit, her hand on the doorknob. Vash hadn't returned home last night. He had probably spent all night drinking.

I guess I can't really blame him. This is my fault, after all. I guess I should go and find him before he hurts himself. That's the last thing we need since Knives is awake, she thought ruefully.

Meryl blinked. That reminded her. Knives probably hadn't eaten since the last plate of food she had brought up a few days ago. Of course, she hadn't heard him complain about it, but then, Meryl hadn't been around the house very much. It had been too awkward.

She bit her lip. Meryl really didn't want to go up to his room. The genocidal Plant scared her more than she cared to admit. However, since she didn't know if Vash had been feeding his brother edible food or not (Vash was a horrendous cook.), Meryl felt obligated to bring Knives some food, even if she loathed him.

Very reluctantly, she removed her hand from the doorknob and walked back to the kitchen. Meryl looked about the room aimlessly for a moment before grabbing a plate out of the pantry and piling it high with leftover spaghetti. It probably wasn't exactly fresh anymore, but it was still good. After letting it sit over the stove for a little while until it began to steam, Meryl picked it up, careful not to burn herself, and began to trek up the stairs.

Once she reached the door, she shifted the plate against her hip, holding it with one hand, and she raised her hand to knock. Meryl hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do. Then, when she finally had enough courage, she prepared to softly tap the door.

However, before her fist made contact, the door swung inward violently. Meryl gasped and moved back in fear until her back was pressed up against the wall.

Knives was standing in the doorway, topless and in jeans, a wicked grin on his face. Meryl's eyes locked onto his left arm as it began to sprout what she could only describe as “feathery blades.”

Knives's grin widened. “So, human vermin, are you prepared to die?”

 

 

Vash groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, his head pounding from the worst hangover he had had in his entire life. And that was saying a lot for a man who had lived for 130 years.

He sat up slowly, his vision gradually coming back into focus. Vash clutched his head with both hands, as if putting pressure on his throbbing bran would ease its thumping. He made only marginal progress with that.

As the room became clearer, Vash noticed that he was still at the bar. However, everyone had vacated the building except himself. That was odd.

Vash blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the suns' rays. It's morning already?

“I see you're awake.”

Vash blinked. A short, portly man with brown hair flecked with grey and blue eyes walked into the room, hands in his pockets. Vash stared at the man. Who was this guy?

“My name is Samuel Johnson, but most people call me Sam. I own this establishment.”

“Oh! Hello, sir!”

“What is with you people calling me `sir' all the time? It makes me sound so old,” Sam groused.

“Oh…er…sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.”

Vash cleared his throat nervously. “Well, I think I better go. I don't want to impose.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Before you go, you better drink this,” he said, hand Vash a glass of liquid that looked like the color of tomas droppings.

“Er…”

“It'll help with the hangover.”

“Are you sure? It's looks kind of…toxic…”

Sam chuckled. “I promise you it's not.”

“Um, ok.” Vash downed a mouthful.

It tasted so awful he nearly puked it up as soon as it reached the bottom of his stomach. His eyes streaming, Vash gulped the rest down, shuddering at the horrible aftertaste in his mouth.

“Water!” he gasped.

“Here,” Sam said, looking somewhat amused as Vash drained a whole glass in one gulp.

“That's so gross!” Vash complained.

“But you feel better don't you?”

Vash blinked. It was true. His head felt much clearer. Everything looked much less inclined to curve off in some bizarre direction.

“Thanks,” Vash said.

Sam shrugged. “Well, I couldn't just leave you like that, could I?”

“Do you do this for all your hangover-type customers?”

“No. You're the first, actually.”

Vash stared. That's odd. “So why'd you do it, then?”

“Because,” the man said, his voice lowering in volume, “Vash the Stampede, a good friend of mine happens to think very highly of you. And I'd hate to see her be passed over because you feel like getting drunk tonight.”

Vash gaped at the man. “You…you know Meryl?”

He nodded. “Indeed I do. I'm her boss.”

Vash stared at it a moment before shaking it slowly. This is Meryl's boss? But, how does he know me?

“So…er…Mr. Johnson…”

“Sam is fine.”

“Right. So, Sam, I was just wondering, how do you know me?”

Sam's eyes twinkled. “I see you recovered pretty quickly. Your voice isn't slurring anymore.”

“Oh…eh heh…yeah, how about that?” Vash chuckled nervously. “So, uh, getting back to my question, how do you know me?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “How could I not? I saw you getting dragged out in that truck over a month ago.”

Vash winced. “Oh, yeah. That.”

“Not one of your best moments, I must say,” Sam mused.

“Er, no it wasn't,” Vash admitted. “But, I'm still curious why you stopped me from drinking.”

“Well, like I said, a good friend of mine happens to think very highly of you, and it would be a shame to disappoint her, don't you think?”

Vash visibly stiffened. “If you're talking about Meryl then stop. I don't want to hear it.”

“Oh? You two have a fight?”

“Not…exactly…but…I've decided that I have to leave.”

Sam's eyes widened. “Why?”

“It's…complicated,” Vash hesitated. “But, I think shell be better off without me.”

“Why?”

“Because I cause nothing but trouble, that's why!” Vash shouted.

Sam looked thoughtful. “Well, I can't dispute that. Especially not after that odd story my employee told me about you having feathers all over your right arm.”

Vash stood up suddenly, knocking over his stool. “What did you say?”

“Now, now, no need to be like that,” Sam said, making placating gestures with his hands. “I'm not trying to stir up trouble. But please, can I see them?”

See them? Vash thought, nonplussed. See what? The feathers?

“Well, are you going to show them to me or not? Promise no one besides me is here,” Sam assured him.

Vash hesitated a few moments before unwrapping the towel around his hand and rolling up his sleeve, wincing slightly at the sight of the pearly white, fingernail-sized feathers that had completely covered his arm and shoulder. Sam leaned forward, inspecting the strange phenomenon closely.

“Raise your arm, please.”

Vash complied, allowing the shorter man to scrutinize the arm in question further until finally he stopped.

“May I?” Sam asked.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah,” Vash muttered.

Sam gently touched Vash's forearm with his index finger. Upon his touch, the whole arm seemed to take on a life of its own, the feathers reacting violently in a flurry of movement.

Sam jerked his hand back while Vash attempted to get himself back under control. Gritting his teeth, Vash clutched his right arm with his left, panting, as he tried to stop it. Even now, he could feel a strange pulling sensation, as if energy was being drawn from his body and focused into one point: his right arm.

Vash collapsed roughly to his knees, gasping heavily as he struggled to control the more primal part of him. Squeezing his eyes shut with concentration, Vash groaned as his grip on his arm tightened, energy crackling beneath his fingertips. Finally, after several eternal minutes, the pain subsided, leaving him in the same state as before.

Vash opened his eyes and turned to look at his arm fearfully. It was still feathery, but slightly more so than before, and the area where he had clutched his arm was outline in light red streaks of blood. He stood up slowly, a despairing look in his eye as he faced Sam.

“Do you see now? This is why I can't stay,” Vash whispered hoarsely. “My very existence threatens her. It's not possible.”

“You really think so? You really think she'd accept such a lame excuse?”

Vash jerked his head up. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“How can you say that?” Vash exclaimed. “Didn't you just see what happened?”

Sam sighed. “I saw.”

“Then what are you playing at?”

Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, it's clear that nothing I say will convince you. But, you know, I once dabbled in Plant Angel anatomy before I became a gunsmith.”

Vash stared. “How…do you know…I'm a…?”

Sam grinned wryly. “Hard not to notice, isn't it?”

He has a point there. “So, what do you suggest I do?”

“Hmmm, well, I guess you should-”

The sound of a large explosion, as well as cloud of dust blowing through the saloon's swinging doors, interrupted Sam before he could continue.

“Get down!” Vash shouted, pouncing on the other man and dropping down to the floor as a rapid spray of machine gun fire ripped through the building. When the bullets stopped flying overhead, Vash thought he heard Sam mutter something about “good insurance” before lifting his head slightly before cautiously getting to his feet.

“We know you're in there, Vash the Stampede! Come out and fight like a man!” a whiny, old voice said.

“YEAH!” another roared.

“We owe ya a favor for sending us to the slammer!” a loud, gruff voice added.

Vash poked his head through the saloon doors before and groaned at the sight greeting him. The two members of the Nebraska family he had taken care of back in Inepril, as well as the one with the boomerang and prosthetic arm were standing in the center of the town, grinning madly and itching for a fight.

Vash sighed. This just isn't my day.

“You're gonna pay!” the bounty hunter growled.

“Yeah!” the wizened, old man called.

Damn… Can't I ever get a break?

 

 

Well, things are definitely heating up! Muwahahaha…

Knives: Child, why did you not show the part where I kill the pathetic human?

O.o Hey! Who said you were going to kill her?

Knives: I did.

You can't do that. It violates the conditions of your contract.

Knives: I do as I please.

Don't make me dress you up like a girl in pig tails again. I know how much it humiliated you, but I WILL resort to extreme measures if necessary.

Knives: …

And once again, I have silence Knives with my superior, authoress-type intellect. I didn't even need Kuroneko!

Kuroneko: Nyah! (Translation: She loves to rub it in.)