Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Somewhere in Time ❯ Somewhere in time, all sorrows pass to memory ( Chapter 2 )

"Vash, we'd better hurry if we're going to make the sand steamer," Knives' voice calls out to me through the crowd that has gathered around the mammoth ship that is now blocking out the horizon before me. It's a lot nicer than some of the others we've ridden on, I'll give it that much. The outside hull of the ship is shining, reflecting the sunlight as it rises behind me, to the east. It's sometime around 7:15 in the morning. The steamer's scheduled to leave at 7:30, and here I am, sitting on a bench, worrying over my shoelace that has come untied. The suitcase I lay claim to sits next to me, shadowing my foot and the grass around it as I bend down to tie the two strings back together. I can hear the sounds of peoples' voices and see their feet as they walk past me, not paying me any mind.

It's kind of nice that no one pays me any mind these days. I look like any normal person on the street, thankfully. Not the old Vash the Stampede. Maybe it's due to the fact that I've grown my hair out recently. I wear it back in a rough ponytail, usually. I only have one hair tie, though: a flimsy rubber band that tends to stick to my hair and pull it out when I remove it. I don't remove it often.

As I pull on the shoelaces, one in each hand, the one in my right hand decides to snap. This is not adding sugar to my day. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, having to deal with a stomachache first thing from the spicy food Knives and I had dined upon the night before. My coffee was cold, too. Knives had gotten up long before me and made coffee. By the time I was awake enough to recognize reality, the pot was no longer fresh. I didn't have time to make another one. So, gritting my teeth firmly and stiffening my upper lip, I decide to let my shoe go untied as I begin a hurried jog to catch up with my brother as he's waiting in line to board the sand steamer. I nearly trip on it a few times, earning me a few worried glances and light snickers as I continue my jog. My shoe flops oddly on my foot, almost sliding off with each new step. I'll probably get a blister clean through my sock. That would just be the cherry to top of my ice cream sundae of a day.

I finally catch up to Knives in the meandering semi-attempt at a line and drop my suitcase to the ground. "My shoelace broke again," I state simply. I have the worst luck with shoelaces. This is the third time this week that it's snapped like that.

"What do you want me to do about it? Give you mine?" He casts me a sideways glance and a slight smirk tugs at his lips. I nearly take him up on the offer. I know that if I asked, he'd probably let me wear his shoes, just so that I could be more comfortable.

"No, but I need to get a new pair of laces as soon as we reach Maya. I can't very well work with my shoe flopping around everywhere I walk." We're going to a newer town today. It's small, barely getting started. The people of that city have been relying on the plant of the nearby municipality for power. More and more settlements are beginning to sprout up in such ways. With the utilization of power lines, electricity can go farther than it has in the past. Something's been malfunctioning in their water refinery, though. No one there can figure out what's wrong, so Knives suggested we go give them a hand. Well, his exact words were, "Of course those humans can't figure out what's wrong with it. It takes someone with intelligence to understand my creation." I'm sure he'd said that in an endearing manner, though.

I take a moment to look about at the people around where I'm standing. They all look so happy. Everyone looks satisfied these days. It's been so long since I've heard anyone damn this once hellish planet for making them live upon it. Every time I'm around other people I'm reminded of all the good I've done. I'm sure that I've made up for my mistakes in the past, the people I've hurt, by doing the things I do now. I always wanted to be of assistance to people. I'm delighted that I finally have that opportunity. I don't think Knives really cares about it that much. He doesn't care that he's helping people, nor does he mind that he is. He's just… doing it. Regardless of the reasons, I'm glad he is, and I'm glad that I'm involved in the process.

"The sand steamer for Maya, Augusta, and July is now boarding," I faintly hear over the crowd. July… it's been rebuilt. That in itself makes me grin. I did like that town, before… well, before what happened to it. It was a pleasant town. I take the announcement as incentive and pick up my suitcase off the ground, casting an angry glance at my broken shoelace as I do so. When I stand back up, Knives is holding out something black for me. I stare at it a moment and realize it's a pair of shoelaces. There's probably a mile wide smile on my face right now, but I don't care. I take the shoelaces in my hand and shove them in the pocket of my black slacks. Knives is smirking at me. "Be more careful, Vash," he admonishes smoothly before moving ahead with the line that is now boarding the steamer. I take a step forward and fall, planting my face firmly into the ground and probably ruining the front of my new vest with grass stains. Sometimes I wonder if I'm cursed, or something. Things always seem to go wrong for me.

I get up quickly, shaking away some of the dirt on my clothes and ignoring the curious stares I'm now receiving, and follow Knives up the walkway to the entrance of the sand steamer. There are a few people standing around, saying their goodbyes to loved ones and family members, and I can't help but wish, if just for a moment, that I had someone to say goodbye to. It's just my brother and I, though. Sometimes I get lonely. I miss the old days, with Meryl, Millie, and, God my heart aches to think about it, but, Wolfwood. I miss them.

"Don't go getting sentimental on me, Vash," Knives barks at me, casting a glance over his shoulder as we cross the threshold into the ship, but there is a minor hint of endearment lacing his words, and I discern that he didn't mean to sound as fractious as he did. I nod resolutely and follow him into the slightly dimmer hallway of the craft. We have a first class ticket, today. I can remember, so many years ago, when I traveled on a sand steamer and had a place in steerage, and it was not very comfortable. Not to mention the fact that we were traveling through the territory of the Bad Lad Gang. All in all, that experience had not been a good one. Now, though, it's kind of nice to know that there's a comfortable room with a large bed and nice, plush chairs to sit in waiting for me.

Knives leads the way, and I follow as I've become accustomed to doing, to our cabin on the top floor of the bulky ship. He opens the door, and holds it in place for me to enter ahead of him. I smirk and make my way inside and what a sight! The whole room is decorated in rich fabrics and comfortable furniture. The floor is covered with a lovely crème-colored carpet and the walls are a sky blue with a darker teal bordering the ceiling. The beds are made up with plush comforters, the upside a color similar to the carpet and the underside a deep crimson red. It looks like silk. There are two chairs set off in the corner, both of them covered in a flowery print that is very pleasing to the eyes and probably even more pleasing to the body. Needless to say, I'm very contented with the room. We may have splurged just a bit to get it, but I believe it was worth it. I settle my suitcase on the floor at the foot of my bed and clumsily heft my weight onto the mattress, squirming down into the supple fabrics that surround me.

Knives gives the room a quick once over, looking a bit dissatisfied with the flowery print of the furniture, and lobs his luggage onto the bed near mine. I grin at him from my location at the foot of the bed. "Pretty cozy, huh?" I inquire as my gaze begins to wander from him to the teal trim of the walls and over to the window that is decorated with crème-colored lace curtains.

Knives settles himself back onto the bed, placing one black sleeve-covered arm over his eyes to block out the light coming through the window despite the curtains, and makes a rough sound in his throat. "I'm going to take a nap," he informs me carelessly. I don't even bother to complain to him that it's only 7:30 in the morning, and hardly suitable for him to be napping. He did, after all, get up much earlier than usual and we do have a long day ahead of us. I decide to make myself scarce for the next few hours and silently leave the room, closing the door behind me. Perhaps some food would lighten my mood. I didn't have time for breakfast this morning, much less the cold coffee that had awaited me when I awoke. My stomach, by this time, has settled down a bit from the previous night's dinner and I believe that a good breakfast may very well help to keep my energy up for the forthcoming day.

The lights of the hallway are dimmer than those of our room, more than likely due to the lack of windows, and it's a bit difficult to see where I'm going, my eyes trying to adjust to the new luminosity. I know the general layout of the sand steamers by now. I've been on enough to have memorized the majority of the corridors and hallways that make up the labyrinth of the inner ship. It's not that difficult to find the dining hall. I peer into the window of the door, just to make sure that I am, indeed, entering the correct room, and then slide it smoothly on its track. The dining area in this ship is different than many of the others I've been on. It's much more spacious, and it has a more welcoming atmosphere. There is the faint smell of cigarettes and fried chicken in the air and the lights are brighter than the hallway, thank goodness. There are a few tables set around the open space and a counter in the back set up for ordering and receiving your food. There are a few people sparsely scattered here and there, most of them talking to one another, and I pay them no mind as I make my way to the counter, where the service girl greets me with a friendly smile. She takes my order of two donuts, one crème filled, one regular, and an extra large cup of coffee, and delivers them to me quickly, placing everything neatly on a tray. I smile, pay her the money she's due, and pick up my tray, looking for a place to sit that won't be in anyone's way.

That's when I see him: A young man, probably around the age of twenty-five, staring out a window to his left, and smoking a cigarette that has reduced itself to nothing more than a trail of ashes perched precariously on the tip of the filter. His hair is a dark chocolate brown color, the length of it reaching down to his shoulders and tucked behind his ears, and his eyes, though half-lidded and nearly fifteen feet away, are the most familiar, comfortable thing I have seen in all of my existence. They're a dark, smoky blue and they seem to be glazed over in contemplation. I nearly drop my tray of donuts and coffee to the floor, but successfully regain my composure, managing only to spill a few drops of my coffee onto the tray itself. I can imagine how I must look right now. My hands are shaking, causing the tray they hold to shake, in turn spilling more and more drops of coffee onto its surface, my eyes are wide, my mouth is open, and my legs feel ready to give way underneath me. I take a few meager steps forward and place my tray on the nearest table, leaning my hands against it as my eyes continue to stare at the young man who has yet to notice my presence, nor my piercing stare. I force my eyes to look away for an instant, open and close them rapidly, rub at them for a moment, and then return to staring at him.

One thought continues to travel through my mind as I see his hand tilt slightly from the side of his face, allowing the cigarette to meet his lips, then returning it once more to its previous position: Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Even the clothes are strikingly similar: black jacket and pants, white shirt. I take a moment to calm my nerves, and then look closer. No, the eyes are darker. The hair is lighter. His face looks exactly the same, though. His eyes, nose, and chin, are all the same. Though, he has no facial stubble, as Nicholas always did. His build is the same, however: tall and thin, but with wide shoulders.

He finally notices me, turning his head slowly and precisely. His eyes immediately lock onto mine, and I can do nothing more than merely gape at him, my mouth trying to open, trying to say something, but I can't even comprehend what it wants. "Nicholas!" I finally sputter out at him, the harshness of forcing my voice out through the lump that has formed in my throat causing me pain. He does nothing more than raise an eyebrow at me for a moment, lean forward, slide the ashtray seated at the other end of the table nearer, and flick the long vestiges of his burnt-out cigarette into it. Then he looks up at me again. I probably look like a complete and utter fool to him right now, not to mention a few of the other passengers who have ceased the consumption of their meals to observe my odd display.

He raises his eyebrow again, casts a glance around the dining area, and motions for the chair in front of him. I nearly trip on my feet trying to get to it fast enough. It makes a loud scratching sound on the tile floor as I pull it out, and I practically fling myself into it and lean forward on the table, resting my arms heavily upon it as I try to get as close as I can and study the specimen in front of me. "Nicholas?" I squeak, my voice breaking and sounding strange to my own ears.

He reaches forward a bronze-colored, calloused hand, the fingers long, thin and elegant, and I take it immediately. "Nicholai Dvorak," he states simply, giving my hand a quick shake and then releasing it just as quickly. I stare strangely at him. Nicholai?

"Vash…" I finally mumble, probably too softly for him to be able to recognize the quiet word. For some reason, him telling me his real name totally shattered the illusion I had going that he was Nicholas. I found myself staring down at the floor, my shoe with the one lace still broken. Damn. I forgot to replace it with the new one Knives gave me.

"Vash? As in, Vash the Stampede?" Oh, so he did hear me. I nod numbly, raising my eyes to him once more as he grinds the last of the cigarette out in the ashtray by his elbow. "You're pretty famous. Not only for all your work on the water production and the plants, but for your past. My father used to tell me stories about you that his father used to tell him, and his father before him." I nod dumbly. "Vash the Stampede, the sixty-billion double-dollar man."

My mouth is moving again, but no sound is escaping it. I suddenly find myself to be one of the biggest idiots on earth, and I'm ashamed. This man is Nicholas. He has to be. They are so similar, it's as if the man himself has risen from the grave. My heart is pounding. Why is it pounding so hard and fast? "Did you ever hear stories about Nicholas D. Wolfwood?" I finally bring myself to ask, realizing that it's probably a stupid question. Not many people knew Nick, and those who did probably never found anything to tell stories about. He was a good man, but not as infamous as I was.

The man seems to take a moment to consider this, his eyes tilting upwards to the ceiling and I begin to wonder if he's suddenly found the cobwebs that are likely to reside up there fairly intriguing. He looks back down and right into my eyes without hesitation. "Yeah, I heard about him. You two used to travel together a lot. I heard that he took a dive in a quick draw contest so that you could win the money to save a family that was in trouble. He sounded like a really nice guy."

"You look exactly like him," I find myself sputtering to the man I only just met. He probably thinks me fairly incompetent at the moment. What else have I got to lose? "Exactly like him," I repeat, more to myself than to the man. "It's uncanny. For a moment, I thought you were him."

"Well," he chuckles half-heartedly, "Who knows? Maybe I was him in a former life."

My eyes light up and I smile at him like he's just given me the greatest gift on earth. I can't say that I'm agreeing with him. I'm a sensible man, and I don't tend to find myself believing in reincarnation and other such nonsensical things, but, then again, Rem was living proof that a person's spirit lives on after their death. Sometimes, those spirits can even come back in some forms. I noticed that on the day that Meryl stood up for me, so many years ago, in front of all of those people who would have loved to see me dead. At that moment, the words she said, and the way she said them, she could have been Rem. She was Rem, in an odd sense of the words. She embodied everything that Rem believed in. It was like having her back, if only for a moment. Although, I can't say that I was as ecstatic then as I am right now, at this very moment. I want to leap across the table and hug this man, Nicholai, and strangle him to near death with the grip. He's already looking at me oddly, though. If I were to do that, he'd probably never speak to me again.

Nicholai suddenly lowers his head and a light sigh escapes his parted lips, "Look, I'm sorry I said that. You two were probably pretty close, and I probably just drug up old memories that were best laid to rest." He begins to stand from the table, causing the chair to scratch along the tile floor like mine had done. I struggle to say something, to find the words that will express exactly what I'm feeling at this moment, the fact that I don't want him to leave. I want him to stay with me. It's an odd, irrational, unmotivated, selfish wish, but I want it. I suddenly feel like a child whose favorite toy has been taken away from him. "I'll be seeing you, Vash the Stampede," he favors me with a last glance and a small smile before turning around and leaving the dining area. Even his walk is the same; the same fluid steps that form into movements. It's truly supernatural, and I find myself intently watching the closed door for a long while even after he's left, willing it to open back up and to bring my Nicholas back to me.

A chair sliding on the floor stirs me from my thoughts suddenly, and I realize that I've been crying. The table underneath me has a few lone droplets of splattered tears, and there are still a few trails of them on my face. I reach up and pointedly wipe them from my skin with the back of my hand before standing stiffly and retrieving my neglected coffee and donuts. I walk even more stiffly, bringing my near-forgotten breakfast items back with me to my tear-stained table. There really is no use thinking about it anymore. Nicholas is long since dead. There is no bringing him back. Just because someone resembles him to a near picture image does not mean that he is that same man. Right? Right.

Damn… Now my coffee is cold, and the donuts are stale. My day cannot get any worse.