Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ The Outlaw Torn ❯ Chapter 1

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

He could only hear the wind, and shivered.

Although he was covered head to toe in his faded red coat, stained with the sand and the blood, his body betrayed him and it shivered deeply. Dust fell into his eyes again, and he used his tired hand to wipe the annoyance away. The lightness of his weight felt heavier and gravity grew on his frail, tired body with each step he took. He moved on.

The wind slapped across his dusty face stained with the scars he gained through his years of turmoil and agony. Passing the time, he trailed his hand over his face, numbering the scars that represented only a fraction of the memories that were chiseled into his brain. A nostalgic sigh escaped his lips, and he wished for the unnamed feeling to disappear.

A softness began to grow inside his eyes, and tears fell down gently, cleaning his dirty face with trails of water. Whether they were for the memories or for the irritation due to the dust, he didn't know.

His voice was raw, and dehydrated from the lack of water. The body that held such strength and determination was frail, much more lithe, and tender. The man still moved on, and gravity forced him deeper into the sand.

Come on, body, he thought. You can't give up on me yet. Wincing in pain, he pulled himself to stand tall, like he always did, and moved forward. You cannot die yet. You know you can't.

He knew the truth. His body was only tiring, not dying. It was a false hope. He didn't sneer at the thought that his own body was deceiving him. He only moved forward, and kept moving through the storm.

Survival was his key tool in life. It was the only thing he could rely on now. Survival was a horrible word for him, though. He used it. He survived through anything, and he would keep on doing so. It didn't mean that he enjoyed using the word. Survival sounded animalistic. Feeding on one another, searching for a way to live, no matter what it takes, as long as you survive -- he hated that concept.

An ironic smile never touched his lips. There was irony in that statement, that certain belief of his. God knew he was such a hypocrite. He searched through his pocket for his favorite pair of glasses to somehow protect his vision from the sand storm. Before he could go into a frantic state, the man remembered a vital memory that he had somehow forgotten.

The glasses had broke three centuries ago, he thought in dismay. The memory of the day when the precious glasses shattered like his hope emerged from the depths of his mind and played back every event that happened in clear cut details. He didn't grit his teeth in anger and angst.

It was on the same day when his brother died, and left him alone. He didn't growl in frustration, or sigh in melancholia. He could vaguely see a town ahead of him. One of the very, very few left. He didn't smile at the sight of his future haven. Nothing could be his home anymore. Only the people of the planet could.

He struggled, inside as well at out. He somehow found a way to move on. He always found a way to survive. Surviving was easy for him.

Dying, he mused, clearly with no humor, is the hard part.




The twang of a guitar shot through the saloon. On the stage near the bar was an old guitarist, playing a blues song only the dead could recognize. His beard was long and white, and his head winkled and bald. The fingers playing over the board were ancient in their own right, and his eyes were blind from the years living in the desert.

His voice was twisted and soft, and told his tune with a purpose. The man listened gently, and took in the words of the song. They mentioned solitude, and angst, but a will to survive. A restless farewell. The man in red didn't smile. He should have, but he didn't.

Twisting the shot of alcohol in his blistered hand, he watched the liquid swirl around gently and noticed the distinct, rotten smell it had. Amazed that the man had never noticed the scent beforehand, he took a whiff of the alcohol again and pursed his lips in disgust.

What did I see in this stuff, anyhow? he asked himself, tipping the glass onto the sides. The liquid that gave him release was nothing more than an item of the past. Gently, he placed the glass on the table and paid the bartender the money he owed.

The bartender lifted his bushy eyebrow and took the money from the counter. He looked oddly at the man in the red faded coat and the spiked blonde hair with curious brown eyes.

"You didn't touch your drink," he stated, placing a hand into his pocket where the rest of the money went. Business wasn't big around here. Not anymore. The least he could do for the customer was give him a good shot of vodka, but he didn't even taste it.

The man barely smiled -- the bartender thought he smiled -- and put his torn bag with various sewed patches on it over his shoulder. The man knew he should have at least taken a drink of water, but the taste of bitterness was his punishment and he wore it like a badge of honor.

He shook his head and began to walk out of the saloon, waving a hand over his shoulder as a goodbye. The bartender smiled and went back to his work, cleaning the glasses and drinking the shot of alcohol himself. However, his brown eyes gazed at the retreating form of the quiet man.

The bartender wasn't sure, but he could have sworn that the man reminded him of something. Possibly the story of the Humanoid Typhoon, with the spiked blonde hair, the waving red coat of war and the eyes of the Diablo.

No way, the bartender thought to himself. He laughed out loud at the thought that the Humanoid Typhoon was still alive. That's a legend in the family that dates thousands of years back.

"He couldn't be alive," he muttered to himself. A twinkle was in his eyes at the thought that the family legend was alive. "That would be insane... no man should deserve to live that long."

The man with the red coat kept his faint smile. He heard what the bartender thought, and he wished the best and a long, happy life for his sixteenth great - grandson.




Laughter emerged from the streets, and one by one a firework touched the sky of the barren, silent planet. Children danced in circles, giggling loudly with twinkles sparkling in there eyes. Parents and newlyweds clapped to the song, and an old couple tangoed together as the youth returned to their veins.

The man in red smiled gently. His coat's edges were fully ripped, and the sleeves were filled with holes. He sat on the last step of the torn-down cathedral, watching with a gentle smile on his face.

He loved the sound of laughter. It was a fantastic difference from the sound of timeless wind he heard through the winding, endless desert. He grew tired of the sand and the heat and the wind dirtying his body, clothing, and face. A break from wandering helped greatly to his aching soul.

A young child came over with plate of drinks in her hands. She was probably no more than three, and happily went towards him. Her blue eyes sparkled like the fireworks that blasted and illuminated the perfect night sky.

She curiously gazed at the tired young man while setting the tray down the ground and loosing her smile. His clothes were tattered just like the dress she had on, and his face was scarred deeply. However, his eyes were jubilant and filled with life, contradicting the outfit he wore.

The toddler regained her happiness, oblivious to the turmoil the man went through his lifetime. She used her soft hands and grabbed a tall glass of water for the man. Lifting it up, she watched the man move his intense gaze from the fireworks, and the people, to herself.

Her grin showed a few teeth coming in. "Would you like a drink, sir?"

The ancient man kept his gentle smile, showing his white teeth. He nodded his head in acceptance.

She smiled and handed the drink of water to him, which he took from her hands. Waving, she left with the rest of her tray to the circle where the old couple was now doing the mambo. She coughed a little, but nothing too serious.

The village was celebrating Thanksgiving, and trying to make the best out of it which such a few amount of people. With the new diseases emerging, people were slowly getting sick and dying. Within ten years, half of the planet's population had died from multiple types of illnesses.

These new threats to the human race didn't stop them from celebrating and making the best out of life. They still lived out there lives, went to work, and believed in some religion. Every human, man or woman, truly believed that they would survive.

A priest with welcoming brown eyes smiled and watched the crowd as well. He was ecstatic and thrilled that his people would not let the current panic and diseases stop them from living life to the fullest. His eyes wandered to the man who sat on the steps of his church, and noticed some peculiar.

"You haven't touched your drink, sir," the priest gently whispered to the blonde man.

The man in red turned his head around, and locked eyes with the priest. His brown eyes widened in fear and surprise, noticing the various emotions evident swirling around. He couldn't name each one of them and they overwhelmed his senses.

However, his chapped lips still held their smile, and he closed his eyes in merriment. "I'm not all that thirsty," he croaked, the jagged edges of his speech showing that he rarely spoke.

The priest blinked, and nodded his head. He didn't continue the conversation. The man... spooked him, for lack of a better term. His aquamarine eyes dug into his very soul, and he didn't enjoy the feeling.

It felt like this man knew everything in the world, and had every burden that was faced by humanity on his very shoulders. He moved on, though, as if that was the only choice he had. Dying was out of the question. He had to move, and breathe, and live.

The priest closed his eyes in thought. No man should have those kind of eyes, he thought. No living being should have... done, or saw what this man has been through. It's just impossible --

Loud coughing and weezing stopped the priests' contemplations. He opened his eyes and watched with a gaping mouth the little girl that was handing out water fall to the ground, clutching her chest. The others ceased their merriment and watched in horror as the little girl began to suffocate.

"Uncle," she whispered faintly, her body beginning to slump to the ground. As she moved to the ground, her coughing became louder and hoarse. No one dared moved from their spots.

The priest ran forward, pushing through the crowd. "Maribelle!" he shouted in dire fear. He leaned onto the ground and shook the limp body of his niece.

The little girl gazed at her uncle softly. "Uncle Jake... I don't feel so good," she whispered, coughing and hiding her face into her uncle's chest.

Reverend Jake held his niece close, the only tie he had to his dead sister, and the only hope for the survival of his family line. He searched around frantically, pleading with the others for help.

"You have to help her," he demanded, yet his voice had no commanding tone in it. He was begging with the others, asking for some sort of sympathy and mercy.

They didn't move forward. Each and every one of them moved backwards.

Holding her closed, the reverend scowled at the last traces of humanity left on Gunsmoke. "Damn you all to hell if you won't help my niece!" he cursed, a wild look in his usually calm eyes. "Someone help her! She might die!"

One of the villagers shouted back at him, a scowl just as vile as his own. "She has a disease, and thus she's contagious!" he retorted, narrowing his black eyes. "You should know that every disease on Gunsmoke now is contagious! She's going to die, so accept it!"

The priest's eyes lost their chaotic look and widened in realization. He looked down at his niece, and knew that he was going to get the disease too. He held her as close to him as he could, and put his head on top of her dying form.

"No," he said. It was the only thing he could do. Denial was the only path he could take. "The hospital had given her a cure. They said the vaccine would help control the disease..."

The villager shook his head in disgust. "You should know, Reverend. Diseases here are now bubonic plagues. Not even the vaccines can keep the disease from bay forever." His eyes hardened. He knew the truth humanity was going to face. "We're all going to die."

A silence emerged among the people. Some were returning home to pray, others to continuing partying, and the rest to sleep for the next morning. Only a few remained, sympathetic to the priest's current situation.

"I've... I've tried to keep the faith," he whispered, as the villagers stopped moving back and listened to him. Tears formed inside his eyes as he continued. "I tried praying, asking God for some sign of mercy..."

A wind blew through the town. The man in red watched and his hair moved with the wind. Dust fell onto his face. He hated this planet.

The priest growled, petting his dying niece's hair. "He's not listening anymore," he bluntly stated in dismay. He sighed and began to cry softly, his voice cracking in despair. "I don't think he ever did..."

The tears flowed down his cheeks and he shouted with all his might into the sky. "Why has God forsaken us!?"

The priest sat on the ground, crying, and the villagers one by one left him alone to his own private mourning. He never moved, and wished to God that he would get a disease soon, to die and meet with his loved ones.

All the while, the man in red sat on the last step of the church and contemplated what the reverend said. His eyes glanced down to the cup of water that little girl Maribelle had given him, and was now in the warm hands of her uncle.

Hours past, but they didn't affect him nor the priest. The priest never moved from his spot, and cried a million tears in anguish of his niece, in his own private agony, and the realization of what fate humanity faced. At one point he did move, only to throw the collar that was around his neck the ground. He didn't move again.

Soon, the man in red noticed the girl's stomach stop moving, and the priest's own breathing become erratic. He smiled and picked up his bag.

A familiar bitterness was in his mouth. The man in red was used to the taste. He didn't deserve to be rid of it. It was his punishment. He moved on, through the desert.




Ruins of ships and plants and buildings greeted him. The man in red hadn't been in this town for over thousands of years. Nostalgia entered his heart, and memories from millennia gone ran across his eyes.

There was the well, where Millie and Meryl found water for the first time. It was a sign of hope for everyone on Gunsmoke. Eventually more water was found on Gunsmoke, and humanity thrived. Humanity lived.

To his right, he saw the building where he and Knives had actually had their first brother - to - brother talk since they were on the SEEDS ship with Rem and the others. Knives had actually throw a joke so corny, both had fallen over their chairs simultaneously and guffawed for hours on end.

A smile crept on his face. The memories kept his soul, and heart, alive. He moved on through the city, and watched the transparent images of people living their busy lives through his eyes.

He heard the sound of children laughing, and men drinking, and women chattering. He watched and felt Meryl's touch, and saw his children playing, and smelled Millie's cooking and laughed at Knives' antics.

The memories and the images faded. The once proud city that held millions of people was nothing more but ruins in the sand. He sighed and sat on the bench near the well.

His children and grandchildren loved coming here to play. The man in red never knew why. He used to lift them in the air and catch them when they came down. He played games like tag and ring - around - the - rosy and duck - duck - goose. He loved it when they smiled. It made him smile.

Leaning back into the bench, he looked up to the clear blue sky. Knives and himself had talked here the day when his children were to be wed, when one of them had a problem, or when both wanted to talk aimlessly. Night or day, when they came to this bench, they would discuss something.

Knives had finally become his brother. His eyes watered at the mention of his brother. He missed Knives. He couldn't hate his brother for this curse he gave him. Knives only wanted to protect him.

The cure, the only vaccine to all diseases, was only given to himself and Knives. It was only made for plant DNA about five centuries ago. Millennia ago he would have begged that Knives would make a cure for humans. However, even he knew that humanity was destined to die.

Humanity was dying off, and only he and Knives were left. He could always rely on Knives. Without Knives, he would be completely alone when humanity died. He hated being alone. He didn't want to be alone.

He wouldn't know what would happen when he was alone. It was the only reason he agreed to Knives' cure. The man in red didn't want his fear to become a reality.

His ripped coat moved with the wind. The man hated the sound of the wind. It was too calm.

"Nothing here but faded memories," he said out loud, his own voice echoing off the silence.

"Not even going to greet me hello, brother?" a voice asked in a jubilant tone.

The man stopped himself from sitting up. His head turned slowly towards the left, and his dying aquamarine eyes suddenly lit up in happiness.

Denial was screaming throughout his brain, but his heart and soul was elated beyond comparison. A smile that reminded him of the life he once loved graced his features.

He couldn't believe it, but his body told him otherwise. "Knives?" he whispered, both in disbelief and hope.

His twin brother smiled, a sight that was once unknown to the world ages ago, and waved at him in greeting. "Hey Vash."

The man in red stopped himself from hugging him. He wasn't about to give into his illusions. He still smiled, despite the harsh reality. "Your not real," he stated with soft eyes. "But... it's good to see you, Knives."

Knives nodded in realization. "I just wanted to check up on my brother."

The man smiled and nodded to his brother. A tear was close to coming. But he never shed it. He was able to control his tears now. "I miss you."

Knives didn't cry either, but he could notice the softness evidently there. "I know." It was all Knives could say.

The man in red reached out and tried to touch his brother's hand. It only went through. He didn't gasp in shock. He only looked sympathetically at Knives.

Knives smiled with melancholy clearly in his eyes.

"It's not your fault," the man said, pulling his hand back. "You just didn't take enough of that vaccine you made."

Knives growled in frustration. His fists clenched. "I could still be alive. You wouldn't be al--"

"What's done is done, Knives, and nothing can change that fact," the man emphasized, staring coldy into his brother's blue eyes. Knives lost the anger, and became apathetic.

The man in red smiled. Knives didn't.

Shock was evident in his voice, despite his facial features. "You are not my brother."

Vash smiled bigger. Knives began to grow a sickness in his stomach. "Of course I am, Knives!" He closed his eyes and exclaimed his merriment to the world. "We just have to accept things life has to offer and move on. There's nothing sinful in that, is there brother?"

A softness grew in his blue eyes. Knives would never cry though. Even in death. The man didn't even notice his change. "I was afraid you'd say that."

The man looked at his brother with a bewildered look. "Knives?" he asked, wondering what he meant.

Knives shook his head and smiled back at his brother once more. "Just stay out of trouble, Vash."

A gust of wind, thick with sand, blew across the image of his brother and took him away from the man again. The man smiled and sat up from the bench, taking his pack with him.

He went to the other side of the well, where a white cross greeted him. Others were near it. They were all chipped and damaged by time. He reached into his pack and took out flowers, the very last ones he could find on the planet.

It took him years to find them, but the man in red didn't care. Years meant only minutes to him now. He placed one flower on each grave, smiling and acknowledging the name with a memory of the person.

Meryl. A red rose. Millie. A purple tulip. Wolfwood. A blue forget - me not. His children. Yellow carnations. His grandchildren. Pink mimosas. His great - grandchildren. Honeysuckle's. And, finally, his brother. A white daisy.

The man in red wished silently he could have found more for the others. For his friends, and son - in - laws, and daughter - in - laws, and everyone else who touched his heart throughout his long life span. He sighed.

He had a red geranium in his right hand, and pulled a petal from it and placed it on each grave. It was a way for his family remember him by. Deep in his heart, the man knew his family always remembered him.

The man in the red trench coat with his locks of blonde hair and aquamarine eyes gazed at the family who was now in Heaven and left him behind. He smiled.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered, and got a better hold on his bag. He moved forward, and left the city behind him.

As he moved on through the desert, the last sentence his brother told him ran through his head.

Stay out of trouble, Vash. That's what he said.

The man released a curt laugh in irony. There's no trouble to get into, brother, he thought. Trouble is dying away.

The wind below across his vision, and over the beloved city he once called home. He truly hated the wind, even though it was his only silent companion now.




Bitterness was all over his mouth. That's all he could taste. He shouldn't have taken for granted the salvations given to him. The beer. The water. His brother. He took it all for granted.

The man kept moving forward. Why did he keep on moving forward? There was no one else left alive to greet him when he entered the next village. All he would see were ruins, dead bodies, graves... so many, many graves.

He was the undertaker for these graves now. He had to give them flowers, dust their crosses, and talk to them. He had to live for the dead.

The man cried. He hadn't cried forever. The tears poured down his face and he wailed in misery.

It was over. Humanity was over. His fear came true. Only the wind was his friend. And he hated the wind. He despised the wind.

Sand choked the bitterness in his mouth, but he knew that suffocation wouldn't help him in dying. He couldn't die. Nothing could make him die.

Of course he couldn't die!

It was impossible for him to die! Nothing could make Him die!

He was immortal! Invincible! The Ultimate Being!

He was GOD!

He was... God. He was the Supreme Being.

He went through everything a man could not go through. He went through things God could go through. He was... God.

Or the Devil. With the deeds he had done, and the luck that followed him through time, he was the Devil. Or God. Or the God and the Devil. He chuckled and sand touched his lips. He didn't spit it out. He welcomed it. It added to the bitterness.

The man remembered the priest, and his words from despair and agony. Why has God forsaken us?! His body began to fail on him. Dark blotches fell across his eyes, and the world he despised and held all of his loved ones began to twist and discolor into black and white.

Why has God forsaken us?! he thought in dismay. His eyes widened in shock at the parallelism. Why has God forsaken me?!

His aquamarine eyes became wild, wilder than how the priest's eyes were. He wasn't dying. He was coughing, suffocating, and losing his vision, but he wasn't dying.

Why can't I die? he thought to himself. And where was this Apocalypse? Where are the Four Horsemen and the AntiChrist God promised us would happen?! Where is this Judgment Day?! All of those thoughts wrapped his mind in dark bandages, his mind losing itself. His body fell to the ground, and his face inhaled the sand. He moved his body around, and his eyes locked with the sky.

Why must I be denied by salvation? Why must I live on his planet? Why can't I go and see my family again? His blood boiled and the hot, fresh tears kept rolling. Why God, why...

The tears never stopped flowing, the questions, never ceased, and the darkness covering his eyes, and his heart, and his mind engulfed him.

"WHY MUST I LIVE?!?!"

He stopped. He didn't move on. He couldn't move.

The immortal gunman was taken over by a darkness. He could never see through it. He would never be able to.

He saw the blue sky in his mind, the last thing he saw, and saw his family smiling down at him. He smiled.

Everything deteriorated. Darkness fell. And he still smiled.




A myth spread across the universe about a planet made of a handful of sand, bright and glittering like a bountiful dream. On that planet, there were graves. Trillions of graves, decorating the face of the planet.

All were made of some sort of stone no being has ever seen before. They are taken care of by a ghost, an apparition that refuses to leave this world for the next. He plants flowers on them, though they are dried and weak. The ghost never notices, though.

He smiles, and his eyes dance in a some sort of merriment, happy that he was able to give the spirit a present. The torn, battered coat that bore a faded blood red color that signified such duty, war, and courage was nothing but a rag for the man's scars underneath.

Some have visited the planet, searching for this ghost, the undertaker of these graves. They've met him, and are surprised that he is, in a sense, a living, breathing creature. They talk to him, ask him questions, and wonder what transpired on this planet.

Where did he come from? Why are there so many graves? When did these creatures die off? How did they die off? Did they come from another planet? Is this cheerful, oblivious undertaker the only one on this planet?

The ghost smiles. He always smiles when they ask their questions. There is never a direct answer, only a smile and a dead, lifeless color in vibrantly sparkling aquamarine eyes. No one can stare in those eyes for long.

Yet, he as he looks upon the graves, his eyes change into some emotion no creature has faced yet in this universe. His eyes loose everything, including the deadness. There is only a certain gaze of impracticality, and struggling realization.

A look assuming there was something not right with everything, and he was searching for a piece of a puzzle that was already completed. His reverie was always broken when the wind blew, and he continued smiling, lifelessly, and tended to his garden of graves.

He was always able to say his name, though. He greeted and parted with them with that lifeless smile, and that courteous, false wave. The universe could always identify this ghost with a name.

His name was Vash. And the universe pitied him.