Wow, my first finished-and-postable fic-bit in ages. Whoo. I think this is the first fully Vash p.o.v I've ever written; I started it a year or so ago and just decided to finish it today. Woot. And for the record, in case you're wondering- no, Knives isn't dead, he's just not in the story. Because, hey, guesswhat? I saw the show before it was on Cartoon Network, and I know damned well Vash didn't kill 'im. So nyah. Enjoy the story, reviews are adored. Love and peace!
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The rumors have all died. I can't say I'm upset. It used to happen, every few decades; the people who began it, who gave birth to the Stampede, got old; they believed I'd gotten old with them, if I hadn't died already... A gunman's life is rarely a long one. Few ever learned the truth- I was old when their grandparents were born. I endure, as unchanged as the desert, and as lonely.
Now, I'm just a man, a passing traveler in a bright red coat. Occasionally they know my name, but it's said in joking tones. I'm a true legend, now; a story told to children to make them behave. Vash the Stampede will get you, if you don't go to bed.
It's been half a century since anyone held a real fear of me.
It's been peaceful.
I couldn't tell you now what year it is; men measure time in years, days, months; I measure it in breaths, in sunrises and sunsets. Funny, that I'd live on a smaller scale- you'd think the man who will not die would watch the grand scheme of things. But I'd rather live among humanity than be an outsider- after all I've done, I think I've earned a moment's respite.
Humanity. I have, inevitably, begun to draw the line between myself and them- the line I was able to ignore for all those years, was able to pretend didn't exist. I played the part so well I half believed it- half convinced myself I was only another man, nothing special- talented, perchance, but not preternatural. But since She died, I've been drifting away from them... Having loved a human woman, and watched her die, I guess I've lost my suspension of disbelief. It's been decades since she said goodbye, and her tiny, frail hand grew cold in my grip, in spite of all my prayers to the contrary. Meryl Stryfe. There are probably none alive today who remember her name, save myself.
No, no; that's far too pessimistic. I know she had family- she was never too close to them, true; but somewhere, some mother must tuck in her children and tell stories of Great Aunt Meryl, who followed the famous outlaw, Vash the Stampede, to save the citizens of Gunsmoke from mass destruction. Perhaps it was more like higher premiums, but tales grow in the telling; God knows she deserves her glory. But I'm sure none tell the story of my Meryl, who fell in love with the outlaw and died in his arms. They don't know that one, and it's hardly my place to tell them now.
Still, it's strange to be a living legend, but never to hear her name. Or Wolfwood's, or Milly's, or anyone's- it's strange to watch the world forget the people who've left their mark on you. They've all been forgotten, and yet I remain.
I always remain.
The bar is cooler than outside, but barely. I reach up to take off my glasses, wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead, and glance around. Already, in the corners of the bar, people have begun snickering at the outlandish red coat, my hair, me in general. It's a welcome change from people pointing a gun at my sixty-billion-double-dollar self.
I pull a chair up to a small table, find a copy of the morning paper, and wait for a waitress. This has become the routine, now- traveling like the old days, but without an end in sight. I can't stay in one place anymore. The last tie that held me died, and I've been drifting since.
"What can I get ya?" The sweet voice (I love friendly waitresses,) distracts me and I glance up.
I've seen this face before. Almost.
Her hair is too light (like her grandmother, or great-grandmother, as the case may well be,) and, well, she's a she- but even now, I can't mistake the shape of her face, or the... how to put it politely? Beak of a nose. True, the bloodline has been diluted, and the profile is softened- but those cool slate eyes (now touched with confusion, since I'm staring, although I know it's impolite,) are unmistakable. No carbon-copy, of course, but the resemblance was impossible to miss.
"ah... A cup of coffee, and three donuts, please." I don't change much.
She gives me an odd, long look, before nodding, resuming her smile, and heading off into the kitchen. Did her grandfather ever tell her stories, ones his mom taught him, about his illustrious, late father? The ones with guest appearances by a donut-fiend, a gluttonous buffoon of an outlaw? Or was Vash the Stampede another nightmare to her, another recounting of my brother's lies? I wished I knew. I remember Milly's son- both as a child, already showing hints of becoming a troublemaker in his own right, and as a man, trying so hard not to show how much it hurt at his mother's funeral. Guessing by the girl's age, she must be a granddaughter of his.
Lost for the moment in these contemplations, I go back to the paper for a few minutes, but I scan the words blankly, not reading any of them, just thinking about it all. Mostly, thinking about how badly I miss Meryl. A man, trying so hard not to show how much it hurts. But it does. And then she's back.
"Here," she says, to keep from startling me, and puts down the plates with the expert grace that comes with the job. "Anything else ya need?" She manages to smile again, though I expect I make her a little uneasy. But pretty waitresses are used to staring, aren't they?
What do I say, though? Hi, I knew your great-grandfather, who was dead before your grandfather was born? Gee, you look just like your distant ancestors. By the way, I'm an ex-outlaw with a couple of centuries under my belt, what, no, no I'm not drunk-
No. That doesn't work at all. "No, thank you, I'm fine." I smile as reassuringly as I can manage, and go back to my paper; she makes a few notations and leaves my check on the table, as I pick up my coffee. Still wondering whether I ought to say something, I eat and drink, and scan the paper for anything of interest. I don't see her again.
I finish my breakfast, leave payment on the table, along with a sizeable tip. And then I leave. Somehow, everything seems just a little bit easier- a little less dull, a little less detached.
Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps they're not all forgotten.
In our own ways, maybe we're all legends.
For a moment, I remember her smile, as clear as the desert stretching out before me. I'm off again, wandering, but somehow- at last- I don't feel alone anymore. Not as long as I remember them- not just those three, my own sweet Meryl, and Nicholas, more a brother to me than my own was in those days; not just dear, innocent, strong Milly- no. I remember them all, all the friends I've had on this world, and before it.
Nothing ever ends. And nothing is ever truly forgotten.
The desert remembers. And so do I.