Disclaimer and Notes: Trigun/Trigun Maximum belongs to the honorable Yasuhiro Nightow-san. I'm just borrowing the world and his characters. This is what I do instead of playing with my action figures, and it's a great way to put off writing my latest novel. Manga universe story, for mentions of Tessla. Meant to be "pre-manga storyline" though, sometime after the Big Fall, but before July.

Dedicated to SailorLilithchan. Her beloved late dog, Bandit, has a cameo appearance in this story. Late Happy Birthday, Lil!

HUNTER

I suppose I came to Bisbee searching for something. In fact, I know I did. It's the same thing I've been searching for in every city, town and settlement I've ever visited in my entire life. Sometimes I find it, but it can be rare sometimes, though every human heart holds the potential for it.

Bisbee is one of those little southern towns at the edge of the eastern desert. That whole region makes a traveler realize the need for town names like "Nothing," "Nowhere," and "Why." It's a dusty little town, not a lot of resources, and most of the people here, as I talk with them and listen to them speak with each other out on the street wonder why they haven't pulled up stakes and moved yet. Some are the descendants of the town's founders and are determined to make their lives here. Some are simply too poor to leave. For most, the reason for staying is simple apathy.

The bar here waters down its booze. I'm on my second beer of the afternoon and it tastes just like water. I've been here for about a month, and have been staying at the only hotel. All of the men in this bar are locals, and there aren't many of them. The lady that manages the hotel and the owner of the bar here have been very gracious to me. They've done for me whatever I've asked. I suppose it's been months since they've seen a new customer. I sense that they care more about my money than my comfort, but I can't blame them. According to Murray, that's the bartender here, Bisbee used to cater to a lot of out of town travelers headed to New Oregon. One of the major Sandsteamer routes was changed several years ago, so they only see the occasional mail-rider or fool like me.

I watch the street outside the open bar door. Murray likes to keep the door and windows open on hot days, which are most days, and everybody in this town says there isn't much trouble here. The kids will be out of school soon. Most of them will come hunting for me. Many people think it's strange for a grown man to play with children. A few of the town's mothers were suspicious of me, but I assured them I had no bad intentions. I really just want to teach the next generation the value of peace. Also, I just really like kids. Their futures are open and so are their minds.

I've been getting to know the names and faces of everyone here. I've been listening to their stories and watching them interact with each other. It's the same as in every town I stop and spent time at. I want to understand people. I often wonder just what folks would do if they knew just what I was. I tried to tell friends I made in the town of Antonio once, a long time ago. They simply thought I was crazy. I trusted people in Springerville and the folks there formed a mob. I have a scar on my right side from that. So, I don't talk about what I am anymore. I like blending in with people, and I feel that they will understand, in time.

When I wandered with Knives, he reminded me every day of our sister. Not a day goes by that I do not think about her. I sometimes wake up screaming, memories of her remains in that sealed away room coming to me again in my sleep. I can never put those memories behind me. Rem tried to explain it to us. Humans are nothing if not curious creatures and the crew did not know what she was and wanted to know everything. They'd put aside their hearts to try to satisfy their curiosity and would not listen to the voices telling them they were killing her. They did not think of her as the same kind of being as they were, and they used that to justify their actions.

Human beings… seem to do that to each other a lot, too. Whenever I've seen any group of people determined to harm another person or group of people, they've always placed their victim "below" themselves. Sometimes, it reaches the extent of denying the victims "humanity."

But Rem told me that people and the world were not worthless. I believed her, because I knew her. I decided that if there were people like her, that she was right, humanity wasn't worthless. I find people like her everywhere. They're in among the violent and the lost. Even among those, I often see sparks of hope, people wanting to be kind, people wanting to do the right thing, people wanting to understand. When resources are scarce, the people in these desert towns often fight. Sometimes gangs of thieves and bandits invade. Sometimes they are bred, right in the cities. In the end, all everyone wants is to survive. The need for survival, in turn, makes kind people cruel, but even among a sea of cruelty; there are those souls like Rem's.

I guess you could say that I'm hunting for Rem.

Bart just walked in, followed by his dog.

"Hey, Vash!"

"Hey," I say in return. He sits down next to me and orders one of Murray's watered down beers. I lean down and pet Bandit behind the ears. I have to lean down steeply, because he is a very small dog. When I met Bart, I was surprised a big tough-looking guy like him would have such a small dog as a companion. I smile and we talk of trivial things, like the weather. There's only so many times one can say "It's hot."

I rather like Bart. He's not a bad guy. He loves his dog very much. Whenever I look at him play with Bandit, or talk to him, it brings a smile to my face. He's a bit of an enigma and he makes me understand how a man can love a pet more than he loves his fellow man. Really, that's not as cruel as it sounds.

Bart doesn't have any friends, Murray talks to him a bit, but most people look away from him. The parents here do not allow their children to approach him and everyone in the bar looks away whenever he comes in. He doesn't talk to anyone and only grunts and mutters when anyone talks to him. He looks away with painful eyes and chooses instead to speak to his dog.

He said that he was surprised he talked to me at all. He told me that he didn't like humans. He said that I didn't strike him as being like other people. Bart said that he felt that I was like a dog, and he meant it as a compliment. He told me his story, and I did not turn away from him.

Bart got out of the town prison about four years ago. He spent a number of years there for murder. He shot his best friend in a fight when they were both drunk. From what I could gather, both from him and from the townsfolk, the guy's mind kinda snapped after that. He understood, almost from the moment, that what he had done was wrong. He told me he'd give his life if it would bring his friend back. I told him that it could never happen, that all he can do is remember him, never destroy life again, and keep walking toward the future.

No one in the town who knows his story seems willing to forgive him, and he cannot forgive himself, so he lives alone, only talks to his dog, and drinks heavily. He tells me he wants to change and even the people who shun him tell me he has not done a violent thing since his release from prison. I keep my gun hidden when he stops by to see me, because even looking at a gun makes him uncomfortable.

Bandit just jumped into his lap. Bart talks to that dog as though he were a child. Bandit sniffs at his beer mug and turns away. Bart takes a tiny carrot out of his pocket and feeds it to the little dog.

"Oh, he loves carrots," he said. "It's his breed, rare breed of dog. They like water and carrots and make great buddies to toma. You know I feed him dog food, of course, but he likes to snack on these little carrots, don't ya, puppy?"

The black dog munches his snack and gives me an inquisitive look. I smile. "How long have you had him?" I ask.

"Three years," Bart answers. "Purebred, from one of the old Earth dog breeds."

"That's very rare," I reply. "Did he cost a lot?"

Bart laughed heartily. "Heck no! Got him for free, like all the great charities in my life. You know that old mansion on the eastern edge of town, up on the hill?"

I nod. The house is empty and the yard is overgrown with corpse weeds. The gate has a big iron chain on it.

"Old Lady Lizbeth used to live there. Bandit was her dog as a puppy. I don't know what his name was then, probably something fancy. Anyhow, she died and I guess no one thought anything of any of the old girl's pets. Her family from out of town came by and took everything they could get their hands on, locked up the house and left… was walking by there one day, saw his little face staring at me from a shut-up window. Hopped the fence…"

"The broken window…" I say.

"Yep. I don't like that I had to break and enter, but I couldn't let him just starve to death in there. Broke him out, sad little puppy, skinny as a rail. I took him home, took care of him and he's been mine ever since."

I smile and pet Bandit and drink my beer. Bart and I talk and laugh about a few more things. I tell him that I'll have to leave this town very soon, that I have business elsewhere, that I'm searching for someone. He seems disappointed, but not to a great degree. He has his Bandit, and Bandit is the only company he really wants, in the end. He does hope I stop by Bisbee again sometime. I think I shall.

And I think I want to stay just a few more days. My stop here has been restful.

I walk through town and think. I look at all the people on the street, going in and out of the shops, out in their yards, and just walking along like I am. All of them have their own stories, and in a way, all of them are beautiful. I suppose it is not unusual for a person to "adopt" a species not their own. There are many humans that do that. Bart, for the most part, has been rejected by humanity and has rejected it in turn, in favor of dogs. I talked with a little girl yesterday – she didn't want to play with me and the town's other children because many of the other children made fun of her. She sat on her grandmother's front porch, playing with three cats. She told me "cats were her people."

Night is falling. Most of the people are going inside. Music wafts from Murray's bar, but I think I've had enough today. I don't want a hangover in the morning. On my way back to the hotel, I watch the light from the houses and buildings paint the streets in squares from the windows. The town Plant, on the west edge, is glowing softly. The lights are all rather dim in this town. The people cannot afford not to conserve their energy. There's a feeling in the air of this town. I get the impression that my sister here is happy, at least for the time being. It's a good feeling.

I hear a sharp yelp. I wander down an alley, curious about the sound. I hope Bart didn't lose track of Bandit. I discover a group of teenagers bathed in pale light from the general store sign. They're beating a stray dog with sticks, and dragging him by his back feet in the dirt!

"Hey! Stop it!" I yell, running toward them. I can see one of the kids yank the poor beast by a noose around its neck. "What are you doing? Stop it!"

The boys hear me. They pause for a moment before they take off running, leaving the dog behind. I kneel down. The dog approaches me, wagging his tail weakly and whimpering. It's a medium-sized gray animal, its fur clumped and mangy, its skin scabbed. He sniffs me and allows me to take the rope from his neck.

"You alright, boy?" I ask. He whimpers and allows me to pet him. "You poor thing. Come on…"

I lift him up in my arms. He pants and still wags his tail. Poor stray, I wonder if he ever belonged to anyone. He's awfully friendly for a stray. No one in town was looking for a lost dog, though, and he has no collar. There's no vet in this town, either, and the doctor's office is closed.

I'm glad when Miss Mallory at the hotel allows me to bring the dog in. I check him over, inspect his wounds. He shivers and whimpers and I try to soothe him with soft words as I clean up his many scrapes and cuts and I check him for broken bones. He has none, good. He seems to have escaped too much damage. I suppose I'd name him Lucky if I were able to keep him.

He curls up at the foot of my bed. I have an idea of what to do with him, in the morning.

Bart greets me bright-eyed at Murray's. He's sitting at a table with a simple breakfast and Bandit is eating his eggs. "Hey, there!" he says. "Come sit down! I see you have a friend."

I laugh and scratch the back of my neck as I sit down across from him. The stray dog sits down beside my chair. "I… kinda found him last night. I cannot keep him. I was… kinda wondering…. Would you like to take care of him? He needs someone, and I think you'd do great."

"Well, I'll be!" Bart says. His face lights up with a broad smile. "Look, Bandit, we have a new friend!"

Bandit barks happily. "Lucky" sniffs Bart's proffered hand. I'm left wondering how people can be so cruel, and how people can be so kind. There are all kinds of people in this world. There are those who delude themselves into thinking they have the right to hurt and destroy, those who never have, and some… who look for redemption. In this little town alone there are thugs, there are children, and there is a simple man seeking absolution in the companionship of dogs.

Yes, I think I will come back to Bisbee some day.

END

Shadsie, 2007