Disclaimer: No matter how hard I wish, I still own neither Trigun,
nor any of the characters. I did not write this for money or acclaim. I
wrote it for practice, and because I couldn't get the friggin' story out of
my head.
The Cross One Bears: A Nicholas D. Wolfwood Tale
Derek studied the man across from him with a cautious curiosity. His father had spotted the black-clad stranger passed-out in the desert, miles from anywhere. 'Well,' thought Derek. 'Spotted that cross at any rate.'
They were able to get the man into the back of the truck easily, but the cross had given them hell. Derek had wanted to leave it after a few minutes of struggle. His father refused, stating that it had to be pretty damned important to the man to drag the thing that far into the middle of no where.
They were finally able to load the massive thing using the help of three other men, who happened to be passing by. It took them one rest break and half a canteen of water.
His father shrugged when Derek asked him how the guy got the cross that far in the first place. He wanted to ask more questions, but his father gave an impatient shake of his head. "We're in a hurry now. Ride in the back and keep an eye on him."
The youth sullenly did as he was told. He cheered up when he realized his opportunity to investigate.
He took in the man's shaggy black hair and straight nose. He guessed from the razor stubble and the unkempt condition of his black suit, the man had been traveling for days. Derek wondered idly why the man hadn't buttoned the top of his shirt. What caught the boy's attention, however, were the man's cufflinks. They were shiny, silver, and shaped like crosses.
"He's either very dedicated or very superstitious." Derek said under his breath as he glanced from the cufflinks to the colossal cross.
The stranger's burden was wrapped from top to bottom, arm-to-arm in white cloth. The covering was kept in place by a series of black, leather, snap belts.
'Why?' Derek wondered. 'Why is it wrapped? Why did he have it in the middle of the desert? Why is it so.big?'
A fierce glint of light from the top end of the cross distracted the youth for a moment. The boy cast a wary look at the stranger to ensure the man was still asleep. He then made his way carefully over the wide "arm."
A patch of cloth had been torn and was waving in the wind. Derek could see the metal. 'Why in the world would some one use metal on something like this?' He stuck a finger into the hole and lifted the cloth for a better look. He couldn't see how much metal there was. He'd have to unsnap the nearest belt.
No sooner than he had undone the strap, then the other belts were flying off, seemingly of their own accord. Derek watched in silent terror as the white cloth billowed out, away from the cross.
He sighed in relief when he saw the sheet was caught beneath the cross and would not fly out of the truck. The same breath caught in wonder when he saw that the entire cross was covered in the shiny, silver-colored metal.
The truck then hit a bump, throwing Derek backwards, against the cab. Despite the small headache, the boy was still enthralled with the stranger's luggage. He clambered back to it.
He blinked in surprise when he saw the right arm. It had opened to reveal a row of silver pistols.
Derek had grown up in the peaceful town of Troy. Though he knew what guns looked like, he had never seen one this close. 'Not even Sheriff Brady carries a gun!' He wanted to see what a real gun felt like. He reached for one.
The arm closed. "That's nothing for a boy to play with," said an unfamiliar voice.
Derek looked up and found he was staring into the wide-awake, smiling face of the stranger. He quickly moved back to his side of the truck. "I just wanted to see what it feels like," he mumbled.
The dark-haired man took a cigarette from an inside pocket on his suit and lit it. He stared at the red-haired, freckle-faced youth. 'Why is it always the same with boys and guns?' he thought. "It feels like cold, hard metal," he answered as he started rewrapping the cross.
Derek watched the stranger for a few moments. Curiosity overcame him once more. "So that cross is yours?" he asked.
"Every bit of it," replied the man, fastening the last belt.
"Isn't it heavy?"
"Not at all."
Derek stared. Of course it was heavy. It took four strong men to load it into the back of the truck. "Why do you have it?" "I'm a preacher. It's a tool of the trade."
"You're.a preacher?"
"Yes, I am."
Derek glanced at the cufflinks. 'That explains those. But what kind of preacher carries all those guns?' he thought.
"Do you have any water, kid?" asked the preacher.
Derek nodded and handed him his canteen.
The man drank deeply from it. He handed it back to Derek. It felt empty. The boy looked into the canteen. "There's none left!" he growled.
"It was refreshing! Thanks!" the man said in a friendly tone. "By the way, what's your name?"
"Derek."
"That's a good name. I'm Nicholas. You can call me Nic."
They sat in silence for a moment. Nic flicked his cigarette out of the truck.
Derek watched the dark-clad preacher. He liked the guy. He liked his friendly, honest nature, but he felt uneasy around him at the same time. The youth thought it might have something to do with the way the man seemed always ready for something to happen. His dark eyes never stayed on the boy for very long. They were continuously scanning the land past him, or the road before or behind them.
"Why do you carry so many guns?" Derek asked.
"I carry guns,' replied the preacher, looking directly at the boy. "because too many others do."
Derek stared at him for a moment. "You're not really a preacher, are you?"
"Why do you say that?"
"I've never heard of a preacher that carries so many guns."
Nic said nothing, but took out another cigarette and lit it.
"Aren't preachers supposed to teach that violence is wrong?" Derek asked.
"Violence is wrong, if it can be avoided," replied the man. "But it's a violent world and you can't always avoid it."
"But you can. That's what my uncle says," said Derek. "He says there's always another way."
Nic threw his head back and laughed. Derek was astonished that a preacher was actually laughing at words of peace. "What the hell are you laughing at, mister?" he asked angrily. "It's true!"
Nic stopped laughing, though he was still smiling. "Your uncle sounds like some one I know."
Derek said nothing. He suddenly wished he had never started talking to the guy. Nic smiled still. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. If your uncle has found another way each time, then he's a good man. Good, but lucky."
They sat in silence once again. This time, it was the preacher that broke it. "So where are we headed?"
"My house. In Troy."
"How much further?" "About fifteen miles." Nic nodded in acknowledgement. "Why were you walking in the middle of the desert anyway?" Derek asked. "I wasn't walking originally," answered the preacher. "My motorcycle broke down about 50 miles away from where you." The preacher suddenly leaned forward and peered at the road behind them. "Damn!" he said.
Derek peered out the back of the truck as well. All he saw was sand. "What is it?"
"Get down, Derek!" Nic ordered.
Derek slid down so that his head was below the sides of the truck. He stared at the preacher.
Nic had turned his attention to Derek's father in the cab. He was leaning in the right window. Derek couldn't hear what Nic was saying.
The preacher then leaned over to pick up his cross.
Suddenly an explosion of sand rocked the truck knocking Nic off his feet. Derek closed his eyes as a torrent of sand rained down on them. When he opened them, Nic was getting to his feet. A small cut was bleeding on his forehead. The truck had stopped.
Derek wanted to ask what caused the explosion. One look at the grim expression on Preacher Nic's face silenced him.
Nic leaned down, picked up his cross by a strap and slung it over his shoulder. Derek gasped. 'He picked it up by himself!' he thought 'It took four guys to lift it up and this guy can pick it up with one arm.'
His thoughts were interrupted by a taunting voice from behind the truck. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here! An ugly, skinny twerp with a cross." Derek heard other people laughing. Nic didn't move.
Derek edged him self carefully up so that he could get a better look. He saw a large group of ugly, scary looking men. All of them were carrying guns. Each gun looked twice as large as the pistols that Nic carried.
The owner of the voice, whom Derek guessed the leader, spoke again. "You must be Nicholas D. Wolfwood."
Nic leapt from the bed of the truck and smiled at the muscular man. "I am," He said calmly. "Though I can't say that I know who you are or how you know my name."
Muscle man smiled. "You have a famous friend. One worth quite a bit of money." Nic rested his cross on the ground and draped an arm around it casually. "You don't say. I don't have a clue who you mean."
"Don't play dumb preacher-man! Tell us where to find Vash the Stampede and we may let you off easy."
Derek noticed the look of frustration on the preacher's face. "Shit!" he said just loud enough for Derek to hear. "That guy's still getting me into trouble!" Nic recovered quickly. "What makes you think I'm friends with that lunatic?" he asked calmly.
Muscle man didn't seem to notice the preacher's temporary imbalance. "The sharp-shooting contest in Mei City." He replied. "I heard it came down to you and the Humanoid Typhoon. You walked away."
"That doesn't mean anything. No one died in that contest." Countered Nic, a slight smile playing on his lips. "If you paid any attention to the rumors, you'd know that. And you'd also know that you don't stand a chance."
"No one died you say? And you also say that you can take on all 25 of us?" Muscles laughed. "I'll believe that when I see it."
"Believe what you want. It's the truth." Said the preacher, flicking his cigarette aside. "Besides, there are 30 of you."
"There's no need to act tough. Just tell us where he is and we'll leave."
"I have no idea where he is. We parted ways not long after we left Mei City."
"I suppose he's not the one in the truck, then?"
Nic looked back at Derek. "This boy?" He laughed and looked back at Muscles. "You really don't pay attention to the rumors, do you?"
"Not the boy, you dumbass! The guy driving!"
Nic stopped chuckling. "Well in that case, you're still an idiot."
Muscle man's jaw dropped. "What did you just say?"
"So you're deaf as well? I said you're an idiot."
Several men in the gang lifted their guns. Derek could here the clicks as they cocked them.
Nic looked back at Derek. "I'm sorry you had to witness this. Tell your dad to step on it." With that, he turned back to the gang. The preacher calmly unsnapped his cross.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wolfwood lit a cigarette as he watched the double suns set. He felt a surge of anger. "Why?! Why didn't you leave when I told you to?" He had been able to take care of the gang, but not before the boy and his father were caught in the crossfire. The preacher sighed as he watched the small funeral at the bottom of the hill. His eyes fell on a red-haired woman, which he guessed to be Derek's mother, who had fallen to her knees in grief. "It's always the innocent who pay the price for the life you lead, Wolfwood. Why is that?" He asked himself. "You wanted to know what guns feel like, Derek. Like I told you before. They feel like cold, hard metal. There is no warmth."
"So that cross is yours?" The boy had asked.
"Yes." Wolfwood answered his memory. "Yes it is, kid."
"Why do you have it?"
"I carry it so other kids don't have to."
"Isn't it heavy?" "Not always." Wolfwood took off his dark sunglasses as the second sun finally set and put them in his inside pocket. "But sometimes.times like this, it's very heavy. It's so very heavy."
The preacher known as Nicholas D. Wolfwood took up his cross and left the peaceful town of Troy. He never saw it again.
The Cross One Bears: A Nicholas D. Wolfwood Tale
Derek studied the man across from him with a cautious curiosity. His father had spotted the black-clad stranger passed-out in the desert, miles from anywhere. 'Well,' thought Derek. 'Spotted that cross at any rate.'
They were able to get the man into the back of the truck easily, but the cross had given them hell. Derek had wanted to leave it after a few minutes of struggle. His father refused, stating that it had to be pretty damned important to the man to drag the thing that far into the middle of no where.
They were finally able to load the massive thing using the help of three other men, who happened to be passing by. It took them one rest break and half a canteen of water.
His father shrugged when Derek asked him how the guy got the cross that far in the first place. He wanted to ask more questions, but his father gave an impatient shake of his head. "We're in a hurry now. Ride in the back and keep an eye on him."
The youth sullenly did as he was told. He cheered up when he realized his opportunity to investigate.
He took in the man's shaggy black hair and straight nose. He guessed from the razor stubble and the unkempt condition of his black suit, the man had been traveling for days. Derek wondered idly why the man hadn't buttoned the top of his shirt. What caught the boy's attention, however, were the man's cufflinks. They were shiny, silver, and shaped like crosses.
"He's either very dedicated or very superstitious." Derek said under his breath as he glanced from the cufflinks to the colossal cross.
The stranger's burden was wrapped from top to bottom, arm-to-arm in white cloth. The covering was kept in place by a series of black, leather, snap belts.
'Why?' Derek wondered. 'Why is it wrapped? Why did he have it in the middle of the desert? Why is it so.big?'
A fierce glint of light from the top end of the cross distracted the youth for a moment. The boy cast a wary look at the stranger to ensure the man was still asleep. He then made his way carefully over the wide "arm."
A patch of cloth had been torn and was waving in the wind. Derek could see the metal. 'Why in the world would some one use metal on something like this?' He stuck a finger into the hole and lifted the cloth for a better look. He couldn't see how much metal there was. He'd have to unsnap the nearest belt.
No sooner than he had undone the strap, then the other belts were flying off, seemingly of their own accord. Derek watched in silent terror as the white cloth billowed out, away from the cross.
He sighed in relief when he saw the sheet was caught beneath the cross and would not fly out of the truck. The same breath caught in wonder when he saw that the entire cross was covered in the shiny, silver-colored metal.
The truck then hit a bump, throwing Derek backwards, against the cab. Despite the small headache, the boy was still enthralled with the stranger's luggage. He clambered back to it.
He blinked in surprise when he saw the right arm. It had opened to reveal a row of silver pistols.
Derek had grown up in the peaceful town of Troy. Though he knew what guns looked like, he had never seen one this close. 'Not even Sheriff Brady carries a gun!' He wanted to see what a real gun felt like. He reached for one.
The arm closed. "That's nothing for a boy to play with," said an unfamiliar voice.
Derek looked up and found he was staring into the wide-awake, smiling face of the stranger. He quickly moved back to his side of the truck. "I just wanted to see what it feels like," he mumbled.
The dark-haired man took a cigarette from an inside pocket on his suit and lit it. He stared at the red-haired, freckle-faced youth. 'Why is it always the same with boys and guns?' he thought. "It feels like cold, hard metal," he answered as he started rewrapping the cross.
Derek watched the stranger for a few moments. Curiosity overcame him once more. "So that cross is yours?" he asked.
"Every bit of it," replied the man, fastening the last belt.
"Isn't it heavy?"
"Not at all."
Derek stared. Of course it was heavy. It took four strong men to load it into the back of the truck. "Why do you have it?" "I'm a preacher. It's a tool of the trade."
"You're.a preacher?"
"Yes, I am."
Derek glanced at the cufflinks. 'That explains those. But what kind of preacher carries all those guns?' he thought.
"Do you have any water, kid?" asked the preacher.
Derek nodded and handed him his canteen.
The man drank deeply from it. He handed it back to Derek. It felt empty. The boy looked into the canteen. "There's none left!" he growled.
"It was refreshing! Thanks!" the man said in a friendly tone. "By the way, what's your name?"
"Derek."
"That's a good name. I'm Nicholas. You can call me Nic."
They sat in silence for a moment. Nic flicked his cigarette out of the truck.
Derek watched the dark-clad preacher. He liked the guy. He liked his friendly, honest nature, but he felt uneasy around him at the same time. The youth thought it might have something to do with the way the man seemed always ready for something to happen. His dark eyes never stayed on the boy for very long. They were continuously scanning the land past him, or the road before or behind them.
"Why do you carry so many guns?" Derek asked.
"I carry guns,' replied the preacher, looking directly at the boy. "because too many others do."
Derek stared at him for a moment. "You're not really a preacher, are you?"
"Why do you say that?"
"I've never heard of a preacher that carries so many guns."
Nic said nothing, but took out another cigarette and lit it.
"Aren't preachers supposed to teach that violence is wrong?" Derek asked.
"Violence is wrong, if it can be avoided," replied the man. "But it's a violent world and you can't always avoid it."
"But you can. That's what my uncle says," said Derek. "He says there's always another way."
Nic threw his head back and laughed. Derek was astonished that a preacher was actually laughing at words of peace. "What the hell are you laughing at, mister?" he asked angrily. "It's true!"
Nic stopped laughing, though he was still smiling. "Your uncle sounds like some one I know."
Derek said nothing. He suddenly wished he had never started talking to the guy. Nic smiled still. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. If your uncle has found another way each time, then he's a good man. Good, but lucky."
They sat in silence once again. This time, it was the preacher that broke it. "So where are we headed?"
"My house. In Troy."
"How much further?" "About fifteen miles." Nic nodded in acknowledgement. "Why were you walking in the middle of the desert anyway?" Derek asked. "I wasn't walking originally," answered the preacher. "My motorcycle broke down about 50 miles away from where you." The preacher suddenly leaned forward and peered at the road behind them. "Damn!" he said.
Derek peered out the back of the truck as well. All he saw was sand. "What is it?"
"Get down, Derek!" Nic ordered.
Derek slid down so that his head was below the sides of the truck. He stared at the preacher.
Nic had turned his attention to Derek's father in the cab. He was leaning in the right window. Derek couldn't hear what Nic was saying.
The preacher then leaned over to pick up his cross.
Suddenly an explosion of sand rocked the truck knocking Nic off his feet. Derek closed his eyes as a torrent of sand rained down on them. When he opened them, Nic was getting to his feet. A small cut was bleeding on his forehead. The truck had stopped.
Derek wanted to ask what caused the explosion. One look at the grim expression on Preacher Nic's face silenced him.
Nic leaned down, picked up his cross by a strap and slung it over his shoulder. Derek gasped. 'He picked it up by himself!' he thought 'It took four guys to lift it up and this guy can pick it up with one arm.'
His thoughts were interrupted by a taunting voice from behind the truck. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here! An ugly, skinny twerp with a cross." Derek heard other people laughing. Nic didn't move.
Derek edged him self carefully up so that he could get a better look. He saw a large group of ugly, scary looking men. All of them were carrying guns. Each gun looked twice as large as the pistols that Nic carried.
The owner of the voice, whom Derek guessed the leader, spoke again. "You must be Nicholas D. Wolfwood."
Nic leapt from the bed of the truck and smiled at the muscular man. "I am," He said calmly. "Though I can't say that I know who you are or how you know my name."
Muscle man smiled. "You have a famous friend. One worth quite a bit of money." Nic rested his cross on the ground and draped an arm around it casually. "You don't say. I don't have a clue who you mean."
"Don't play dumb preacher-man! Tell us where to find Vash the Stampede and we may let you off easy."
Derek noticed the look of frustration on the preacher's face. "Shit!" he said just loud enough for Derek to hear. "That guy's still getting me into trouble!" Nic recovered quickly. "What makes you think I'm friends with that lunatic?" he asked calmly.
Muscle man didn't seem to notice the preacher's temporary imbalance. "The sharp-shooting contest in Mei City." He replied. "I heard it came down to you and the Humanoid Typhoon. You walked away."
"That doesn't mean anything. No one died in that contest." Countered Nic, a slight smile playing on his lips. "If you paid any attention to the rumors, you'd know that. And you'd also know that you don't stand a chance."
"No one died you say? And you also say that you can take on all 25 of us?" Muscles laughed. "I'll believe that when I see it."
"Believe what you want. It's the truth." Said the preacher, flicking his cigarette aside. "Besides, there are 30 of you."
"There's no need to act tough. Just tell us where he is and we'll leave."
"I have no idea where he is. We parted ways not long after we left Mei City."
"I suppose he's not the one in the truck, then?"
Nic looked back at Derek. "This boy?" He laughed and looked back at Muscles. "You really don't pay attention to the rumors, do you?"
"Not the boy, you dumbass! The guy driving!"
Nic stopped chuckling. "Well in that case, you're still an idiot."
Muscle man's jaw dropped. "What did you just say?"
"So you're deaf as well? I said you're an idiot."
Several men in the gang lifted their guns. Derek could here the clicks as they cocked them.
Nic looked back at Derek. "I'm sorry you had to witness this. Tell your dad to step on it." With that, he turned back to the gang. The preacher calmly unsnapped his cross.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wolfwood lit a cigarette as he watched the double suns set. He felt a surge of anger. "Why?! Why didn't you leave when I told you to?" He had been able to take care of the gang, but not before the boy and his father were caught in the crossfire. The preacher sighed as he watched the small funeral at the bottom of the hill. His eyes fell on a red-haired woman, which he guessed to be Derek's mother, who had fallen to her knees in grief. "It's always the innocent who pay the price for the life you lead, Wolfwood. Why is that?" He asked himself. "You wanted to know what guns feel like, Derek. Like I told you before. They feel like cold, hard metal. There is no warmth."
"So that cross is yours?" The boy had asked.
"Yes." Wolfwood answered his memory. "Yes it is, kid."
"Why do you have it?"
"I carry it so other kids don't have to."
"Isn't it heavy?" "Not always." Wolfwood took off his dark sunglasses as the second sun finally set and put them in his inside pocket. "But sometimes.times like this, it's very heavy. It's so very heavy."
The preacher known as Nicholas D. Wolfwood took up his cross and left the peaceful town of Troy. He never saw it again.