Making Amends
DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.
- In the Past -
John Smith was not his real name, but it would suffice in this hard-bitten land. His real name had been left behind in the feud that had claimed the lives of his parents.
Thomas cared for and fed and tethered, camp set up for the night, Smith settled in for a meager dinner cooked on smoldering embers that did not broadcast his presence as a fire would. He did not know when, but eventually he would come to a place where he could lay his hat for good. Until then, he had to make his supplies last. There was no telling how far away the next town would be, and hunting was scarce.
Stomach rumbled, protesting the small amount he fed it. Punched himself in the midsection to make the stomach shut up. There was enough on the campstove for one more serving. Then he would check his guns one last time and go to sleep.
Some people would say this was not the life a sixteen-year-old should live. But those people probably had not been born in a war where your name branded you. For over a year, he had lived on his own, scraping out what he could and looking for a place to live his own life.
For over a year, he had been a man in a boy's body.
A foreign sound broke through the desert night song. He reflexively drew his revolver, thumbing back the hammer. Waited to see what came out of the night. His father's words sounded in his head – Don't look for trouble, but be ready to give it if it's asked for.
A man's form came crawling out of the darkness. Smith held the gun trained on him, waiting. The blond head raised, showing a face that had not seen water in many days. Blue eyes were still alive, but they asked for help, even if the mouth did not.
Smith lowered the revolver, still keeping it in his hand. Some people might rush to help the man. Some people might rush into a trap.
He motioned with the gun, gesturing at a spot for the man to crawl to. It was close enough to for the man to be warm, far enough the stranger couldn't grab his weapon. "Right there."
The stranger complied, weakly pulling himself to a sitting position in the spot Smith wanted him. Eyes gazed hungrily at Smith's last portion of dinner.
Others might have denied the man needed food. Smith's stomach urged him to do just that. His mother had taught him better.
Keeping his reluctance to himself, Smith one-handedly scooped the portion onto his only plate, setting a hunk of stale bread on it along with a fork. Passed it over with a stretch. Poured a little bit of precious water into a cup and handed that to the man, too – it had been a long time since Smith had had any coffee grounds or tea leaves.
He studied the man as the food was wolfed down. Not a boy – you had to be a man to survive out here – but not much older than Smith himself. Eighteen, twenty at the most. Eyes brightened with the relish of food, but something in them…
The man finished and handed the plate and cup back wordlessly, both of them emptied. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. No thank-you. He gazed at Smith steadily.
That's what was off-setting about the eyes. No emotion there. No humanity that Smith could pick up on. The form was that of a man, but this was something else in a man's body.
The prudent move was to stay ready. But the stranger had made no move to attack. His eyes had not even watched the revolver, not once.
Decision was made. Smith de-cocked and holstered, trusting not so much the stranger as his ability to draw.
They sat like that awhile, watching each other in the dim glow of the embers, neither one speaking.
Finally, the blond man spoke. "You have no more dinner left. While I benefited from your sharing, I doubt I would have done the same. To share needed resources is weak and foolish. Keep that in mind for the future if you want to survive."
Smith echoed his mother's words. "Kindness is not weakness. It takes great strength to be kind in a hard world. Kindness separates us from the animals, who are not kind in hardship."
"Will you turn your back on me, then?"
Smith smiled thinly. "There are many ways to be kind without being stupid."
A thin smile was given in return. "Even so, I bet your kindness has gotten you further with your gun than without."
"True. Possibly further than you have gotten with that gun at your back and no kindness."
Blue eyes blinked. "You noticed."
"I did."
"Yet you didn't demand I give it over. Might that be stupid?"
Another thin smile. "Think of it as kindness. A man should be able to choose whether he dies."
The stranger gave a mirthless laugh. "Indeed, that might be the kindest thing, to choose when and how you die. Not many get that option."
Smith thought back to his parents, gunned down in front of him. His mother reaching for him with her last breath. "True."
Shook his head to clear it. "You can go if you want, or you're welcome to stay the night. But I sleep light." Pointed stare. "Either way, I'm John Smith."
Mouth quirked in amusement. "I'm sure you are."
"It's a name."
"Then John Smith, meet Millions Knives."