To all readers:

Alright, I'm back. I have to apologize to those of you that read Living Memories the first time around, because I started over. I just really didn't like where it was going, but here's the new and hopefully improved version. Of course, reviews are welcome, as well as any criticism you might have, as long as it's constructive. I hope you enjoy!

Suzu

Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun or any of its characters

LIVING MEMORIES

-A Trigun Story-

Chapter 1: The Legacy of a Priest

"Really Mr. Vash? I get to keep it?"

The blonde gunman smiled and ruffled the young boy's hair. "Yes, Michael. You're a man now. You deserve it. But remember, always use it for good, and never take another's life with it." He leaned over so his head was even with the boy's, looking back and forth for a moment to make sure no one was within earshot. "And don't tell your mother." He shook his finger back and forth in a mock warning.

Michael smirked at Vash, not naive enough to need to ask why his mother wasn't supposed to know. Strands of coal black hair fell in front of his eyes as he nodded slightly. "Ok, I promise."

Vash smiled at the wisdom held in the boy's expression and eyes. The bright blue orbs were just like his mother's, though they held understanding beyond their years, a characteristic absent in Milly's.

In truth, he was just like his father, something that was a tragedy and a miracle all in one for Milly Thompson. From a young age the boy had shown an undying interest in just about anything that put his own life in danger. He had the same look, the same cleverness, the same brashness, the same inhuman skills, even the same hairstyle as his father. He had even taught himself to drive a motorcycle, and at only thirteen years old. Vash remembered one particular time, when Michael was only nine. He had taken on another boy as tall and half again as him, and at least twice his weight, just for being rude to his cousin. And he had won. Of course, being raised by a woman like Milly hadn't gone without effect either. Along with his father's proneness to danger, he had inherited her kind and caring heart. At this age, however, it was rarely seen.

Vash smiled affectionately as Michael ran his hands up and down the cold metal of the gun, admiring its fine workmanship. He should, too. Frank had complained for weeks about how complicated and difficult making it had been.

"Was this my dad's?" The boy's words shook Vash out of his thoughts.

"No, but your father had one like it. Only his was a lot, lot bigger."

The gun Michael held in his juvenile hands was indeed a miniature of the Cross Punisher, adapted into a pistol. The barrel protruded from the bottom of the cross, the trigger placed next to the spot where the two beams met. It was bright and polished, glinting silver in the sunlight. And it was one of a kind.

Vash reached out and placed a fatherly hand on Michael's shoulder. "Your father was a good man, Michael. Carry on his legacy."

"How do I do that?"

The Stampede just smiled. "You'll figure it out someday."

"Vash, will you ever tell me about my dad?"

"Someday, Michael. Someday."

"I'm eighteen years old today, Dad." A lean figure dressed in black knelt down on one knee in front of an altar in the isolated church. His lips turned upward slightly in a small smile. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" His only answer was an eerie feeling up his spine, a feeling that had characterized this church since the death that had occurred here nearly nineteen years ago. The young man bowed his head solemnly, his eyes fixed on one of the still faintly apparent scarlet stains on the otherwise immaculately clean tile. "Mom still misses you like crazy." He chuckled bleakly. "But she'll never admit it." He sat silently for a few moments, almost expecting an answer, though he knew he would never receive one to his desperate apostrophe. Instead the silence of the church only grew deeper, if that was possible.

Michael sighed deeply, falling from his knees so that he was just sitting on the floor, his legs out in front of him, with his knees bent so his elbows could rest on them. "Vash finally told me everything," he murmured, his dark hair shadowing his face, "he told me the truth, about how you died. I get it now. I understand why you were a forbidden subject with Mom, and why she's refused to tell me about you all these years.

"I was always told not to talk to her about you because it hurt her too much, that it was a delicate subject." His berating chuckle echoed in the empty building. "I should have realized that wasn't true. She's too strong to refuse to talk about something for a reason like that, and too insanely cheerful." Michael looked up at the cross on the wall, his usually penetrating blue eyes appearing uncharacteristically despondent. "Vash told me, though. He thought I had a right to know. Mom got mad at him at first, but after the first time she didn't protest. Somehow, I think she actually wanted me to know. She just didn't want to be the one responsible if I, I . . ."

If I turned out like you. She just didn't want to lose me, too. After all, you were a murderer, a traitor, a daredevil. It's no wonder she didn't want me to take after you, I'd probably just go off and get myself killed.

"She still doesn't regret falling in love with you for a second, though, and she'd easily do it again, in spite of everything. You were a priest, after all, and a caretaker for orphans, and you had other virtuous aspects in your life." An honest smile graced his lips. "And you loved her, didn't you?"

A warm breeze from outside entered the dismal church, causing his black coat to billow up around him. He slowly rose, accepting that as a legitimate answer. Gently he lifted a bouquet of flowers from off of the floor, where they had been resting. They were roses, pure white roses. His mother had insisted that he take white ones. He found it slightly ironic. The color was a better representation of her than it was of his father. Slowly he stepped forward, carefully placing the small tribute on the altar. He glanced up at the cross one last time.

"Goodbye, Dad." The alien word slid across his tongue with difficulty, as it always had. He sighed, but smiled in spite of himself, exiting the church and leaving it to wait for the next hapless wanderer to grace the empty edifice with his or her presence.